I turn, smoothing the skirt down to the middle of my thighs.
…short.
If I step out into his bedroom inthis, is Malcolm going to assume I’m trying to seduce him?
AmI trying to seduce him?
This distinctly reminds me of those dating sims I played in an effort to learn the art of seduction, way back when, at the beginning of this grand saga. I gulp, chewing my cheek.
He is my husband, at least? Kinda? Legally, anyway. I don’t want anything to happen, but if itdoes, I’m mostly sensible, and he’s set up to provide for a family. I’d just…mentally…need to make it through a…filthy…terrifying…hospital-non-negotiable…pregnancy.
My breaths thin.
No.
No, don’t be stupid and don’t run away with your thoughts, Azalea.
Hospitalsarenegotiable. I could get a midwife. Have a home birth.
But…a home birth…is stillbirth. And it still ultimately produces a child. And children are the dirtiest things I can think of.
But also—I force a soft, broken laugh out of my body—why am I evenlunginginto pregnancy, anyway? Not every intimate cutscene renders one pregnant.
Intimate…
Cutscene…
My face explodes red, and I hug myself as panic sets in.
I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I don’twantthat. I do not ever, ever,everwant to be violated likethat. It’s gross. It’s gross. It’s—
“Dove?” Malcolm knocks on a different door than the one he led me through earlier, and I swing my wide gaze to it, keenlyaware that my mouth has gone dry. “My love, are you spiraling in there?” he asks.
I…might be.
My eyes burn, and I whisper, “I don’t want to seduce you.”
“Oh, darling.” He chuckles. “You’ll have a hard time avoiding it. Just your existence seduces me. May I come in?” A moment passes, then he says, “Actually, I don’t know why I bothered asking. I’m coming in.”
I unlatch my arms from around myself and pin my skirt to my rump as the door opens.
Cool and collected, Malcolm—garbed in white—rests a shoulder against the jamb. His eyes scan me, top to bottom, and his smile goes…gentle. “Pretty bird,” he murmurs. “I’m not going to touch you tonight. At all.”
“Huh?”
He backs up a step, presenting his room. Dark, dark, dark…bleached.
He’s redressed his bed in pure white, and I can’t breathe as I stare at it.
“I exaggerated earlier while you were enamored by me. I have no real intention of holding you tonight. We’re going to work up to that. Bit by bit. Because trusting me, trusting that you’ll be okay, trusting reality over the lies your brain fixates on…is going to take a little bit more time than we’ve given it. Just because I’m forceful enough to rather heartlessly drag you forward on your healing journey doesn’t mean I’m going to create a situation that haunts you in all the wrong ways.”
I blink, and a tear falls.
“That’s why we’re here, practicing in my room and my bed. Not at your place. If you need to run, you have your safe space still. Untouched by memories of me.”
Strength abandons my limbs, and my arms drop to my sides. “You… Wouldn’t you want memories of you to haunt me?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Only sometimes. Only when it’s not going to destroy you. After all, what is my want compared to your need, dove?” His smile strikes me through the chest and gut. “Adjust your expectations. Tonight, we sleep. Together, but apart. If we wake up tangled in one another, that’s something else entirely, but, consciously, I’m not laying a finger on you, and if morning brings with it our unconscious consequences, we’re going to face them productively.”
