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But at least now she had admitted that.
She was his wife, but not by command, by choice.
And that meant the marriage would be something of her choosing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHEHADNOTcome to his bed again since the wedding night. It had been three days, and it was all he had thought about.
She had been a revelation, had Riot.
He had been restrained, allowing her a measure of control when what he wanted was to pull her to him and keep her with him all night.
But there was something reckless in her emotion, as if he could see her balancing on a knife’s edge, willing to risk anything, and... He was not a man who admitted to fear, but he was a man who knew better than to push a woman when it was ill advised.
As if you have ever been in a similar situation with another woman.
No. Never. But then there was no woman other than Riot.
He was left unsettled by the entire experience, and he would like to say he was not a man who did unsettled, anymore than he was one who did uncertainty or fear, but he felt as if he had done a host of things he didn’t normally do since Riot had come into his life.
And it was difficult, because he didn’t do entanglements, and yet just like they had done at that simpler time, they shared meals together at night. And it was unavoidable that they talk.
And she knew things about him, about his past and the way that it made him feel, and now, about the things he did every day.
Because she had begun to ask. And he did not deny her answers to the questions.
About his life. His mother. His business.
She was different than she had been before.
He had not been forthcoming with information about his life, and she hadn’t pressed. But she pressed now.
And he could feel her winding herself more tightly into the fabric of who he was.
And she would do all this while holding the baby.
He felt protective over the child, but...
He had still not held her.
And soon enough, she would be bigger. And you did not hold larger children anyway.
He could not remember being held.
And one night, he was walking down the halls, and he heard plaintive wailing. Usually, Riot wasn’t far behind when the baby was upset, or the nannies. But nobody came.
He pushed open the door, and walked into the room, it was shrouded in darkness, and so was the tiny bundle.
He stood there. And watched her cry. He stood there and watched her cry because...
He had convinced himself that somehow his touch would be more damaging than his distance.
The child was crying, and he was doing nothing.
He had been this lonely child. Denied a hug, and comfort, and the arms of a parent. And here he was, doing the same.
He was a coward.
