Page 7 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

Or the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s anxious.

Or the fact that her glaring at me makes me hard.

“Christ,” I bite out, curving my hand over Violet’s back and getting up, pacing over to the windows.

This is becoming a problem.

Not the attraction. That’s manageable. God knows, I have plenty of practice denying myself what I want.

It’s the rest of it that’s a problem.

The fact that I want to care and protect and shelter and touch and claim and keep.

I can’t go there.

It’s not safe for her. I’m not safe for her.

I want to be—fuck, I want that almost more than my next breath—but I’m not.

And I won’t burden her with the reality of me.

“I won’t,” I whisper as I rest my forehead against the glass and stare out into the darkness.

The city spreads out beneath me, a thousand sparkling lights, a thousand business conquests.

Power. Money. Control.

A cold reminder of what cannot be.

My jaw tightens and anger ripples through me, but a tiny, “Meow?” has me locking it down.

“It’s okay, little one,” I murmur.

“Meow,” Violet replies, as though she doesn’t believe me.

That’s okay.

Because I don’t believe myself either.

Three

River

I put the loaf of bread in the oven and rub my hands together, brushing off the excess flour.

It sprinkles down like snow, clinging to the front of my sweats, dusting the floor with white specks.

I don’t immediately clean it up like I would if I was working—careful to keep the space pristine, even if I still have more food to make, more ingredients to measure out.

There are standards to be upheld.

Expectations to exceed.

Perfection to maintain.

It used to be that those same standards and expectations and measures of perfection existed in my home.

Ruled my home.