Page 154 of Their Arrangement
Careful.
His fingers touched me—warm, steady, present.
I gasped. Not from pain. From everything. From the touch. From the stillness. From being seen.
I gripped the edge of the toilet. My thighs trembled. My nipples ached. And I hated that my body responded—not just with need—but with grief. Grief that no one had ever done this.
No one had ever treated me like I was worthy of care when I was like this.
Bleeding.
Messy.
Weak.
But Wolfe?
He stayed on his knees.
Looked up at me like I was still something he wanted.
He reached up and wiped a tear from my cheek.
Not with his thumb.
With the back of his knuckle.
Tender.
Dangerous.
“I’m pathetic.” I closed my eyes, full of shame.
“You’re not disgusting. Or pathetic. You’re mine.”
I sobbed. Quiet. Breathless. Because I’d never heard anyone say that and mean it. Not here. Not like this.
“Why?” I whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
He stood slowly. Tucked the pouch back into his coat. Didn’t answer right away.
Then—
“Because you bleed. So what. You ache. You still belong to me.”
And I believed him.
God help me—I believed him.
He stepped back.
Picked up my purse.
Held it out.
Waited.
And when I stood—knees trembling, panties still half-down, corset undone—he didn’t look away.
