His eyes meet mine again, suspicious, and I know I got him. He reaches across the table and grabs my plate, switching ours, just in case. He saw me take a bite of that one, so he knows it's safe.

As usual, he offers no apologies. I don't expect one.

Weeks ago, I would've laughed at it, thinking it was a joke, that he was paranoid, but I understand now. I'm the daughter of the man who murdered his family, the daughter of the man who nearly killed him. He may love me, but I don't think he could ever truly trust me one hundred percent.

Can't say I blame him.

I don't deserve it.

Each bite he takes proves it more and more. It's not enough to harm him. Just enough to make him sleep so I can leave.

We drink wine at my suggestion. I need the liquid courage, and I hope intoxication will mask the onset of the drug in his system. I make sure he has his fair share. I need to be coherent enough to walk away.

He's feeling it, whether he realizes it or not.

The man who smiles at me across the table, who speaks playfully, who calls me his little jailbird, reminds me startlingly of the man I fell in love with. Like when we strip away all pretenses, and block all the pain, and anger, he's who exists deep inside.

The monster just overshadows him.

When he's finished, I take our plates to the kitchen. Guilt is nagging at my chest. It's already after ten o'clock. Time is ticking away too fast.

I'm not ready.

I'm not ready.

I'm not ready.

I wipe my sweaty palms and absently fix my dress. I wore one of Naz's favorites—the red dress from Vegas. I fill up the sink with soap and water to do dishes to pass the time when Naz enters the kitchen.

He walks up behind me, stopping flush against me, his hand settling on my hip as he pulls me back toward him. It's the most he's touched me in a while, since the day I safe worded him right here where I stand. His other hand sweeps my hair out of the way, and I shiver when I feel his breath on my neck. He kisses the skin as his hand on my hip drifts forward, beneath the dress, slipping inside my panties.

I can't help myself.

I whimper at his touch.

I nearly lose it at the first graze of his fingertips. So gentle, so natural, his caress so attentive. It's like none of the past two weeks has happened, and he's forgotten I ever hated him.

Closing my eyes, I try to forget, too.

I feel the onset of an orgasm, my knees going weak, my breathing labored as I grip the edge of the sink. He rubs, and rubs, and rubs some more, fumbling with his belt behind me, unbuckling his pants. The voice in my head is telling me to stop this, to stop him, but I can't.

I won't.

Maybe I need this just as much as him.

Maybe I need it more.

Maybe, the other half of me screams, I just need him.

He shoves my dress up, pushing my panties aside. As soon as the orgasm rocks me, pleasure bursting beneath my skin, he bends me over just enough to push into me from behind.

I cry out as he fills me.

It's been so long.

Too long.

He's not brutal, he isn't playing a game, but there's urgency to his thrusts as he pounds into me from behind. An arm encircles my waist, the other hand finding home at the base of my throat, the same way he held me in the street in New Jersey. The hold says 'you're mine; you belong to me; you always will.' It says I can try to forget, but my body will forever remember this touch.

It hurts.

It hurts.

Oh God, it fucking hurts.

Not physically. The wound is deeper, an emotional scar I think won't ever heal, no matter how much time I give it. He touches my body but he tears at my soul, ripping pieces out of me that are now his and his alone.

He doesn't take long before I feel his muscles tense. The last few thrusts are deep, agonizing, as he groans into my hair and lets loose inside of me. When he finally stills his movements, his body sags against mine, heavy and satiated, his breathing labored.

I'm quivering, my body trembling from head to toe. Tears sting my eyes when he pulls out. I hope he thinks it's from pleasure, and not because I'm trying desperately not to cry in front of him.

"Are you okay?" he asks, fixing his pants as I lay against the counter by the sink, shielding my face. Confident Naz sounds almost unsure these days.

I don't look back at him as I nod. I'm okay, or I will be, I think. He leans over me, kissing my neck once more as he tugs my dress back down, before he steps back.

The tears fall as soon as he leaves the kitchen. It takes me a good twenty minutes to pull myself together. I wipe my eyes and fix my clothes, careful as I head toward the den. He's sitting at his desk, his head down on top of his book.

He's still reading The Prince.

Slowly, I step toward him. He's fast asleep already. I stare down at him, my fingertips grazing his jawline, feeling the scruff, before I run my fingers through his hair. He doesn't even stir.

I hope he's dreaming, that he's happy, and at peace, if only for the moment, because when he wakes up, I know there will be hell to pay for somebody.

"I love you," I whisper, although I know he can't hear me. "I shouldn't… but goddamn it if I don't love you, anyway."

Pulling the engagement ring off my finger, I set it on the desk beside him before turning around and walking out.

Twelve o'clock on the dot.

I stand at the entrance of the park, near the massive arch, shivering in the damp night air. I'm kicking myself for not changing clothes, for not putting on pants. But Naz's scent clings to these, the memory of his touch infused in the fabric, and I'm not ready to let go of that yet.