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T R E N T E - H U I T

I let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah, I figured."

The car smells like soft leather and expensive perfume and something faintly floral from the hand lotion she made me try at Sephora. My wrists still smell like her choices. My feet are tucked under me, shoes off, shopping bags crowding the back seat. Everything designer.

I feel like one of those girls in the movies who gets scooped out of real life and dropped into a fantasy. Except in this fantasy, the prince is a terrifying woman who has a gun in her glovebox.

"Seriously, though," I mumble, staring down at our hands. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I wanted to."

She says it like it's obvious. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe for her, it is. Maybe when Esmeralda wants something, she just does it. Maybe that's love for her-doing, not saying. Buying, not confessing. She never says the words.

Not "I like you." Not "You mean something to me."

But she looks at me like I'm made of glass and danger all at once.

And when she touches me like this, it feels like my bones are made of sugar.

I lean my head against the window. My heart feels too big. Too full. Too stupid.

Because I'm in love with someone who once told me she doesn't do relationships.

That she "possesses."

What the hell does that even mean?

I remember the way she said it, like it was nothing. Like a weather report. "I don't do relationships, Ashleen. I possess."

What does that mean for me?

Does that mean I'm hers? Like property? Like a thing?

I want to ask. It's right on the tip of my tongue. But it's Valentine's Day. We just had the most perfect, unreal, dreamy day. I chose a dress she helped me pick. I tried on shoes while she sat watching me like I was art. I let her practically fuck my brains out in the dressing room.

And I felt happy.

I don't want to ruin that by opening my mouth and asking, "Do I mean anything to you? Or am I just your favorite possession?"

So I swallow it. I bite it back. I look at our hands and pretend I don't feel like crying.

Her thumb is still moving. So slow. Like she doesn't even know she's doing it.

"You really are tired," she murmurs.

I hum in agreement, eyes still fixed out the window. My heart's doing this fluttery, traitorous thing in my chest. I try to ground myself, breathing in the smell of her, the hum of the engine, the soft music playing through the speakers.

But it's still there.

This overwhelming, consuming realization that I'm in love with her. Not in a cute way. Not in a healthy way. Not in the way you're supposed to love someone.

But in the way that makes me want to stay forever, even if I shouldn't.

In the way that makes me feel owned, even if I never signed the contract.

Her fingers shift, and she lifts my hand to her lips. Kisses the back of it, soft and warm.

"I like days like this," she says, casually, like she's not completely wrecking me.

"Me too," I whisper.

And I mean it. God, I mean it.

We pull through the gates of the compound a few minutes later. Familiar walls. Guards nodding. The whole fortress lit up in golden lights like a fairytale castle. Except it's not. Not really.