His expression didn't change, but something darkened in his eyes. "I want you to be safe. I want you to have as much freedom as possible within the constraints of our situation. And I want to trust that you won't use that freedom to harm yourself or others."
"By 'others,' you mean you and your criminal enterprise," I said flatly.
"Yes."
At least he was honest. Always honest, even when the truth was ugly.
I took a sip of coffee, considering his proposal. It wasn't as if I had many options. I could refuse, be confined to my room again, lose what little autonomy I'd gained. Or I could agree, play along, use the expanded freedom to look for weaknesses, for opportunities.
For escape? The thought came automatically, but without the urgency it once held. Where would I go? To my father, who had abandoned me? To a world that hadn't noticed my absence? To a life that now seemed like it had belonged to someone else entirely?
"And if I refuse?" I asked, more to test his reaction than because I was seriously considering it.
"Then nothing changes," he said simply. "You return to your room. I continue to visit. We continue our... interaction... on more limited terms."
The way he said "interaction" made it clear he was referring to last night, to what had happened between us. The implication that it could happen again, would happen again, sent heat curling through my stomach.
"And if I agree?" I pressed. "What exactly does 'obedience' entail? What kinds of... instructions... are we talking about?"
Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of heat, quickly controlled. "Nothing you would find objectionable. Nothing that would harm you or demean you."
"That's not an answer."
He smiled slightly, acknowledging the point. "Instructions related to your safety, primarily. Where you can go, when, with whom. Occasional requests related to estate functions ormeetings you might attend. And..." he paused, his eyes holding mine, "personal requests, if and when our relationship develops in that direction."
The bluntness of it made my cheeks warm. "You're assuming a lot."
"Am I?" he asked softly. "After last night?"
I looked away, unable to hold his gaze, unable to deny the truth we both knew. Last night had changed things, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
"I'll agree to your rules," I said finally, looking back at him with what I hoped was a composed expression. "With one condition."
His eyebrow lifted slightly. "You're not really in a position to negotiate, Grace."
"And yet, here we are," I countered. "My condition is simple: I want honesty. Complete honesty. About why I'm here, about what you want from me, about your business with my family. No more half-truths, no more finding things out by eavesdropping or accident."
He considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Honesty can be dangerous in my world."
"So can ignorance," I replied. "I'd rather know what I'm dealing with than be blindsided again."
For a long moment, he was silent, weighing my request against whatever calculations ran through his mind. Finally, he nodded. "Agreed. Honesty for obedience. A fair exchange."
He extended his hand across the table, formal as a business deal. I hesitated, then placed my hand in his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the strength in his grip.
"To our new arrangement," he said, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gesture that was anything but businesslike.
I withdrew my hand, ignoring the lingering sensation of his touch. "So what now?"
"Now," he said, rising from his chair, "I have business to attend to. You're free to explore the estate, within the boundaries we've discussed. I'll see you for dinner at seven. Wear something formal."
Just like that—from negotiation to command in the space of a breath. I bristled automatically at the directive, at the assumption of compliance.
"And if I don't feel like dressing up?" I challenged, testing the boundaries of our new arrangement immediately.
His smile was slow and knowing. "Then you'll be demonstrating a lack of obedience, and our agreement will be reconsidered."
With that, he left, his footsteps fading across the terrace, leaving me alone with a half-eaten breakfast and the distinct feeling that I'd just entered a game whose rules I didn't fully understand.
