Chapter 17
BLISS
Iwatch his face carefully, searching for any sign that my words are actually penetrating that thick, stubborn, overly protective skull of his.
Nothing.
His expression remains locked in that infuriating professional mask, the one he wore when he first walked into the lobby two days ago, the one I thought we had shattered completely last night when he was buried inside me and growling my name like a prayer.
Apparently not.
"Your family," he says slowly, "is not an active threat to your physical safety."
"Neither is yours."
"You do not know that."
"Then introduce me to them and let me decide."
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath the ash-gray skin, and I feel my own frustration rising to match his, hot and sharp and completely unreasonable.
I should let this go. I should give him space to process whatever spiral of self-doubt and nobility he is currently drowning in. I should be patient and understanding and mature.
I don't want to be any of those things.
I want him to stop looking at me like I am a liability he needs to manage.
"Bliss." His voice is careful, measured, the tone he uses when he is trying to de-escalate a situation. "I am attempting to have a rational discussion about the practical incompatibilities between our respective lifestyles."
"No." I release his lapels and step back, putting distance between us because if I stay this close I am either going to kiss him or hit him and I haven't decided which.
"You're attempting to convince yourself that you're doing me a favor by walking away.
You're trying to make this decision for me because you think you know better than I do what I can handle. "
"That is not—"
"It is exactly what you're doing." My voice is rising now, all the careful control I maintained around my family for the past forty-eight hours completely gone.
"You're standing there in your perfect suit with your perfect face making perfectly rational arguments about why we can't be together, and you're not actually listening to anything I'm saying. "
He is silent.
I grab my purse from the nightstand, the same overpriced designer clutch I carried to the rehearsal dinner, and I can feel my hands shaking as I check for my phone and wallet and the car keys I won't need because I took a rideshare to this godforsaken resort.
"I need to pack," I say tightly.
"Bliss—"
"Don't." I hold up one hand, not looking at him. "Just don't. You've made your position very clear. You think being with me is a logistical nightmare that will ruin my life and expose me to unacceptable risk. Fine. Message received. Now let me pack my things so I can get out of your way."
I move past him, heading for the closet where my suitcase is still sitting half-unpacked from yesterday, and I can feel his eyes on me the whole way.
The silence in the suite is suffocating.
I yank open the closet door harder than necessary and pull out my luggage, dropping it on the floor with a thud that probably disturbs the guests in the room below.
I shrug as I move to the dresser, pulling out the clothes I hastily shoved in there when we first arrived, back when I thought the biggest problem I would face this weekend was surviving my cousin's reception.
"You are being irrational," Olog says quietly from behind me.
I freeze, a silk blouse clutched in both hands, and I feel something hot and ugly twist in my ribs.
"Irrational."
"Yes."
I turn around slowly, the blouse still dangling from my fingers, and I look at him standing there in the middle of the suite, tall and imposing and absolutely infuriating.
"I'm being irrational," I repeat.
"You are allowing your emotional response to override the clear practical concerns I have outlined."
"Oh, I'm sorry." I throw the blouse into the suitcase. "I didn't realize emotions weren't allowed in this relationship. Should I have been taking notes? Should I have rated your performance on a feedback form?"
His eyes narrow. "That is not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean, Olog? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're saying I'm too stupid to understand the very serious and important reasons why you need to protect me from yourself."
"I did not say that."
"You didn't have to." I move back to the dresser, grabbing another armful of clothes, and I can feel the anger building in my throat like bile.
"You're doing that thing men do when they've already made up their minds and they're just waiting for me to agree with them.
You're not actually interested in my opinion.
You're just going through the motions of having a conversation so you can feel like you gave me a choice. "
"That is not—"
"It is." I shove the clothes into the suitcase, not bothering to fold them, and I can feel the tears burning behind my eyes but I refuse to let them fall.
I cried enough yesterday. I'm not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me cry again.
"You've already decided this is over. You've already convinced yourself that walking away is the noble thing to do.
You're just waiting for me to make it easy for you. "
He moves then, crossing the room in three long strides, and suddenly he is right there, looming over me, his presence filling the entire space between the dresser and the bed.
"I am trying," he says, his voice low and tight, "to make a responsible decision."
"For who?"
"For both of us."
"Bullshit." I look up at him, and I can see the frustration in his eyes, the same frustration I feel coiled in my own chest. "You're making a decision for you.
You're the one who's scared. You're the one who thinks this can't work.
I'm the one standing here telling you I am perfectly okay fc about the risks, and you're ignoring me. "
"I am not ignoring you."
"Then listen to me." I take a breath, steadying myself, because if I'm going to say this I need to say it clearly.
"I don't need you to protect me from your life.
I need you to let me be part of it. I need you to trust that I know what I'm getting into.
I need you to believe me when I tell you that I want this, all of it, even the scary parts. "
He stares down at me, his jaw clenched, and for a moment I think maybe, maybe, I've actually gotten through to him.
Then he steps back.
"No."
The single word hits me like a physical blow.
"No?"
