“You don’t have to tell me anything, Beth. We had a disagreement. Let’s just put it behind us.”
“I don’t like being unfair,” she said firmly. “And I was. So I’m telling you the reasons. If we’re being honest, we go all the way.”
“Just know you can stop anytime.”
“My father picked a husband for me.”
He didn’t say anything because nothing could be said. It was socially sanctioned human trafficking dressed up as tradition. In the ‘right’ circles, even among humans, coercion had a way of wearing a tuxedo and calling itself a legacy. “Not the best match?” he said gently.
“Possibly the worst.” Her laugh was dark and hollow. “Not decrepit, but he was fifteen years older than my eighteen. And he was mean. Not the loud kind. Cold. Dismissive. Controlling. Got handsy when I told him I wasn’t marrying him even though we were already engaged. When I went to my father—hell, when I showed him the bruises—and he still didn’t end it?” Her mouth tightened. “I left.”
She didn’t cry but her anger burned, steady and controlled like a forge. He felt it, deep and blistering beneath her skin, and it made his own blood thrum with protective fury.
“I always knew I was basically cattle,” she said bitterly. “But you’d think he’d at least care if his property was kept in decent condition.”
He couldn’t speak. Not without cursing her father’s name or promising to burn down anything that hurt her. But he didn’tthink she needed that from him. “I’m sorry,” was all he said rough, low, and barely enough to carry the heat of everything he couldn’t put into words.
“I was too, for a long time. It’s why I don’t react well to having choices taken away by people with more power.”
She paused, then looked at him with something heavier than any accusation had ever been. “I thought you were doing that. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
He followed her in silence, ignoring his pounding heart. There was so much he could’ve said. So much he wished he could do. To go back, find the girl she’d been, and tell her she’d survive, that she’d become more than a bloodline, more than a pawn.
But Beth didn’t need saving or healing.
She’d done it herself.
Piece by piece.
Bone by bone.
Maybe he could make space for her to breathe easier now.
He reached for her hand.
His touch was gentle at first, testing and tentative.
She stiffened, just slightly. Her breath hitched. Then her eyes met his, wary but curious.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead, her fingers curled slowly into his and stars, the way her touch shot through him was like lighting a fuse. His pulse thundered. Every inch of him was aware of her warmth, her strength.
She didn’t look at him again, but the corner of her mouth twitched up, and her hand stayed in his.
And that was enough.
For now.
WHAT WAS HAPPENING? What in the world was happening?”
Beth swallowed, questioning her sanity. Because he was holding her hand. And now she was tingling. From hand-holding, like some proper Victorian heroine. Though honestly, they probably weren’t allowed to do that either. Still.
It was a problem. A big one. Not just because she didn’t usually tingle, but because everything inside her felt unmoored. Off-kilter. Not from the touch itself, but from what it stirred. He was holding her hand, and suddenly her brain was sliding into territory that definitely required adult supervision. All this after years of ignoring him, of actively hating his perfect face.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Okay, not ignoring him. Exactly. She’d been... watching. Quietly, from afar.
