Page 81 of Run Rabbit Run

He built that certainty into me the way a man builds a fire, patiently, with his hands, with time.

"Waiting for me," he says.

Not a question.

I don't answer.

I don't need to.

He reads me the way I once read tracks in soft earth, every flush of skin, every caught breath, every shift of weight that says yes, always, only you.

He crosses to the bed and I feel the heat of him before he touches me, that broad body blocking the firelight.

I remember the first time.

How I thrashed and bit and screamed until my voice scraped raw.

How his hand covered my mouth and he whispered shh, shh, you'll learn until the words were water wearing down stone.

Now I tilt my chin up.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and something in my chest cracks open at the praise.

I lean into it. I need it.

I can't remember when that started, when his approval became the only sun I had left.

His hand comes up to cup my throat.

I don't pull away.

I don't freeze.

My pulse beats against his palm, steady and trusting, and I watch his eyes darken with something that might be satisfaction and might be worship.

He holds me like this a long moment, feeling my life run under his fingers, and I let him.

I want him to feel it.

I want him to know it belongs to him now.

"Beautiful," he breathes. "So calm. Remember how fast this heart used to race?"

I remember.

I remember the terror of his hand at my throat in the dark woods, the way I kicked and clawed while he held me down with patient, terrible ease.

How he'd whispered good girl like a slap, like ownership, while I floated somewhere above my own body, trying to survive him.

Now I stay.

I stay right here in my skin, feeling every inch of where we touch, and that presence is the proof of how far I've fallen.

"Ezra," I say, and his name sounds like prayer in my mouth.

His thumb strokes along the line of my jaw.

"Tell me what you want."