His hand stills on my back. For a long moment, the only sound is our breathing in the dark. I expect him to snap back, to remind me that in this place, at this moment, everything actually does revolve around him and what he decides to do with me.
Instead, his voice comes soft and thoughtful. "No. Not everything." His palm slides up to rest between my shoulder blades, warm and steady. "But some things do. Your safety, for instance."
"My imprisonment, you mean."
"If that is how you choose to see it." There's something almost weary in his tone. Like he's tired of being the villain in this story, even though he wrote the script himself.
A tremor runs through me---leftover adrenaline from the nightmare, maybe, or just the endless tension of being here, of never knowing where I stand with hi
