Page 32 of Hush, Little Baby

“Romance,” I repeat, and let the amusement warm my voice. “You read romance.”

He turns red enough that even the steam cannot be blamed for it. “Sometimes.”

“Mm.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not. I read it too.”

“You—huh? You… read romance books?”

“I do,” I say, smiling.

Charlie goes very still beneath my hands, as if that answer has disturbed him more than if I had laughed. His blush lingers, but something else moves underneath it now, wary and exposed, like he has accidentally handed me a piece of himself and wants it back before I can look too closely.

“No,” he says, and the word is small at first. Then his fingers tighten around his knees, and he lifts his chin with a fragile spark of defiance. “No, don’t do that. Don’t act like we’re the same just because you read some books. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know some things.”

“No, you don’t.” His hands curl into fists around his knees. “You think you do because you saw me at the club and because I—because I acted stupid, but you don’t. You don’t know me.”

I work my fingers carefully through a knot near the nape of his neck. “Then tell me.”

The water laps quietly against the porcelain. Beyond the bathroom door, the suite remains silent, cut off from the rest of the hotel by money, height, and men with guns stationed outside.

“I’m not telling you anything,” he says, voice nothing more than a whisper.

“Then I’ll learn another way.”

His breath catches. “What does that mean?”

“Your wallet already told me your age, your address, and your full legal name. A doctor will tell me what I need to know medically. Your apartment will tell me what you do when no one is looking. Your body has already told me much.”

The back of his neck flushes under my hands.

“That’s horrible,” he whispers.

“Yes.”

He looks back at me, and I meet his eyes without apology.

“Yes, it is horrible,” I continue, because he is not stupid, and I will not insult him by pretending this is anything other than what it is. “But it is also happening. You may continue fighting every breath of it until you exhaust yourself, or you may begin deciding which pieces of yourself you would rather give me, honestly, before I have to take them apart myself.”

His expression crumples with hatred and confusion. “You’re a bad person.”

“Yes, I am.”

The answer leaves him quiet.

Poor baby. It is difficult to argue with someone who does not need to be absolved.

I pour another stream of warm water through his hair, shielding his face with my palm. “Tilt back.”

He does, even though I can feel how much he resents himself for obeying.

“Good boy.”

“Stop saying that,” he murmurs.