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Adela looks between us, then nods and excuses herself.
He continues to stare at me, the look in his eyes so intent, that when he reaches for me, I flinch.
His throat moves as he swallows. He raises both of his hands, palms facing me. "I won’t hurt you."
"I know."
"When I heard you’d fainted—"
"I was out for barely a few seconds."
All the color drains from his face. "A few seconds."
"It’s probably because I’m dehydrated."
"Dehydrated?" He sways.
"Ed? Eddie?" I touch his hand, and he trembles, then seems to get a hold of himself. "I’m going to move you to the couch, Belle." He hesitates. "If that’s okay with you?"
I blink.He's asking me for permission to move me?He didn’t just scoop me up and march me over and sit down with me in his lap. And I’m grateful he queried me first, but also… I want him to do what he thinks is right for me, because I do enjoy it. I do. My head spins, and it’s not just because of whatever bug I’ve caught. It’s this constant warring inside of me where he’s concerned that’s tearing me up inside. I want to hold onto the independence I’ve fought so hard for all of my life. I want him to not give me a choice where my wellbeing is concerned. I want him to manipulate my body as he’s always done because he knows what I need. And because I know when I tell him no, he’ll stop.
It’s because he wanted me so much, because he couldn’t stand the thought of me belonging to anyone else, that he masterminded events so I ended up married to him. And while I’m not sure if I’ve forgiven him for that, the fact that he had such a strong yearning for me, that he desired me and longed for me enough to pull strings until I became his, is a powerful turn on.
"Belle?" His voice softens, "Please? I can’t stand to see you lying on the floor."
"It's carpeted," I point out, then cough. And he seems to grow even more pale. His fingers curl into fists. "Belle, I’m begging you."
"Yes." I stop my lips from twitching. "You may carry me, but you can’t place me on the couch."
"Where then?"
"Your lap would be better."
He draws in a sharp breath, then nods. "Your wish is my command." He scoops me up, then prowls over to the couch and sits down, gathering me close. I curl into his broad chest, turn my nose into his vest, and breathe deeply. That dark, spicy scent of him settles in my blood, and some of the tension drains out of my shoulders.
He balances me with one arm, then pushes the hair off my flushed forehead. His fingers tremble. Because I can’t stop myself, I reach up and twine my fingers through his. "I’m fine, really."
"Really, you’re not."
He places our joined fingers over my heart, as if to reassure himself that I’m here and alive.
"When I got the message that you’d collapsed, I felt like I was going to die. I felt like everything inside me had dissolved and was floating away into the ether. I felt so helpless. It’s all my fault."
I stare. "How is it your fault that I’m sick?"
His lips flatten. "I should have taken care of you. I should have paid more attention to you. I should have made sure you were taking your vitamins—"
"Why would you want to make sure I’m taking my vitamins?" I shake my head. "Honestly, the last thing I want is a helicopter husband."
"A helicopter husband?" He frowns.
"Yeah, a husband who constantly hovers over you and wants to make sure you’re fine."
"What’s wrong with that?"
"It can be stifling?"
"It’s a way of showing I care for you."
