The Forbidden Throb Chapter 122

Emma's POV:

Daniel's hand came to rest gently on the top of my head.

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft.

"In international medical circles, Emma, language choice is itself a statement." His fingers moved through my hair with absent tenderness. "Speaking my mother tongue isn't about ability—it's about identity. "

"You are important to me, Emma." His voice dropped lower. "More important than you realize."

The ambiguity of those words sent electricity through every nerve. *Important* how? As a convenient wife to satisfy family expectations? As a project to mold? Or...

The wine made my thoughts fuzzy and reckless.

Part of me wanted to grab his coat and demand clarity. Part of me wanted to kiss him until the question became irrelevant.

But even through the pleasant haze of alcohol, some deeper instinct held me back.

So I did nothing. Just stood there clutching my snowman mug, letting the moment pass like all the others before it.

---

By nine o'clock, the Christmas market had transformed into something otherworldly.

The lights blazed brighter against the darkening sky, and soft snow drifted down to settle in my hair. My canvas tote bag bulged with our collection—barrel mugs, snowman mugs, tiny stein-shaped cups, each one a small treasure that Daniel had indulged without complaint.

He carried the bag now in one hand, his other naturally finding mine as we walked.

The scent of pine and cinnamon grew stronger as we entered the Christmas ornament section.

Wooden stalls displayed garlands and wreaths, hand-carved decorations, delicate glass baubles that caught the light.

Ahead, I noticed a shop with unusual foot traffic—couples streaming in and out, many of them kissing beneath the enormous green wreath hanging over the entrance.

My cheeks heated as I watched a young couple embrace under that wreath, the woman laughing as her boyfriend dipped her dramatically.

That wasn't just any wreath.

*Mistletoe.*

I'd learned about the tradition in my American Culture class freshman year—how standing beneath mistletoe obligated a kiss, how refusing was considered bad luck.

The memory came with Professor Wilson's amused voice: *"The tradition persists because it gives people permission for what they already want."*

I glanced sideways at Daniel.

His face remained perfectly composed, his gaze forward.

I tightened my grip on his hand and kept walking forward. My heart hammered so loudly I was certain he could hear it. My palm grew damp against his.

*I'm betting Daniel knows what this means.*

Inside the shop, mistletoe was everywhere. Sprigs in wooden barrels by the door, wreaths of varying sizes hanging from the rafters, even a massive arch at the back that could accommodate two people standing beneath it. Couples posed for photos, kissed, and laughed.

I slowed my pace deliberately, my fingers still locked with Daniel's.

As we passed beneath a particularly large mistletoe arrangement near the center of the shop, I held my breath, waiting—

Nothing happened.

I tightened my grip on his hand, almost ready to find some excuse to circle back through the shop again, when the man who'd been silent behind me finally spoke.

His voice was pitched low.

Like he was suppressing some unstable restraint, or perhaps speaking more to himself than to me:

"We shouldn't have taken this path."

I stopped instinctively and turned. "What?"

I wanted to lean closer, to look up into his face and *see* what that careful control was hiding, but he took a small step back, maintaining that polite distance he always kept.

"I'm tired," he said, his voice hoarse. "Let's go back to the hotel now."

*Why are you running?* I wanted to demand. *Why won't you just—*

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

"Okay," I whispered.

But I didn't move. Neither did he. We stood there in the falling snow, the lights of the market painting everything gold and crimson, and I could feel the question hanging between us like mistletoe we'd refused to acknowledge.

*Do you feel this too? Or am I alone?*

---

Back at the hotel.

Daniel changed his shoes and went ahead to put things down.

Inside the suite, I caught sight of myself in the entryway mirror.

The deep red velvet dress hugged my curves, my hair fell in soft waves, my blue-green eyes were bright from wine and cold. Even my heels—which made my ankles ache—did what they were supposed to do, making my legs look longer and leaner.

Tonight, as I wandered through the bustling market, I felt men's gazes lingering on me. A street performer, his violin case open at his feet, had looked up from his music to call me 'belle comme un ange.'"

But Daniel's reaction hadn't changed.

*Maybe I'm not special,* I thought, and the disappointment felt physical.

I kicked off my heels and sank onto the sofa, wincing as feeling returned to my abused feet. My mind raced through the week's events, trying to analyze, to understand.

*Maybe,* a cold voice whispered in my mind, *this is just a game to him. Like... like those cultivation games Olivia plays. Where can you carefully nurture an NPC into the perfect companion?*

As for kissing me on the airplane—that was only because I'd initiated it first.

That wine-heavy atmosphere, that cold and lonely night—even the most restrained man would have some physiological needs difficult to control. I had simply...

Happened to exploit that vulnerability.

Somehow, after analyzing everything this way, my fighting spirit actually reignited.

People only feel nervous about things they might actually obtain.

If you know from the start that something is impossible, you lose that sense of stakes. All that remains is the gambler's mentality of *well, I'm already here. Just try*.

---

Daniel emerged holding hotel slippers, his expression gentle as he approached where I sat on the sofa.

He knelt before me, reaching for my bare foot to help me into the slippers.

His gaze touched on my ankle, pale and slightly reddened from the shoe straps, then jerked away.

I pulled my foot back. "I can do it myself."

Daniel looked up, surprise flickering across his features.

If this was going to fall apart, let it fall apart now. Let me know, one way or another, whether this careful distance was protection or rejection.

I reached into my coat pocket—still draped over the sofa arm—and pulled out the small sprig of mistletoe I'd grabbed from the oak barrel by the shop entrance. White berries trembled on the green leaves as my hand shook slightly.

"Why did you pretend not to see it?" My voice came out smaller than I'd intended, almost petulant. "Now, do you see it?"

I held the mistletoe between us, my hand wavering. A few white berries dropped to the carpet.

Daniel remained frozen in that half-kneeling position, like a knight awaiting judgment. His eyes moved from the mistletoe to my face and back again, his throat working as he swallowed.