*Micah*
I am rather convinced that with those words, I have just condemned myself to an early grave. Because fulfilling the temptation of touching her without having her fully is going to kill me.
When she discharges a shaky, fluttering breath, sinks back against the chair, and snatches her gaze to the fire as though she wants to spare me the sight of the solace that fills her eyes with tears, I know for certain I have the right of it: I am a dead man.
I jump to my feet and stride to the corner in abandoned need of more scotch. I will probably spend the remainder of my life wondering why the devil I had agreed to her terms. Maybe it is because I can’t stand the thought of her seeking assistance elsewhere, and it has become increasingly clear that she is set on this path, and no argument
