Page 389 of Rosetti Family New York
"This is who I am when I'm being held captive."
"No." I move closer, watching her pulse jump at her throat. "This is who you are when you're hiding. I want to see who you are when you're not."
She sets down her coffee cup, porcelain clicking against marble. "You want to dress me up like a doll."
"I want to see you in clothes that match the fire in your eyes." I reach out, trace one finger along her jawline. She doesn't pullaway, but her breath catches. "I want to watch you remember what it feels like to be powerful."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you refuse. But I think you're curious." I lean closer, until my mouth is almost touching her ear. The scent of her shampoo fills my lungs, something clean and expensive that makes me want to bury my face in her hair. "I think you want to know what it would feel like to walk into a room and own it completely."
When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed and her lips are parted. There's something hungry in her eyes, something that wants to be unleashed.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, stepping back to give her space. "Really feeling."
"Fine." The word comes out neutral, polite, empty. The same tone she probably used with museum donors and Chase's business associates.
The bland politeness cuts deeper than it should. She's back to treating me like a stranger.
"No more panic attacks?" I ask, and immediately regret it when I see her face change.
Her hand freezes halfway to her coffee cup, and something shutters in her eyes. "That was days ago."
"I know. I just..." I drag a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself. "Sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."
"It's fine." But her voice is tighter now, more controlled. "The panic attacks don't last long. I just... need to process."
"Process what?"
She takes a sip, the porcelain clicking against her teeth. "The feeling that everyone knows something I don't. That there's a version of my life I'm not allowed to see."
Now I understand what's really eating at me. The casual clothes are just the surface. She's been wrapping herself inshapeless fabric for days, but it's more than that. Last night changed something between us. The way she took care of me without being asked, the gentleness in her touch when she cleaned my wounds. For the first time since I brought her here, she looked at me without walls.
Then she ran. Back to her room, back behind her defenses, as if my blood on her hands had contaminated something pure.
"This is who I am when I'm being held captive."
"No." I move closer, watching her pulse jump at her throat. "This is who you are when you're hiding. I want to see who you are when you're not."
She sets down her coffee cup, porcelain clicking against marble. "You want to dress me up like a doll."
"I want to see you in clothes that match the fire in your eyes." I reach out, trace one finger along her jawline. She doesn't pull away, but her breath catches. "I want to watch you remember what it feels like to be powerful."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you refuse. But I think you're curious." I lean closer, until my mouth is almost touching her ear. The scent of her shampoo fills my lungs, something clean and expensive that makes me want to bury my face in her hair. "I think you want to know what it would feel like to walk into a room and own it completely."
When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed and her lips are parted. There's something hungry in her eyes, something that wants to be unleashed.
"One condition," she says finally.
"Name it."
"No more lies. If I ask you something, you answer honestly."
The request catches me off guard. Most people want money, favors, guarantees of safety. She wants truth. I study her face, weighing the implications. There are things about this situation,about my family, about what I'm feeling for her that I'm not ready to admit. But the way she's looking at me, like she's offering me something precious...
"Deal."
