Page 152 of Override
“I want to go to my parents.”
His regret disappears so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it. His shoulders stiffen. “We’ve discussed this.”
“No. You discussed it. You decided. I listened.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Which is exactly why this isn’t the time to make decisions.”
A strange, breathless laugh tries to escape me, but I swallow it before the sound can carry beyond the garage. Even now, after everything, he believes my fear belongs to him. Something he can interpret and manage until I return to the version of myself he prefers.
“I’m not asking you to make the decision.” His gaze sharpens. “I’m telling you I want to go home.”
“You are home.” The answer is immediate. Automatic.
I look toward the door leading into the house, at the keypad mounted beside it and the small black camera aimed down from the ceiling. Ronan’s home watches me from every angle.
My home never did.
Home was my father arguing with the television as though the people inside it could hear him. My mother moving through the kitchen with flour on her cheek because she refused to let anyone else bake for family dinners. It was laughter traveling down hallways and doors that never required permission to open.
Home was the place where I had never once wondered whether I was allowed to leave.
“No,” I whisper. “This is where you keep me.”
His face hardens. “I have done everything to keep you safe.”
“You isolated me.”
“I protected you.”
“You watched me.”
“Because there are people who would use you to get to me.”
“You took away my phone.”
“Because someone compromised it.”
“You got rid of my clothes.”
His jaw works. “They were inappropriate for your position.”
“They were mine.” The words come out louder than I intend. Not a shout, but enough that my gaze snaps toward the open garage door.
No one appears. Ronan notices the movement.
His voice lowers. “You need to calm down.”
Something inside me goes very still. I have spent months calming down. Calming my tone. Calming my questions. Calming every instinct that told me something was wrong because admitting the truth would mean admitting I had married a man my father would have seen through in a single conversation.
“I am calm.”
“You’re threatening to leave your husband after one mistake.”
“One mistake?” My throat tightens around the words. “Was the first camera one mistake? The second? The one outside the bathroom? Were the clothes a mistake? Keeping me from my family?”
