“Whether you meant to or not, it doesn’t change the fact that you almost did.” His words slice through me like a scalpel. “And I’m supposed to hand you over to Oliver like I’m not terrified you’ll try again?” Clearing his throat, he drags a hand through his coppery hair. “Tell me, Novalee, after almost losing you to that cliff, how am I supposed to let you out of my sight?”

“I’m sorry, I…” The apology falters on my tongue.

“Sorry doesn’t cover it.” He shakes his head, voice cracking. “What if I’d shown up thirty seconds later?”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.” Except I have no idea how to make him believe it when I don’t even trust myself. “I won’t leave you like that.”

The gravity of his stare softens, though disquiet remains. I pick at what’s left of my croissant, take a couple bites of eggs, sip the tea he poured for me, but my appetite is as absent now as it was yesterday. I push my plate aside, barely touched.

“You need to eat more,” Liam insists.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care.” His attention sweeps over me, lingering on the sharp angles of my collarbone. “You’ve lost too much weight.”

My weight means nothing to me, and the croissant tastes like nothing as I tear off another piece and chew. I swallow, then force down a bite of eggs, if only to smooth the worry between his brows.

But he’s still frowning. “I’m serious. You need to take better care of yourself.”

Biting back a snort, I set my cup down, fingers tightening around the porcelain. The tea does little to settle my nerves—not with just a few hours left before my well-being is no longer Liam’s concern.

“Is he kind?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it.

Liam stiffens. “Oliver?”

“Who else?”

“Well, he’s not cruel.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Mr. Whitney is…” Liam exhales, dragging a hand across his jaw, as if choosing his words with careful consideration. “He’s very controlled.”

“Like Mr. Bordeaux?”

“In a way, yes, but not as harsh.”

“Will he…?” I swallow hard, forcing myself not to squirm. “Is he expecting to touch me?”

Liam taps his fingers against the table, gaze fixed on the window, his profile concealing whatever he’s thinking.

What doesn’t he want me to see?

“Liam,” I press, my tone insistent, “what does Oliver want from me?”

“I don’t know.”

Unease curls in my gut. “You don’t know?”

“Oliver has…specific tastes. Needs he takes care of elsewhere.” A beat passes. “But that doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

The tea turns bitter on my tongue. I should be used to this by now.

Walking blind into the hands of another man.

Adapting to whatever waits for me in his domain.