I twist that curl tighter every time James steps into the cluttered study, his thick forearms a reminder that the house is slipping through my hands. His quiet authority should send me running, yet here I am, mouth sharp and pulse loud, craving the steady hand I have spent years refusing.
He frees his belt to work the drawer, folds the leather, and sets it between us without a word. Afternoon light slides across the buckle while our eyes hold, and I feel the old fear of being truly seen rise with the heat in my skin.
The deadline on the family property is closing in. If I let him claim me with that belt the way his gaze suggests, I risk surrendering the independence that has always kept me safe, or I risk losing the only man who might hold me without letting me disappear.
