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“No.” My blood is thrumming between my ears, and I can hear my pulse.
His head turns cautiously at my defiance. I step farther into the room, narrowing my eyes at him. “You do not get to toss items at me in public, call me your lover, then vanish. You do not get to look at me as though I am something you want and then treat me as though I am something you regret.”
His jaw tightens. “Olive.”
“No. I am tired of the way you say my name like a warning. I am tired of your silence. I am tired of watching you run from me!” I cannot help the small crack in my voice at the last few words. For this is the first time in my life I’ve yearned for companionship, and it is slipping through my fingertips.
A silent beat passes between us, only the creak of the old wooden building can be heard. Until he finally speaks. “I am trying to protect you.”
“From what?” His laugh is sharp at my frustrated question. Humorless.
“From me.” His answer carries a solemn tone. It cuts through the room. I go still. Edward grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles whitening.
“You ask why I stay away. You demand the truth as though truth is a pretty little thing I have hidden in my pocket. You want to drag your nails through my psyche until I bleed out one answer for you?” His voice rises and my pulse rises along with it. “You want to know?” he snaps.
Then he moves. One moment he is on the other side of the desk, the next, he vaults over it with frightening grace and lands before me, close enough that I feel the heat of him. I refuse to step back and his breathing is uneven as his eyes are like a wild beast. Controlled Edward is gone, this is the man beneath the restraint.
“I stay away because the Collector wants you,” he says. “Because he ruins everything he notices. Because the moment he understands what you are to me, he will take you apart simply to see what pieces of me break with you.” I can feel his spirit cracking like broken glass.
My throat tightens. “What am I to you?”
His mouth opens. Then closes and for once, Edward Afton looks truly cornered.
I step closer. “Say it.”
His expression twists, “No.”
“Why?” All I want is an answer, to not feel alone in my state of mind, my state of yearning for this man.
“Because once spoken, it becomes real.” Nearly a painful whisper.
“It is already real. You know this is real. Say it,” I state through gritted teeth.
He shakes his head, almost violently. “What? Love?” His laugh is broken. “No, darling. As I have said time and time again, I learned long ago that love is just a prettier word for leverage.”
The words hurt more than I expected, because he believes them and because some part of me once did too.
“You think I would let someone use me against you?” The more he states, the more I become frustrated that he believes I cannot defend myself. Defend us.
“I think men like The Collector do not ask permission.” His hand lifts, then stills. I stare as he carefully hovers over my cheek. I can feel his fingertips longing to touch me, that hesitation does terrible things to my chest.
“Trust I have survived worse men than him,” I say.
“And I have watched worse men survive women who believed that.”
Silence stretches as his eyes drop to my mouth. Mine drop to his, then the air changes and a different kind of danger. One neither of us steps away from.
“Edward,” I whisper.
His jaw flexes, “do not say my name like that unless you intend to destroy me.” His nostrils flare and a slight tremor develops within his hand. His restraint is failing and I pray he gives in.
“Perhaps I do,” I whisper, just as a lover would between silk sheets and soft touches. His gaze snaps back to mine and heat rolls through the room. He moves slowly now, giving me every chance to retreat. We back up against the wall. His hands come to rest on either side of me, braced against the wooden panels, trapping nothing but the space around us.
I could leave. We both know it, that is why I stay.
“Say the word,” he says, voice low and rough, “and I will release you.”
My breath catches.
