He takes my plate, slides it into the dishwasher like we’re just two normal people having a quiet breakfast and not two ex-lovers with a shitty history and invisible landmines between them.
Then he turns around and stares at me. Says nothing. The silence stretches long enough that I start cataloguing everypossible form of psychological torture he might be cooking up next.
Finally, he opens his mouth.
“We’re getting married.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. THAT’S ALL HE SAYS!
My jaw drops. My soul momentarily leaves the building. I blink. Once. Twice. A whole fucking Morse code sequence. I even stick a finger in my ear like that’s going to fix what Idefinitelydidn’t just hear.
“Come again?” I croak, voice half an octave off.
His face stays stone. Not even a twitch. I wait for the grin. The gotcha. The wink. The ‘just kidding.’ But it doesn’t come.
“Stop acting silly. You heard me. We’re getting married.”
He says it again. The same exact words.
I explode.
“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?!”
It bursts out of me without warning. Rage, disbelief, hysteria, insanity — pick your poison, I’m drinking it all.
Finally,finally,he smiles. A sick little smirk. Barely there, but smug as hell. He walks to me, slow and confident, grabs the back of my chair, and spins it toward him.
I’m still stuck on the fact that this man just proposed like he’s a general and I’m his loyal recruit.
“You’re still giving me the five months, Adora,” he says, voice lethal. “Not in the dungeon. Here. I need it. I fucking need it. For you to give me that time.”
His hands tighten on the chair.
“You owe it to me. And to make sure you don’t screw me over again — because I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you — you’re marrying me. Spousal privilege. Makes it harder for you to testify against me again. You understand now?”
My throat clicks when I swallow. “I think… maybe we could find other solutions?” My voice goes up at the end, weak and traitorous.
He leans in. Closer. Invading my space like it’s his to take.
I lean back.
“Marriage,” he says. “That’s the solution.”
Final. Absolute. God-tier decree. And of course, I argue. Who fucking wouldn’t?
“Let me get this straight,” I snap. “You want me to stay here, play house, fuck you for five months like some kind of live-in whore? That’s your brilliant revenge plan?”
His smirk widens. The smug bastard.
“There will be no fucking. Unless you want it, of course.” He shrugs, giving me a look that makes me feel suddenly naked. “I’m not opposed. But I don’t need that. I needyou. I need control over your life for five months. Just like you handed mine over to others for five years.”
His voice drops, full of gravel and venom. “It’s a fair trade. No more dungeon. That’s a fucking promise.”
I swallow again. Hard. This isn’t logic. This isn’t normal. It’s just trauma in a nice suit making outrageous demands.
This is more fucked up than the dungeon. Andthatwas already goddamn twisted.
Marriage. He saidmarriage. Proposing. He’sproposing. Did I die? What kind of hell am I stuck in?
