“Then say no.”
She truly wanted to. The word always came easily to her. She had said no to hunger, to loneliness, and to need. She had built alife from refusals and called it dignity. She had survived years of being unseen by persuading herself that visibility was vulgar. Yet here stood the one man who had looked at her too closely and had not turned away.
She thought about her unfinished letter.
All I know is that I want you to bind me with silk in that red room of yours and do as you please.
Her lips parted.
“Yes,” she said.
CHAPTER 21
The confession startled Iris so completely that she almost looked behind herself to discover who had spoken.
Blaise’s eyes darkened.
“Say it again,” he commanded.
Iris swallowed, and her knees felt unreliable, but her voice was steady enough to shame her fear. “Yes.”
Only then did he offer his hand. She looked at it for one suspended moment. His hand could direct, restrain, comfort, and undo her. She placed her gloved fingers in his as he led her from the room without haste.
The corridors of Knoxford House seemed longer. Iris was aware of every step and every point of contact where his hand enclosed hers. He did not speak. That restraint worked on her morepowerfully than persuasion. Had he teased her, she might have retreated into wit. Had he demanded, she might have armed herself with pride. Instead, he gave her silence, and into it her own desire rose, unmistakably.
At the door to the red room, they stopped, and Blaise faced her, but she dropped her gaze.
“Look at me.”
Iris listened.
“If you wish to leave, you may say so.”
“I know...I do not wish to.”
“You must do more than know. You must believe in and trust me. And you have to listen.” His face was severe now, stripped of charm.
The scar made him look almost brutal, but his eyes held her with a care that stole the strength from her defenses.
“I believe you, and I trust you,” she whispered, and she could not help but feel the intimacy of the moment.
Blaise opened the door, and the room received them in red shadow. Iris had imagined it so many times that the reality should have disappointed her. It did not. Silk, leather, and ironwere present not as ornaments but as promises. The air felt warmer here, charged by secrecy and intention. This was not a room made for polite comfort. It had been designed around surrender, and the recognition of that made her pulse beat in places she did not name.
Blaise closed the door.
Iris stood just inside, her hands clasped before her, no longer certain where to look. The red of the room seemed to touch her skin. She had asked for this in ink. She had not understood that ink could become breath and heat and the slow approach of a man who meant to answer.
Blaise came behind her. “Remove your gloves.”
Her fingers trembled over the buttons.
He did not help. He simply watched her obey as he circled her.
When the gloves were gone, he took them and set them aside. Then his hand settled at the back of her neck, beneath the weight of her hair like she was his possession.
“Good,” he said.
The praise struck low and deep. Iris’s eyes closed before she could prevent it.
