“Being necessary in violent rooms.”
The answer surprised you.
He tossed the cloth into the sink and braced both hands on the counter.
“My father built this world,” he said. “By the time I was old enough to hate it, I was old enough to inherit it. Walking away would have left worse men in charge.”
“So you stayed.”
“So I controlled what I could.”
“And what about what it does to you?”
His eyes met yours.
“No one asks me that.”
“I just did.”
Something vulnerable passed through his expression so quickly you might have missed it weeks ago. But you knew him better now. You knew his silences had textures. Anger was cold. Worry was sharp. Want was a storm he kept locked behind his teeth.
He came around the island slowly.
You did not move.
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint scar near his jaw and the exhaustion beneath his eyes.
“Iris,” he said, warning and prayer in one word.
You looked up at him. “I’m not fragile.”
“No.”
“I’m not yours because you helped me.”
“No.”
“I’m not something you rescued.”
His voice dropped. “Never.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“Then kiss me because I choose it,” you whispered.
Roman did not touch you immediately.
He gave you time to pull back. Time to regret it. Time to remember every reason this was dangerous.
You did none of those things.
