She wheels out and closes the door, and the second Alana's gone, Mila walks toward me with an angry expression. I don't know that I've ever seen her so emotional.
"How dare you," she snaps, but she's going to break. "I didn't ask for a fucking doctor, and I don't want to be styled by some seamstress." She takes a breath, pushing through the tremor in her voice. "You want me to look as fake as my bimbo stepsisters, is that it?"
"I'm trying to take care of you, woman. Can't you see that?" I feel angry, which I know is not the right response, but there's no one here to tell me what is.
"I didn't ask you to take care of me."
"No, you didn't, but you're not the same." I can hear my voice rising and I don't stop it. "You've been disappearing, Mila, piece by piece. And I'm not going to sit here and pretend I don't notice."
She fumes, stomping a few paces one direction and then back in the other. "I can't stand you. You do not own me."
"I was giving you a choice, okay? Letting you pick the dress was?—"
"My choice? Nothing has been my choice since I walked into this house. You have made every choice for me since I came to this prison, and now you're deciding I'll stand beside you and watch you pick one of my stepsisters to marry."
"You don't know what I'm going to do at that gala!" I shout, and I regret it. My blood is boiling right now. No one ever speaks to me this way because they're terrified of me. Why the hell do I let this woman push my buttons until I'm shouting?
"I know enough." Mila walks over to me and glaring, says, "You invaded my privacy, Roman. Can't you see that? You don't fucking own me. This arrangement gives you my labor, not my dignity."
My temper breaks. I grab her arms and shake her hard, well aware that I could leave marks on her, but she's so fucking infuriating. "You have no idea how to let someone care about you," I snarl, so angry that I don't care how scared she looks. "You can't recognize genuine compassion even when it's offered."
Her eyes are wide, her throat working as she swallows the fear, but she's trembling, not crying.
"Your father's dead, Mila. You're grieving and you won't let anyone in." The cruelty of what I'm about to say registers a full second after it leaves my mouth. "And maybe Vera's assumptions about you were right. Maybe there is?—"
She slaps me so hard, I see stars, and when my vision clears and I look back at her, there are tears running down her cheeks and her whole body is trembling. Something passes between us that lodges in my chest painfully deep.
I deserve that. Every syllable of what I said, I deserve that.
"I'm sorry," I say against her mouth. "I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did."
"I didn't. I said it because I'm frustrated watching you fade away."
"I hate you," she mumbles as I loose her arms and she wipes the tears from her eyes.
"You don't mean that," I say softly. She can't mean it. It can't be that easy to wreck what tender connection we've made. Can it?
"I do."
My body reacts before my mind can, and I cup both of her cheeks and pull her in for a kiss. Her lips are supple and soft, and my touch is so gentle she could pull away if she tried, but she doesn't.
"I don’t think you do," I whisper.
25
MILA
Ican't believe I'm kissing him again. Tears still burn my eyes and moisten my cheeks, but my lips are locked on Roman's like he's essential for life.
"I do hate you," I say again, between kisses, and he pulls back barely an inch.
"You keep saying that, but I don't think you know what it means." His hands are on my hips, guiding me closer to the bed while his mouth devours mine.
"I mean it."
"Then stop kissing me."
