Taryn's fingers hovered at his throat, the pulse beneath her palm too steady.
She expected it to race beneath her touch, to stutter or falter. Some sign that he felt as shaken as she did. But no. It stayed steady. Too steady. Like he had already braced himself for this, already made peace with whatever she decided to do next.
Hadn't he always been like this? Always too calm, too willing to let her be the storm?
He didn't flinch.
Didn't tense.
She could hurt him. If she wanted.
And gods, some reckless part of her did. Just for a second. Just to make him feel it, even a fraction of what she had felt when her body stopped listening to her, when his voice had locked her inside her own skin like a prison.
She hadn't imagined that panic—the sheer horror of trying to move and failing.
Hadn't he felt that before? Hadn't he spent years with those same invisible chains tightening every time he thought he was free?