"No."
"Then what is this?"
I step closer. My wings shift, the membrane catching the dim light, and I look down at her with absolute seriousness.
"This is me refusing to watch you destroy yourself," I say. "This is me using the resources I have spent centuries accumulating to ensure that the one person who has been able to touch me without triggering my defenses does not collapse from exhaustion."
"I don't need you to rescue me," she says.
"I am not rescuing you," I say. "I am securing my own interests. You are the only therapist who has been able to break through my stone-lock. If you burn out, if you collapse, if you run yourself into the ground, then I lose access to the only treatment that works. This is a business decision."
She laughs. It's sharp and bitter and completely devoid of humor.
"That's the worst lie I've ever heard," she says. "And you know it."
I do not respond immediately. The silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of what we both know is true.
"Yes," I say finally. "It is."
She sits down on the edge of the reinforced table, her legs suddenly unable to support her weight. Her hands are shaking.
"I can't accept this," she says quietly. "I can't be someone's charity case. I can't be kept."
"You are not being kept," I say. "You are being valued. There is a difference."
"Is there?" She looks up at me, and her eyes are wet. "Because it feels the same from where I'm sitting."
I move closer. I do not touch her. I simply stand before her, letting her see the absolute certainty in my expression.
"You have spent your entire life surviving on your own terms," I say. "You have refused help. You have refused pity. You have refused to let anyone see you as anything other than capable and strong. And I respect that. But you are also burning yourself alive, and I will not tolerate it."
"Why?" she asks. "Why do you care this much?"
"Because," I say, "for the first time in eight hundred years, I am not alone. And I am not willing to lose that."
She is quiet for a long moment. Her hands are still shaking.
"If I do this," she says slowly, "if I accept this contract, this money, this... whatever this is... I need to know it's not going to change things between us. I need to know I'm not just becoming your kept woman."
"You are becoming my partner," I say. "In every way that matters."
She takes a breath. Then another.
"Okay," she says finally. "Okay. But we're going to talk about this. Really talk about it. Because I'm not just going to roll over and accept being bought, even if—" She stops. Swallows hard. "Even if part of me wants to."
"We will talk," I agree. "About everything."
She nods. And then, slowly, she reaches out and takes my hand.
The contact is electric.
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Probably," I say.
"But I'm doing it anyway."
"Yes," I say. "You are."
