Page 118 of Deacon

He leans in the doorway. “You don’t have to cook for me.”

Wordlessly, I pull out his chair. His forehead creases, but he washes his hands and sits. I sink beside him, filling our plates before he can speak. When I look up, he’s leaning back in his chair, eyes on me, like he’ll wait all night for me to be ready to speak.

I fold my hands in my lap.

“How long have you been buying me things?” I ask.

My voice is fragile.

“Since I saw you,” he says. “Outside the café, in the alley.”

“When was that?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Late winter.”

“Why?”

A gust of wind whistles against the house. It rattles the bolted shutters. I don’t need to look outside at the underbelly of the leaves to know there’s a storm coming.

“You were always meant for me, no question,” he says, voice a low rumble. He has a way of looking at me, head tilted down but eyes lifted. It helps me to not feel like I’m in his spotlight.

“You know my options are…limited,” I manage.

He nods.

“And you took advantage of that.” My tone isn’t accusatory. I keep it plain, laying it all out.

“I know,” he says.

“Is this what you do?” I burst out. “Just see women you like and stalk them until they have no other options?”

“Just you.” His voice is firm. “Only you make me act this way, sweetheart.”

My cheeks are hot. I stare down at the table.

“Hey, look at me for a minute,” he says, voice dropping.

Slowly, I drag my eyes up. He’s still looking at me with that patient expression.

“I won’t lie and say I haven’t been around,” he says. “But I want you, bottom line. I have for months, and I’m tired of sitting on my ass about it. You’re it for me, sweetheart.”

He says it with total conviction. A chill moves down my spine and the shutters rattle outside. Inside, it’s warm and I’m not afraid forthe first time in my life. I don’t know why. Annoyed, maybe, but not scared.

I should run from him again, but I won’t, and the reason became clear to me today.

The attic.

Nobody has ever read me so well that they could put together a room of everything I love. Nobody else understands my need to have a space that’s mine, where I don’t have to listen for footsteps or angry voices.

My hands twist in my lap, knuckles white.

I’m safe now, but I need to know how much safety costs. That’s the part we only just brushed on when we talked about contracts and kink and ownership before I ran. In part, I ran because of Bittern, but deep down, I know I also ran from him.

“Let’s eat,” he says.

Obediently, I cut my fried chicken, dip it in gravy, and take a bite. He gets to eating like he’s not bothered by anything. The wind whistles, shrieking.

“Will it storm today?” I ask.

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