I frown.
"Yeah, I know. This is what I’ve been waiting for most of my adult life. And now, it feels anticlimactic."
His eyes turn haunted. "The money doesn’t change the fact that I will always be the boy who was given up because his parents didn’t want him. It won’t bring back the brothers I lost while on mission. I thought it might—" He hesitates. "That it might make me feel a little happier. Maybe it would settle something inside of me. But it hasn’t."
The downward droop of his mouth punches the air from my lungs.
This isn't the Ice Commander. This isn't the perfectionist chef who terrorizes his kitchen. This is the lost boy underneath, who’s still waiting. Still hoping that someday, his birth family will want him back.
My throat tightens.
He never had control over that, did he? Being abandoned. Being given away. It was not his choice. Not his fault. And then he joined the forces, where every decision was made for him. Where orders were absolute. Where autonomy meant nothing, and obedience meant survival.
No wonder, he's built his entire life around control. No wonder, he grips it so tightly, he's strangling everything around him. His kitchen, his staff, this marriage, me. Restraint. Discipline. That’s the only thing that's ever been his.
It's not about being difficult. It's not about being cold.
It's about never, ever being powerless again.
My heart cracks open for him. For the boy who wasn't wanted. Forthe soldier who couldn't question orders. For the man who's so terrified of losing control that he can't let anyone close enough to matter.
Including his own wife.
"James," I say softly.
He doesn’t answer.
His shoulders draw back. The expression on his face empties as that familiar mask settles over him again.
The walls go up.
The lost boy I glimpsed only moments ago disappears.
The Ice Commander returns.
The shift is so swift, it almost steals my breath. He’s not going to let me in. Not easily.
But I’m not giving up, either.
We’re sitting close enough that his thigh presses against mine. The warmth of him seeps through the fabric. I breathe in the faint scent of sea salt and leather that clings to his skin.
My stomach flutters. My chest tightens.
I want to comfort him. I want to take whatever weight he carries and ease it somehow.
I lift my hand, brushing my fingertips over his cheek.
For a second, I expect him to pull away.
He doesn’t.
To my surprise, he turns his head slightly, leaning into the touch as though he’s been starved of it.
My palm settles against his chest. Beneath it, his heart beats hard and fast, betraying the calm exterior he’s fighting to maintain.
So much emotion churns beneath that controlled surface.
I sense his need for me. More than he will ever admit.
