ELLA
The tip of my black stiletto heel taps against the base of the table. The anxiousness is not quite leaving me. We’ve never been like this. At odds. Given the power dynamic between us, there isn’t a damn thing in my favor.
I’ve never felt this kind of vulnerable with Z. An unsteady exhale leaves me as he places our drink orders and the waiter leaves us in the private back room to ourselves.
Three of the four walls are furnished with hundreds of bottles of wine. It’s as if we’re in the middle of a beautifully lit cellar, ready for a romantic dinner below a black iron chandelier designed to look like a classic candelabra.
The room itself is intimate and the smells of savory seasoning and sweet wines stirs my appetite, even with the nervousness of knowing Z is keeping something from me.
His strong hand settles on my thigh, his thumb running back and forth where the emerald silk velvet of my dress meets my bare skin. It’s a simple designer dress with a deep V-neck and long sleeves, yet it ends mid-thigh. I haven’t worn something that hugs my curves like this in a very long time, let alone something so decadently expensive. His black suit is custom tailored and high end.
To anyone peeking in, I’m certain we would appear to be a power couple. Especially given how he’s acting as if there isn’t a damn thing wrong.
It was a long and quiet drive, but that hand of his has barely left me. It’s as if he thinks he can contain me so long as he has physical possession of me.
Truth be told, it is comforting and he’s not entirely wrong. But my mind won’t let go of it. The wheels in my head turn and every possible horrid scenario fills my mind.
“Settle, Ella,” he murmurs. I’m half surprised Z ordered me wine, but that only adds to the racing thoughts. Is it because he intends on telling me something that he thinks I’ll need alcohol to absorb?
No, no, that’s the opposite. Damon made it clear as did Zander, when my spirits are low, I should avoid alcohol. It can no longer be a coping mechanism. Not in any way.
I swallow thickly, turning my attention to the candles lit on the table. That means then, that he’s not going to tell me whatever it is that’s happened.
“Do you think I’m weak and that’s why you can’t tell me?” I ask him again. I know that must be why. He could still carry my burdens, even if he told me what they were.
“You are not weak. I will tell you once I’ve decided it will benefit you.”
I nearly ask who he thinks he is to decide what is and isn’t good for me and the audacity of that thought has me reaching for the prosecco. The sweet drink is chilled perfectly; the bubbles crisp and refreshing.
Thankfully, we’re interrupted by a young waiter presenting the chef’s specials and a list with the fish of the day.
My appetite comes and goes as I ruminate on the possibilities. With a gentle squeeze, Z comforts me and orders for me as well, but it’s not enough.
Just as the waiter leaves us, one hand on his skinny dark red tie and the other holding the menus, I prepare to lay it all out for Z. To tell him with finality that I can’t be left in the dark on issues that pertain to me.
My lips part and my shoulders square to face him, but not a word slips out. I’m caught in his heated gaze. Fire crackles there and my body is paralyzed from the look he gives me.
“I require your obedience,” he tells me, his gaze dropping from mine to my lips. “You are struggling with that tonight,” he adds and his hand is released from my thigh. Leaving a chill to settle where the contact has been every moment he’s been able to rest it there since we left.
As he sips his drink, an Arnold Palmer, I watch him.
“I am struggling,” I admit and gather my strength to make my demands, but again I’m cut off.
“You have no reason to,” he tells me and unbuttons his jacket, slipping the expensive fabric off of his broad shoulders and turning his full attention to me. His scent, masculine and woodsy greets me as I stare back at him.
“I don’t know that.”
“I’m telling you that. You should not worry. Not about anything. I have it handled.” He’s firm in his resolve. The control in his tone grants me a sense of security but still, I hesitate.
As he clears his throat, the cords in his neck tighten, and his presence seems to command the air to bend to his will. The strength and authority I know this man to be capable of come back full force. Like a switch flipping. A deadly one that demands obedience.
“You will not ask any more questions. Is that understood?” he tells me and I want to agree. I know I need to; I desperately need to let it go.
My bottom lip wobbles and my gaze flicks from Z to the candlelight.
“You are better than this,” he murmurs and it cuts me, deep and unforgivingly. “You need to listen to me.” It’s not meant to. His tone is gentle and coaxing, yet the weight of it is too heavy for me to carry.
“I listen,” I object.
“I need you to trust me.” He grips my chin, giving me the physical contact I long for, more so than I realized until he’s staring deep in my eyes. “Trust me.”
“I trust you,” I confess and his hold on me drops.
“Do you?” he asks and his voice is testing. His tone is low and his dark eyes narrowed at me. There’s a shift between us and it steals my breath along with every bit of my strength.
“I don’t mean to—”
“Stop,” he orders. He signals for silence and I’m quick to obey. He is my Dom. My everything. Swallowing thickly, I nod. It feels as though I’m a child in trouble. Worse than that, I feel like I’m on the verge of losing anything and everything that matters to me. All because of his disappointment. How does he have such a hold on me?