He lets out a long breath like he’s run a marathon, and he fists his hands over his knees. “So you see, it was one thing when that lightning bolt struck. Then you saved my life even when you didn’t have to—cared for me even though you were scared. All I knew at first was I wanted to be near you for a while—stay in Delaware as long as it took for me to get strong enough to fuck you. Even if it meant laying up in your bed handcuffed for a lot of the day.”

His lips curl up as if the memory still bemuses him. “You made me want to flirt and smile and tease—do all sorts of shit I wasn’t accustomed to. But when I figured out what happened to you too when you were a kid….”

I’ve been staring at him this whole time, but finally, he turns his head to look back at me. “When I learned that you were the same as me, had the same thing happen to you—it became about keeping you because I knew we were connected. I knew right then that you belonged to me. As my abuela would have said, you were my angel. That’s why God put you on this earth—to belong to me. And I believe in my chest that God put me on this earth to do for you—to give you whatever you want and need.”

My mind wrinkles at his mention of God. Considering his self-proclaimed reputation as a devil, why would he even be bringing that deity up? But then I realize….nobody believes in God more than a devil. Especially someone who became one in response to something that happened in his past.

But now, the devil thinks I’m his gift from God? Me?

The invisible rope—the one whose tug I’m always trying to resist when he’s near knots inside of me. My heart flops and flips around my chest as my overwhelmed brain tries to figure out what to do with all this information. And especially the conclusion he’s drawn from it.

The conclusion that has to be wrong. Doesn’t it?

“You think we're connected because we had the same experience,” I repeat carefully in the validating tone I was taught to use in the ER. “And that's why you brought me here to Iowa—why you built this house for me.”

“I don't think we're the same. I know we are,” he answers, throwing me a grumpy look. “If we weren’t the same, we wouldn't even be having this discussion.”

I rub at my head, trying to figure out how to tell him he’s wrong in a way he’ll understand.