Tell Me to Stop

Raphael moved first. He pulled me into the room, shut the door without a sound, and turned the lock.

Outside, the footsteps stopped. Under the door, I saw the thin shadow of a man's shoes.

The handle turned. It did not open.

"Not here either," a man muttered, low and annoyed. "Mr. Whitmore said Room Eleven. She never came."

A pause, as if he were listening to a phone.

"No, sir. I will keep watching."

The shadow slid away. The footsteps faded down the corridor.

I realized I was shaking only when Raphael's hand closed gently around my elbow.

"You heard that," he said quietly.

"I heard my husband's name come through a locked door." I pulled my arm free. "Who is that man? What does he want with me?"

"He works for your husband."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only one you are getting tonight."

I stared at him. The candles burned low. The sea spread behind the glass like black silk. A huge bed stood in the middle of the room, and Raphael had not looked at it once.

"Christian needs proof," he said. "Of what you do tonight. He wants it badly, and he will do whatever it takes to get the job done. That is all I will tell you."

"All you will tell me." A laugh broke out of me, sharp and ugly. "Everyone keeps handing me half a story. My husband. My best friend. Now you."

"Rosalie."

"No. I will not be handled." I pointed at him. "You do not get to save me and keep me in the dark."

He crossed the room in three steps.

I backed away and my shoulders hit the wall, cold plaster through thin silk. He did not grab me. He took my wrists slowly, the way a man takes something he is afraid to break, and lifted them above my head. One of his hands held both of mine against the wall. His body did not touch me. It only leaned close enough that I could feel the heat of him.

"Say stop," he said, "and I will let go."

My heart was pounding so hard I thought he could hear it. I did not say stop.

His free hand moved to my face and brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Then his thumb found the inside of my wrist and traced upward, slow and deliberate, along my arm. Past my elbow. Over my shoulder. Along the edge of my collarbone, where my pulse was beating like a trapped bird.

Every inch it crossed, I forgot another argument.

"You are shaking," he murmured.

"I am angry."

"Not only angry."

I hated that he was right.

"You walked into that hall tonight and they all decided what you were," he said, his voice low against my ear. "A jealous wife. A woman who could not play. And you stood there with your head up while the whole room tried to shrink you. I have watched grown men break under less."

"Is that flattery?"

"It is observation." His thumb brushed the hollow of my throat. "Your husband is a fool."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"A fact."

A shaky breath left me before I could stop it. "You are doing this because someone is watching."

His eyes dropped to my mouth and stayed there.

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe I am doing it because I want to."

The room tilted. I thought of Christian's hands on Juliette's waist. I thought of the word betrayal in her mouth, and how easily she had said it. I thought of the invitation on our dining table, and the small warm smile I had let myself believe.

He had started this game. He had not asked if I wanted to play.

I lifted my chin.

Raphael went very still. His grip on my wrists loosened until it was only a touch, an offer, nothing more. "Rosalie. Tell me to stop."

"Why?"

"Because tomorrow you will wake up and wish you had a choice."

"I am making one."

Something flickered across his face, quick and raw, like a door opening for half a second on a room he kept locked. Then he leaned in, so slowly that every heartbeat was a decision, until his breath touched my lips.

I closed my eyes.

His mouth brushed mine, soft as a question.

And in the corner of the ceiling, above his shoulder, a tiny red light began to blink.