“Yes.”
“From who?”
“The men connected to the one who bought you.”
Slowly, carefully, he swings his legs off the bed and stands.
I suck in a breath and raise the lamp higher.
He stops instantly.
Then he bends, moving in plain sight, and picks up a pillow from the bed. Then the folded blanket near the foot. He crosses to the far wall and drops both on the carpet.
“I’ll sleep there.”
I blink at him.
“You take the bed.”
I still have the lamp raised.
He looks at me for a long second. “If you need me farther away than that, say it.”
The words catch me wrong.
Because the awful truth is, I do not.
I do not want him close enough to touch me. I do not want him in the bed. I do not want to wake with a strange man wrapped around me ever again.
But some weak, traitorous part of me does not want him gone either.
For that half second before panic hit, the room had felt less sharp with him at my back. Less cold. Less empty. My body softened before my mind woke up enough to be terrified, and now I hate myself a little for missing that half second.
I say nothing.
His gaze moves over my face once, calm and knowing in a way I do not like.
“Thought so.”
He lowers himself to the floor by the wall like it costs him nothing. One arm behind his head. Body too big for the cheap space. Even lying down, he does not look relaxed. He looks contained. Like sleep only happens because he allows it.
I stare at him.
He stares back for one second, then closes his eyes.
Trusting me not to smash the lamp into his face after all.
That should not hit me the way it does.
I set the lamp back on the dresser with hands that tremble.
Then I crawl under the blanket and pull it up to my chin.
The room feels bigger now.
Colder too.
That bothers me more than it should.
