“I didn’t have a choice.”
He steps closer. I can taste his cologne. “And I did?” he challenges.
A jagged pull grips my chest. I take one step back, barely enough to register.
“You don’t have to watch.”
His gaze drops—not to my lips, not to my chest—but to my wrist.
His hand lifts. Doesn’t reach. Instinct drags him forward before logic can pull him back.
Then he touches me. It’s just a one fingertip he drags, brushing the thinnest part of skin where the blood runs closest to the surface.
My pulse riots over the sensation, gooseflesh erupting across the expanse of my too-exposed skin. I forget how to breathe.
“Why?” I choke out.
It isn’t the first time I’ve asked him. It won’t be the last. He never really tells me, does he? Why can’t he stay away? Why is he taking these risks? Why does he keep toeing this line, never fully giving himself to me and never wholly depriving me either?
“Because I can’t not,” he exhales now, right before he steps back.
Not far… But it’s just enough to remind me where I am. Who’s behind me. What I’m wearing. What they saw.
“You shouldn’t let him touch you like that,” he says, voice like smoke across the carpet.
I tilt my head, fury burning up through my spine. “You think I let him?”
His mouth goes flat. That’s all.
But I see it.
He knows.
This isn’t about permission.
It’s about survival.
“He doesn’t deserve to put his hands on you,” Silas mutters.
I feel my heart slam against my ribs, but I don’t let it show. “He doesn’t deserve a lot of things,” I say. “But here we are.”
We stare at each other, with the kind of stare that doesn’t beg for answers. It demands surrender. One of us has to break.
It won’t be me.
So I turn.
Start walking.
His voice follows, softer now, but edged. “You’re not alone. That’s why I won’t look away.”
I don’t stop.
But I carry those words like knives hidden under my skin.
I round the corner and keep my face straight.
My pulse hasn't settled, as I suspect it won’t for a while. But the hallway swallows the heat in my cheeks before I step back into the light.