His jaw clenched hard.
"Your father gave me authority over household matters," I continued. "That includes the servants who bring your meals. The healers who tend your wounds."
Caleb went very still.
"I wonder what would happen if I decided you needed a stricter recovery regimen." I examined my nails. "Less comfort. More discipline."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I?" I met his eyes. "Try me."
Fear flickered beneath his hatred. Just a flicker.
Good.
"What do you want?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"I want you to call me Mother."
"No."
"Then I'll speak to the healers about adjusting your medication."
"That's blackmail!"
"That's parenting." I moved toward the door. "The choice is yours, Caleb."
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, bitter resignation crossed his face.
"Mo
