The corridor is empty. My footsteps echo against the marble as I walk, too fast, toward my room. My whole body is trembling. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, like every nerve has been scraped raw by what almost happened.
I told him to step back to see if he would.
He did.
Part of me wanted him to refuse. To close the distance anyway, to take the choice out of my hands so I wouldn't have to make it myself. That would have been easier. Simpler. I could have stayed angry, could have pointed to his inability to respect my boundaries as proof that nothing had changed.
Instead, he gave me exactly what I asked for. Stepped back. Let me go.
Proved that my choices matter more to him than his wanting.
I reach my room and close the door behind me, leaning against it, breathing hard even though I don't need air. The phantom sensation of his almost-touch still lingers on my cheek.The space where his fingers should have landed burns with absence.
I press my hand to my face, covering the skin he didn't touch, and close my eyes.
Leaving was the hardest thing I've done since I died.
But I needed to know he could let me go.
Now I just have to figure out if I can stay away.
Chapter
Eighteen
Idon’t go to training.
I wait in my study, not the training room, because I'm not sure my presence there would be welcome. The clock on my desk marks the hour we usually begin. Then the hour after.
She doesn't come looking for me either.
This is what she asked for. Space. Distance. Time to decide if I'm worth trusting again.
I should be patient.
Instead, I'm pacing my study like a caged animal, fighting the urge to go to her door and beg for another chance.
I don't go.
The briefing that evening is torture.
She's there, taking the same seat as before, near the end of the table. Not at my right hand. Not claiming anything. Just present. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face, exposing the elegant line of her neck, the sharp cut of her jaw. She's wearing something simple, black and fitted, and I hate that I notice. Hate that I catalogevery detail like a man memorizing something precious before it's taken away.
I force myself to focus on the agenda. On the reports. On the strategic adjustments we need to make.
But I'm aware of her in a way that borders on painful. Every shift of her body. Every time she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. The way her fingers tap against the table when she's thinking.
I present the updated donor protection strategy. Credit her analysis publicly, because she deserves the recognition, and because I need her to see that I listened.
"Based on the intelligence review, we're reallocating resources to donor protection. The infrastructure can be rebuilt, but Celeste was right. Fear is the real weapon. We need to address that first."
I say her name without looking at her.
If I look at her, I'll lose the thread of whatever I'm saying. I'll forget there are other people in this room.
The briefing ends. I gather my documents. Speak briefly with Marcellus about patrol schedules.
Walk out without looking back.
