“I could have stayed at a motel,” I counter. “Or I could have gone to Kyle. He’s my family.”
“Kyle’s place is too small,” she mutters, still not looking at me.
“I could have left Pinecrest. Gone back to my mother’s pack, tail between my legs, and begged to be let back in.” The admission costs me, but I continue. “There were options, Emily. Staying here wasn’t my only choice.”
Mixie rises, stretching her lithe body before jumping up onto the table, her tail swishing as she surveys our abandoned breakfasts. She settles between our mugs, her tail draping across both our hands where they rest on the table.
Emily stares at the cat, exasperation tugging at the corner of her mouth despite her worries. “Mixie, you’re not allowed on the table.”
The cat responds by purring louder, kneading her paws on the wood grain.
I reach across Mixie, my hand stopping short ofEmily’s fingers. The distance between us is both vast and infinitesimal, a chasm I could cross in a heartbeat if she allowed it.
“Emily, look at me.” I wait until she raises her head. “I’m not trapped here. I chose this. You didn’t trick me or cage me or keep me because I was too weak to leave. You offered me kindness when all of Pinecrest turned against me.”
Her fingers twitch toward mine, but then freeze. Mixie lets out a soft chirp, her tail flicking with interest.
“There’s a difference between helping someone and controlling them,” I continue, my chest tight with everything I want to say. “Auren took your choices away. You give people theirs back.”
Emily’s breath catches, and she searches my face for deception or pity, finding neither.
“You could have kept me at arm’s length after the water taxi incident,” I remind her. “Instead, you invited me into your home.”
Her gaze drops to where Mixie now stretches between us, the cat’s back arching in contentment.
“You could have let me struggle at the construction site that day. Instead, you taught me the right way to lift the plywood. You didn’t mock me for not knowing, you just showed me how to do it better.” I lean forward, willing her to understand. “Each time, you gave me the dignity of choice. That’s not control, Emily. That’s respect.”
A fragile silence follows, broken only by raindrops racing down the kitchen window, while the wooden beams of the cottage creak and settle.
Mixie stretches again, butts Emily’s hand, then turns and nudges my thumb with her wet nose.
Emily laughs, the sound breaking through the tension. She exhales, her shoulders lowering from their defensive hunch, and lifts her mug to take a sip of coffee.
“Ugh,” she grimaces, setting it back down. “Cold.”
The mundane complaint serves as a return to normalcy after the raw truths we’ve exchanged.
I keep my hand extended on the table, offering but not demanding touch, and the ball of tension in my chest begins to unwind as Emily’s expression softens, the lines of stress easing from around her eyes.
“I still worry,” she admits. “About the power imbalance, as well as what people will think, with our age difference.”
“Let them think what they want.” I wave the worry away, the movement dislodging Mixie, who gives me an annoyed grumble. “What’s between us is real.”
Emily takes a shaky breath. “And what is that?”
A rumble vibrates in my chest. “You know.”
Pink stains her cheeks, the first hint of warmth returning since we returned yeasterday. Mixie purrs louder, the vibration traveling through the wooden table.
“I’m going to need some time.” Emily pulls her hand back from mine. “I don’t expect you to wait?—”
“I’m not going anywhere.” The promise rises from a place of certainty I haven’t felt about anything else in my life. “Unless you want me to.”
“I don’t want you to go.” I can see in the way her throat works, in the tension that returns to her jawline, how much the admission cost her.
But she doesn’t reach for me, and I tell myself I just need to be patient. Emily’s been hurt, more than I could have guessed, but as long as she’ll let me stay, I aim to make her mine.
Chapter Twenty-One