The question took him by surprise. His eyes met mine. Dark brown, surprisingly soft for such a formidable face. "I... I don't know what I want, miss. I am a slave. Usually, it doesn't matter what I want. »
The honesty was both brutal and ruthless. My father cleared his throat. "Maybe you should talk in private. I'll be in my office. »
He left, closed the door, and left me alone with a two-meter-tall slave who was supposed to be my husband. None of us spoke for what seemed like hours.
"Do you want to sit down?" I finally asked, pointing to the chair in front of me.
Josiah looked at the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, then at its imposing figure. "I don't think that chair would hold me back, miss."
"So, the sofa."
He sat down cautiously on the edge. Even when sitting, he towered over me from all his height. Her hands rested on her knees, each finger looking like a small club, marked with scars and calluses.
"Are you afraid of me, miss?"
"Should I be?"
"No, mademoiselle. I would never hurt you. I swear. »
