Chapter Twenty-Four #2
“I know that,” I reply lowly, anger fighting for supremacy in my tone.
“But you shouldn’t have had to, and I’m going to make sure you never have to protect yourself again.
You’re a freaking princess, Poem. Princesses do not fight their own battles.
Princesses have knights and princes and literally anyone else to do it for them. ”
Her nose wrinkles. “Princesses are no more worthy of protection than anyone else,” she retorts. “Particularly the ones who are plenty capable of protecting themselves.”
I press my forehead to hers. “The capable ones are usually the ones who had to do it for themselves,” I grumble.
“And shouldn’t have to any longer. I know you can take care of yourself, Poem.
I know it. I’ve seen you doing it, and you do a beautiful, strong, resilient job of it.
But is it so bad that I want to take over?
I want to care for you, and protect you, and spoil you.
I want to chase away anything or anyone that might cause you harm, and I want you cozy and safe and eating bonbons[2] while I do it.
It’s not about what you’re capable of. It’s about what you deserve. ”
“What about what I want?” she asks, not unkindly.
“I don’t want protection, Fox. I just want family.
Love. Safety, yes, but safety in the sense that I will not be alone emotionally when bad things happen.
Safety in the sense that if my house floods, I have people I can call that I know will come to help.
Safety in the sense that if I have a bad day and want it to be better, I have people who will make it better.
I want to be cared for in ways I haven’t experienced before.
I want to matter as more than a chore someone’s promised to do.
I’m not a trophy to put in a case and swear your life to protect.
I want more care than that. I want more love than that. ”
“You think my protection wouldn’t come with those things?
Poem, I love you. I adore you. I want every good thing for you all the time.
I want you physically, emotionally, and spiritually safe.
I want you thriving in every way you can be, and I want to contribute to that thriving.
I want to give you family. I want to give you safety.
I want to give you love, forever and always.
I want to give you every good thing you could ever want and every good thing you won’t dare to hope for.
I want to give you my soul and my servitude with it. ”
“Gracious,” she mutters, storm-gray eyes wide and wet.
“Precious,” I correct, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.
She sniffles, and she lets me hold her for seconds that turn into minutes, each one a treasure that I hold in my heart. Every moment she spends pliant in my arms, I feel as an ache in my chest, understanding exactly what sort of trust she’s placing in me.
“I can’t promise that I’ll let you give me all of those things,” she says finally, lifting her face to mine.
I touch my nose to hers, resting our foreheads together. “That you would let me try is already gift enough.”
She softens, tears glistening against her lashes. She sniffs against the wet. Then her brows furrow, and she sniffs again. Eyes widening, she panics.
“The potatoes!” she screeches, lurching out of my arms and toward the stove, where the potatoes are perfectly fine because potatoes take more than the ten minutes this conversation has lasted to burn.
I snatch her around the waist before she barrels head first into third degree burns, grunting when she fights my hold. “Poem, the potatoes are fine.”
“They’re burning!” she wails. “Can’t you smell that?”
I sniff.
Then, I curse.
“That’s the chicken,” I groan, setting her to the side to pull the quickly blackening chicken from the oven. I curse again.
“The potatoes are fine?” she asks, peeking over my shoulder at the stovetop, where the potatoes are absolutely fine. “I can live without chicken. I cannot live without potatoes.”
I scrape a layer of burnt from the top of a chicken thigh. “You’ll have your potatoes,” I mumble. “And you’ll have chicken, too, though it won’t be any I made.”
“Uh… you have a way to procure chicken in the wee hours of the dinner-time dark?”
I nod. “Wolfe made some for dinner two nights ago.”
She grins as I flip the burner for the potatoes off and take the pan away from the heat before heading for the door. “I’ll be back.”
“Godspeed,” she replies, inching toward the stove. “I’ll be here. Not eating bites of dinner directly from the pan.”
I pause at the door to glare at her. “Remember two minutes ago when I told you I would protect you?”
She nods, attention split between me and her beloved spuds. “I do recall that, yes.”
“That includes from yourself,” I warn. “I’m not above locking you in your room while I cook going forward should a kitchen incident occur while I pilfer my brother’s leftovers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she mutters, poking at the silverware drawer.
Sighing, I decide my best course of action is to be quick and get back before she can hurt herself too much. After all the damage others have done to her, she’s had more than enough for a lifetime. Particularly if I have anything to say about it.
I send up a hope, a prayer, a wish that I will have a say in the matter. That she will allow me such an honor.
Then I steal my brother’s chicken, put aloe on the minor burn Poem gives herself while I’m away, and enjoy the rest of my first of hopefully many dates with the woman of my dearest dreams.