I knew she was afraid of me.
She never said it, but I could see it.
The way she sometimes went quiet when I entered the room. The way she kept a little distance between us. The way she looked at me before speaking, as if she was always careful with her words.
I couldn't blame her.
I had never been a gentle man.
But with her, I tried. God, I really tried.
I loved her. More than she could ever know.
So I kept my distance, spoke softly, and never let myself touch her unless she wanted me to.
Tonight, she walked into my study while I was dealing with one of my men.
Leave.
said to my men.
The moment the door closed, I looked at her.
She smiled at me. God, that smile.
I couldn't help but soften.
What is it? I asked quietly.
She walked closer.
Then she accidentally cut her hand against the edge of the door.
My heart dropped.
You're hurt.
It's barely anything. she said.
I took her hand carefully, afraid even my touch might scare her.
She didn't pull away.
Still, I couldn't stop thinking the same thing.
She was afraid of me.
And I would rather spend the rest of my life hiding how much I loved her than give her another reason to be.
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