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Clover looked horrified, as though she didn’t mean to reveal Laura’s involvement. “Laura has a young kid. I don’t want her involved,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I shouldn’t have said anything, but . . . but I have shit to process, too. When you tied me up and . . . and we did what we did . . . I was still coming to terms with what happened to me.”
Her words hung heavily in the air, echoing the trauma she’d been through, the tumult she was still grappling with.
“Do you want me to apologize for what we did?” I asked, my voice steady.
She swallowed deeply, a tremor passing through her. Slowly, she shook her head. No, she didn’t want an apology. The tension between us shifted, became something darker, richer. I leaned in, my stare locked with hers, an unspoken challenge hanging between us.
“Did you like it, Clover?” I probed, watching her reaction closely.
She looked away, uncertainty shadowing her face. “I . . . I don’t know how to answer that.”
I could see the conflict in her expression, the struggle between desire and guilt. “You don’t feel like you should enjoy being with me, do you?” I murmured, stating the truth we both knew.
Her silence was the only answer I needed.
“It’s okay to process your trauma, Clover,” I told her, my voice a soothing rumble. “I won’t force you to do anything you’re not ready for.”
I was a killer, not a comforter. I wasn’t supposed to be gentle; I wasn’t supposed to care. But for her, I’d be both.
“I asked you if it’s what you wanted. I’m always going to ask.”
She remained silent, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The tension was palpable, a live wire sizzling between us.
“I’ll balance your need on the edge of a blade,” I promised, my voice raspy. “Give you control at the precipice. I’ll push you right to the edge . . . and then I’ll ask your permission before we both tumble over.”
Her eyes widened at my words, but she didn’t pull away, didn’t retreat. There was fear in her expression, but also curiosity . . . and something more. Something that set my blood on fire.
Pulling the ring out of my pocket, I set it down gently on the table. Its diamond caught the dim light, scattering it across the worn wood. She stared at it.
“We’re engaged,” I stated simply, my voice a deep rumble.
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“I meant what I said, Clover. You’re mine.” The words came out as a growl, my eyes never leaving hers. “And this”—I pointed at the ring—“this is the proof.”
A horde of emotions raced across her face: surprise, confusion, disbelief, and an inkling of something I couldn’t quite read. Was it fear? Or was it something closer to acceptance? Only time would tell.
Clover’s words stung. “If I don’t have a choice, then it isn’t real,” she said.
I clenched my jaw, my mind unwillingly pulled back to that night, the sight of Clover, broken and haunted. James. That bastard. My knuckles whitened as my hands tightened into fists. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to rein in the fury threatening to explode.
“I want it to be real, Clover,” I said, the words gruff but sincere. “I want you to have a choice. And . . . I want you to choose me.”
Her laugh filled the room, sounding hollow and bitter. “You’re insane. Who proposes to someone they barely know?”
I shrugged, unfazed by her comment. “Who said I’m pretending to be sane?”
She tilted her head, studying me. “Why are you so obsessive? How did you . . . how did you become a murderer?”
I sighed, sinking into the chair opposite her. I’d never spoken about this before, not to anyone. But I wanted her to understand, to see the twisted path that had led me here. “I grew up on a ranch a few towns over,” I started. “We were a happy family. Then it was just me and my mom, after dad passed away.”
I could see her body stiffen, her stare unblinking. “She started dating, trying to find someone to fill the hole my dad left. I guess you can’t really call it dating. She slept around with anyone willing to give her attention. One night, she went on a date with a new guy. I didn’t get his name. She didn’t come home. They found her body in the river by our house.”
I looked down, focusing on the ring I’d placed on the table between us. “I got thrown into foster care after that.”
Her voice was a whisper when she asked, “Is that why you’re so protective?”
I nodded. “I couldn’t save my mom. But I did what I could to protect the girls in the foster home.”
