Page 57 of The Dragon’s Good Girl

"Four."

I almost smile.

Gael turns toward me. "She used her safeword, and the moment she did, you stopped and let her leave. You didn't follow her, demand an explanation or make her responsible for how you felt about it. You did exactly what you promised her you would do."

"She needed to get away from me."

"No, Soren. She needed to know she could get away from you, and you proved that she can."

That lands differently than I expect. Gael seems to know it, because for once she doesn't rush to fill the silence.

"She saw another woman leaving, convinced herself she'd misunderstood everything between you, and panicked. You don't get to turn that into proof she doesn't want you simply because it makes walking away easier."

I drag a hand over my face. "And your recommendation is what? Wait until she books another session?"

"No." The answer comes immediately.

"She isn't your client anymore, Soren. You made sure of that the moment you told her how you felt." Gael rises and brushes an invisible speck from her coat. "So stop sitting here waiting for her to come back to you as one."

I look up at her.

"Go talk to her. No session room, no contract, no expectation that she gives you anything because you showed up. Tell her what you should have told her before either of you got this far, and then let her decide what she wants."

"And if she tells me to leave?"

"Then you leave."

My dragon dislikes that answer enough that scales threaten along my arms.

Gael notices. "Yes. Even if your dragon doesn't like it."

I exhale through my nose. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

She starts back toward the house, then stops. "Take the peonies."

I stare at her.

"The pressed ones?"

"Yes, they're appallingly sentimental." Her mouth curves. "She'll love them."

Then she walks away.

I stay in the garden until the cold finally gets through my coat, thinking about Margot saying red and the way every part of me had wanted to reach for her afterward.

Back upstairs, the nest looks exactly as miserable as Mikael accused it of looking. The robe is shoved aside, the pressed flowers are sitting on the floor and the drawer I cleared for Margot is closed.

I start with that.

The drawer slides open, empty and waiting, and this time I leave it that way. If Margot ever wants to put something in it, she can. If she doesn't, it remains a drawer.

The robe goes back where it was. I return the flowers to the nightstand, then find her hair tie in the pocket of yesterday's pants, because I've been carrying it around for two days like an adolescent.

"For fuck's sake."

I set it beside the lamp.