“No,” I said. “And that’s what’s terrifying.”
Something gave way in his expression. The careful control, the rigid stillness, all of it crumbling. He made a sound that wasn’t quite a word. Relief and want and something that might have been pain.
His hand finally touched my face. Just his palm against my cheek. Burning hot.
“I am going to be very careful with you,” he said. “I am going to be so careful. I need you to know that.”
“And if I don’t want careful?”
His breath caught. His pupils blew wide, the amber swallowed by black.
“Then we will discuss it,” he said roughly. “Later. When I am more in control of myself.”
He pulled his hand away. It looked like it cost him something. He stepped back, and then back again, putting distance between us.
“I should go,” he said. “You should work. I should…” He stopped. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. “I will see you at dinner.”
He left before I could answer.
I stood there in the golden lamplight, surrounded by cushions and blankets and all the things he’d brought me, and pressed my hand against my cheek where his palm had been.
Still warm. Even after he was gone.
I thought about his hand on my face and his expression when he saw me like I was the only real thing in the world.
