Rachel bit back a gasp as heard the demand, more impassioned than she could remember him being. When he'd greeted her from Ibiza, it was calculated coolness and tepid relief. When it was Benjamin, it was the absolute devotion to her needs. It was not, had never appeared to her to be, a so-called selfish thing from Gabriel, that he would need to hear these words as much as she needed to never say them; that she could give them to him, and he would derive happiness from it. "I—"
There was that hot sear of panic low in her belly, impossible to ignore. As much as part of Rachel wished to blame him, to cry out that Gabriel had done something to bewitch and ensnare her, he hadn't. Her body, heaven knew, had gone willingly. Her mind, with time, had been won. But it was her heart, that curious and soulful entity, which remained firmly out of grasp. It was a thing bruised more times than she cared to remember, acting purely out of self-defense. Without reason, without rhyme, having stitched itself back together in a senseless pattern with each passing wound. Yet even that most stubborn organ sighed and inched and fell into love when she'd least expected it, hadn't been looking for it.
It was cowardly, undeniably so, but easier to close her eyes and press her face to the crook of his neck, to not see him as she began to lay herself bare as she vowed she never would when he'd taken her to wife.
"I love you," she murmured against his shoulder.
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