The absence of the not-even-there touch felt as if a heavy, comforting weight completely vanished. Sullivan stared at his hand for a moment, missing that touch. It remained open, the warmth of that flickering candle seeped into his palm, then cooled.

  It was absurd—how a touch so fleeting, so imperceptible, could leave behind such a terrible, longing ache. His gaze then went to her. The tiny, porcelain hands were drawn back into her body, pressed firmly to her chest. Her eyes held his, anticipating, waiting, watching, calculating.

  Her innocent, doe-eyed stare would be endearing if it didn’t horrify him so.

  She was recalibrating, trying to understand what the rules were, and he, in turn, was learning them as well. Because now he knows, now he understands.

  There was no Aleiya—only the prim and pretty, perfectly beautiful hollow doll.

  Compliance was mandatory.

  Speaking rendered impossible.

  To touch was forbidden.

  Those were the established rules that not only applied to her in her former prison, but also with her current warden.

  Her gaze captured his, unwavering. She wasn’t waiting for orders. She was waiting for something else—an unspoken cue, a silent transaction, a shift neither of them could name. And for the first time, Sullivan realized—he didn’t know who was in control anymore.

  And he didn’t know what to do.

  He lifted his hand to her face but stopped short, fingers hovering just shy of her skin, desperate to know her touch again. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

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  “Aleiya, can I… May I touch you?” The over-politeness was completely foreign to him; taking was so much easier—normally.

  She immediately leaned into his touch, smooth and unquestioning—as if this were expected, as if she had no concept of refusal. She even did so with what could only be described as practiced satisfaction.

  His fingers barely grazed her before he recoiled as if scalded. The sheer ease of her compliance burned deeper than his mana burn ever could. And the flash of fear from her eyes split open his belly and poured his guts onto the floor.

  Her silence was never compliance—it was simply the absence of “no.”

  “No. No, no.” He was stuttering at this point. “That’s not what I meant."

  His patience thinned, frustration clawing at his better sensibilities. He tried again.

  "I’m not telling you. I am asking you. Which means you have to decide. Yes or no. I don’t have a say.”

  Bewildered, she hesitated. Processing. Recalculating.

  What was the correct answer?

  What did he want?

  If it was to touch her, he could do that without asking—he had before. So why would now be any different? She didn’t understand the question. She didn’t understand what he wanted, and if she got it wrong—

  “Nothing will happen if you say no.”

  He cut her thoughts short, refusing to allow her to linger on the what if’s.

  “I give you my word. Nothing, not a single thing, will happen to you if you do not want me to touch you. No punishment. No consequence. I just want your answer. So I need you to decide for yourself.”

  He held out his hand once more, awaiting her answer.

  “Aleiya. My wife. May I touch you?”

  Aleiya looked at the hand—open, patient, waiting.

  Still so confused.

  Still so afraid.

  But the air between them was different this time. Softer. The usual prickle of danger was absent, replaced by something... unfamiliar. Her anxiety slipped from a crack in her defenses. His open palm was so inviting.

  It looked so safe.

  It took a heartbeat.

  Then two.

  Then three.

  The strings at the edges of her vision bled into view. Fluttering, dancing. They curled around Sullivan like creeping vines on a tree. They clung, they grew. The normally colorless threads now bled to a soft and silken madder hue.

  She stepped closer to touch his outstretched hand with her own.