Page 85 of A House of Gold
His expression shutters. Goes cold. He pulls back, stands, puts distance between us like I've burned him.
"That's pity," he says flatly. "I told you, pity isn't the same as understanding."
"It's not pity."
"It is." He moves to the window, back to me. "You felt my curse for fifteen minutes and now you think you can save me. That's pity wrapped in noble intentions. And I don't need it."
"Croesus..."
"Eat. Rest. Recover your strength." His voice is cold, controlled, empty of the vulnerability that was there moments ago. "We have work to do. I can't have you collapsing every time I give you an assignment."
The dismissal stings more than it should. "So that's it? We're just going back to employer and employee?"
"That's what we've always been." He doesn't turn around. "Don't confuse proximity with intimacy, Raven. Don't mistake a few moments of weakness for something more."
"That's bullshit, and you know it."
"What I know..." Now he does turn, and his eyes are hard. "Is that you're human. Mortal. Temporary. And in less than a year, you'll walk away from here and never look back. So whatever you think this is, whatever you're feeling, it's irrelevant."
The words burn through me. Because he's right and wrong at the same time. Right that I'm supposed to leave. Wrong that what I'm feeling doesn't matter.
But I'm not ready to examinewhatI'm feeling. Not ready to put a name to the ache in my chest when he pulls away. Not ready to admit that somewhere between hating him and understanding him, something shifted.
"Fine," I say. "We'll pretend yesterday didn't happen. That you didn't hold me while I slept. That this is just business."
"It is just business."
"Then let me get back to work." I stand, ignoring the way my body protests. "Give me another assignment. Another contract. That's what you're paying for, right?"
His jaw tightens. "You need to rest."
"I need to be useful. Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"
I kiss him. Cut off whatever protest he was about to make with my mouth on his. He makes a sound, part surrender, part desperation, and kisses me back.
But this time, after a heartbeat, he pulls back. Steps away. Puts the cold distance back between us like a wall.
"Don't," he says.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this more complicated than it needs to be." His voice is carefully controlled. "You're here for a year. You serve. I reward you. Then you move on to the next house. That's the arrangement."
"That's not what this is."
"That's exactly what this is." He moves to the door. "Rest. Eat. I'll send for you when I need you."
And then he's gone. Leaving me alone in his bedroom with the food and the echo of his walls slamming back into place.
I sit there for a long time, trying to understand what just happened. One moment he was vulnerable, admitting he'd be destroyed when I leave. The next, he was cold as winter, pretending none of it mattered.
Maybe it doesn't. Maybe I read too much into a few moments of honesty. Maybe he really does just see me as a useful tool that temporarily quiets his hunger.
Or maybe he's terrified. Maybe admitting he cares is more dangerous than anything else he's faced in three thousand years.
I don't know which possibility is worse.
I spend the rest of the day alone in his chambers. Eating mechanically. Staring at walls. Trying not to think about the way he looked at me before he shut down. Like I was hope and terror wrapped in skin.