"No." He runs one hand over his face, and I can see the exhaustion in the gesture, whatever internal war he is fighting.
"You think you want this now, Bliss. You think you understand what you are agreeing to.
But you have known me for two days. You do not know what my life actually looks like.
You do not know the people I work with, the situations I am regularly placed in, the level of violence I am exposed to on a routine basis. "
"Then show me."
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
"Because the moment you see it, you will realize you made a mistake."
I peer at him, and I feel something cold settle in my stomach, something that feels uncomfortably like understanding.
"You think I'm going to leave you," I say quietly.
He says nothing.
"You think I'm going to see your real life and decide I don't want it anymore. You think I'm going to walk away the second things get difficult or dangerous or inconvenient."
"Yes."
The honesty of it is somehow worse than the fear.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to scream or throw something or grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he sees reason.
"So instead of letting me make that choice," I say, "you're making it for me. You're walking away first so I don't get the chance to hurt you."
His expression doesn't change, but I see the flicker of something in his eyes, something raw and unguarded that confirms everything I just said.
"Olog." I step toward him, reaching for his hand. "I'm not going to leave you."
He pulls his hand back before I can touch him.
"You cannot promise that."
"Yes, I can."
"No." His voice is flat. "You cannot. You do not know enough about me to make that promise. You do not know what you are committing to. And I will not allow you to bind yourself to a future you have not fully considered simply because you are caught up in the emotional intensity of this weekend."
"The emotional intensity—" I stop, my mouth hanging open, because I genuinely cannot believe what I'm hearing. "You think this is just adrenaline? You think I'm confusing fear and relief and stress with actual feelings?"
"I think," he says carefully, "that you have been under an enormous amount of pressure for the past forty-eight hours, and I think I provided you with a sense of safety and protection that you have not experienced in a long time, and I think it is entirely natural that you would develop an attachment to that feeling. "
I laugh.
It's not a nice laugh. It's the laugh of a woman who has just been told her emotions aren't real by a man who claimed her as his mate less than twelve hours ago.
"So last night," I say, my voice shaking, "when you gave me your knife and told me you were courting me and canceled your contract and said I was yours, that was what, exactly? A temporary delusion brought on by the stress of dealing with my family?"
"I was not thinking clearly."
"Neither was I, apparently."
I turn back to the suitcase, grabbing the rest of my clothes from the dresser in one violent armful, and I shove them in without looking, my vision blurring.
"Bliss—"
"Don't." My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it.
"Don't try to make this okay. Don't try to explain it away or rationalize it or make it sound like you're doing me a favor.
You're scared. Fine. I get it. But don't stand there and tell me my feelings aren't real just because yours are too overwhelming for you to handle. "
I zip the suitcase closed with more force than necessary and haul it off the floor, it pulling awkwardly at my shoulder.
Olog doesn't move.
I grab my purse, slinging it over my other shoulder, and I head for the door, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.
"Where are you going?" His voice is tight.
"Home." I don't look back. "Where I apparently belong, according to you."
"Bliss, wait—"
"Why?" I spin around, and I can feel the tears on my face now, hot and angry and completely beyond my control.
"So you can give me another lecture about practical incompatibilities?
So you can explain to me one more time why I don't actually know what I want?
I'm done, Olog. I'm done trying to convince you that I'm capable of making my own decisions.
I'm done begging you to let me choose you. "
He takes a step toward me, his hand outstretched, and I see the conflict written all over his face, the war between what he wants and what he thinks is right.
I step back.
"Keep your five-star rating," I say. "You earned it. You were the perfect fake boyfriend. Congratulations."
I yank open the door and walk out into the hallway, my suitcase banging against my leg with every step, and I do not let myself look back.
The door clicks shut behind me.
I make it exactly three steps before I have to stop and lean against the wall, my whole body shaking, my breath coming in sharp, painful gasps that I cannot quite control.
The hallway is empty and quiet and decorated in the same aggressively tasteful luxury as the rest of the resort, all soft lighting and expensive carpet and fresh flowers in crystal vases.
I hate all of it.
I hate the flowers and the carpet and the crystal and the fact that I am standing here crying in a five-star hotel because I fell in love with a man who thinks I am too fragile to survive his life.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
I pull it out, expecting a text from Olog, some kind of apology or explanation or final attempt to make me understand his perspective.
It's not from Olog.
It's from my aunt Susan.
Bliss, darling, I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. Your young man seems absolutely devoted. Do hold onto that one. Men like him are rare.
I read the message for a long moment, and then I do something I have never done before.
I block her number.
Then I block my father's number.
Then I block my cousin's number, and my ex's number, and the numbers of half a dozen other relatives who have spent the past decade making me feel small and insufficient and perpetually apologetic for existing.
I block all of them.
When I'm done, my contacts list looks startlingly empty.
I shove the phone back in my purse and grab the handle of my suitcase, forcing myself to stand up straight, to keep moving, to get out of this hallway and out of this hotel and away from the man who is still standing in that suite trying to convince himself he made the right choice.
The elevator doors slide open.
I step inside.
The doors close.
I am alone.