“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I said at last, the weight of my words heavy in the silent room.
“I know,” Miles said simply, his eyes downcast.
“If you could do anything else, what would it be?” I finally asked, my voice trembling slightly.
With a satisfying crunch, he bit into his sandwich, his eyes drifting away before he broke off a piece and tossed it to Doughboy.
“A chef. I like when people enjoy something I make.”
A small smile came across my face. “It’s really good.”
“What about you?”
I was silent, taking the bowl from him. I fed myself slowly, even dipping the grilled cheese into the soup. I hopped up to sit on the counter, taking in his full glory.
“I don’t know… I never imagined myself doing something else.”
I blinked hard. It was true. I never thought to be anything else than a King. This was my life here.
Don’t cry. Not in front of him.
He took a step toward me, the warmth of the soup bowl forgotten, my knees brushing the front of his shirt.
“You know you can do something else,” he said.
“What would that be?”
He didn’t respond. “The world’s our oyster, right? You have time to figure it out.”
“What are you trying to ask me, Miles?”
He shook his head. But I knew him.
And I remembered.
The late nights we used to sneak down to the kitchen after everyone was asleep.
The arguments that turned into debates, then laughter.
The first time he called mebrilliant.
When I looked at him as more than my older brother’s best friend, and as a man who saw me as a woman he wanted. He never wanted to fix me or use me. He just wanted me towantmore. And maybe that’s what scared me the most.
That he always believed I could be someone else. Someone free.
His hands didn’t ask permission.
One cupped the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair. The other pushed past the open edge of my robe, finding the curve of my breast beneath the silk slip I wore.
He squeezed like he had every right—because he did once.
My gasp hit his mouth just as he kissed me. Hard. Devouring. Like he needed to taste what he’d been deprived of for years. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was six years of heartbreak, resentment, andwantfinally detonating.
I didn’t pull away.
I let it happen. Let him take. Let myself need.
The robe slipped down my shoulders like it understood it didn’t matter anymore. That there was no point in pretending.
