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I stare at him. “Aren’t I already with you?”

“I mean my actual home.”

The idea is so intimate that I momentarily forget to be frightened by it.

“You… want me to live with you?”

“Eventually.”

“Why?”

A flicker of weariness crosses his face. “We just spent a very long time discussing why.”

“That was about keeping me alive.”

“It can be both.”

“So you’re just going to keep me forever?” I mean it sarcastically, mostly.

Adrien goes still.

There’s that expression again—that tiny pause where something larger moves behind his eyes and gets shoved back before I can see its shape.

“I’m not planning that far ahead.”

“So when does this come off?” I ask hesitantly, rattling the chain connecting me to the headboard.

Adrien looks at the cuff, shoulders relaxing a little. “Soon, if you stop giving me reasons to think you need it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t want to keep you restrained any longer than necessary. You show me that you can stay in the room without trying to escape or turn another piece of furniture into a weapon, and I give you more freedom.”

The promise catches my attention, stirring a cautious hope inside of me. “How much more?”

“First, we can take the cuff off. Then maybe the bedroom door stays open. After that, you can move around the house without me shadowing you every second. We’ll make decisions as we go.”

I barely hold back a laugh at his use of “we.” We’re not making any decisions. He’s making decisions.

Adrien continues, “All you have to do is be good, sweetheart. You follow my directions, don’t try to run, and let me take care of you. Be my good boy, and I’ll reward you.”

“I have to do whatever you say?”

“Not literally, but for example, if I tell you to finish your plate, I expect your best effort. If I can tell you genuinely tried, I’ll be happy, but if you sit there like a brat and refuse to even try, I’ll have to punish you. And when it comes to your safety, I need you to listen.”

There it is again.

That voice.

Firm without being loud, settled into some low register that seems to bypass my brain entirely and land somewhere warmer. Somewhere lower. It does something to my belly that I don’t want to name.

“Stop talking like that.”

He brings a hand to his beard, thumb dragging at the corner of his mouth to hide a smile. “You mean my voice?”

I refuse to answer, even as my skin prickles at the tease laced through his words.

“Or,” he continues, voice settling even deeper in his chest, “do you mean when I tell you to be good for me?”