Chapter Twenty-One
Sam
Three a.m. and Ciara still hasn’t gone to sleep.
About an hour ago, I woke when she came up the stairs, but she didn’t go to her bedroom. She went to her office instead and she’s been there ever since.
Maybe she fell asleep on the couch again.
Maybe it’s none of my business.
But whenever I close my eyes, it feels like my business. As if I can’t rest unless I know she’s resting too.
I stare up at the ceiling, running through my options. I could get up and pretend to get a glass of water while I check on her. Or I could be normal and go to sleep.
Or I could get a glass of water.
I kick the sheet off before I can stop myself and slip down the hallway. I’ll just stick my head in. I’ll stick my head in and check that she’s…
I pause outside her office, rocking back on my heels as a muffled shriek breaks through the silence. A second later, something thuds against the wall, as if she’s thrown something at it, and, concerned now, I push open the door.
The first thing I notice is how bright it is.
The windows are open and the lights are off, but it’s a clear night, and the moon is out, illuminating the space.
It’s changed a lot since she first showed it to me, a natural consequence of the two of us spending most of our days there.
The couch is now full of cushions she brought up from downstairs and two large corkboards hang on the wall, filled with note cards from when I tried to help her visualize the chapter breakdown.
Ciara kneels in the middle of the room, surrounded by scattered pieces of paper and scrawled-upon legal pads. Her laptop lies open beside her, the screen glowing with dim light.
“Are you…”
Her head snaps up at my voice, and I’m relieved to see that she’s not crying.
“…okay?” I finish hopefully.
She scowls at me. “It’s shit.”
“It’s not shit,” I say automatically.
“You haven’t read it.” She climbs to her feet, her movements stiff, as though she’s been down there for a while.
“And I don’t want you to read it because it’s shit.
It’s the worst fucking thing in the world and as soon as you finish it you’re going to hate me and Casey’s going to hate me and readers are going to hate me because it’s shit. ”
Oh boy.
First proper author breakdown. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s taken her this long. But I usually only ever deal with them over the phone, or respond to carefully worded emails that never fully manage to hide the panicked I CAN’T DO THIS scream after each line.
“You’re doing a great job,” I say. “I need you to trust me to tell you if you weren’t.”
But Ciara’s not listening, back in her own head as she snatches her laptop off the floor and puts it on the desk.
“I don’t think about sex.”
“You…excuse me?”
“When I’m having sex,” she continues, sounding extremely annoyed that I’m not following her thought process.
“I don’t think about it. I don’t think about what I’m doing.
I’m just doing it. I’m not analyzing every moment because I’m not a pervert.
Is this what romance writers do? Because that’s weird. Someone should tell them that.”
Wait.
My brain, which had wiped clean in some sort of weird self-preservation move, snaps back to life as I realize what she’s saying.
“You’re freaking out over the bedroom scene?”
“I don’t do romance.”
“You’re overthinking it,” I tell her. “It’s just a kiss.”
“It’s more than a kiss!” she exclaims. “It’s the whole point of the book. That’s what you said.”
That is what I said. I just never expected that this would be the thing that breaks her.
And she must see it on my face. “Don’t you dare laugh at me,” she warns, almost slipping on some loose paper as she moves closer.
“Does it look like I’m laughing at you?” I gesture to the laptop. “Where have you gotten to?”
“Absolutely nowhere because I don’t know where his hands go! And I don’t want to use the word tongue. And you keep telling me to add more tension instead of just saying they’re horny for each other, but they are! They’re horny! Sometimes you don’t need a chapter of buildup. Sometimes people just—”
She cuts off abruptly as I tense, her eyes going wide as she looks down to where she’s planted her hands on my chest. She looks confused.
As though she’s not exactly sure how they got there.
But she doesn’t move away. She doesn’t stop touching me.
And maybe it’s the late hour or the topic of conversation or the way her tank top is riding up her stomach, but I don’t want her to.
“Act?”
Her gaze shoots up to mine. “Huh?”
“Sometimes people just act,” I finish for her, and she blinks rapidly as though she’s trying to focus.
“Exactly,” she says, though the word sounds unsure.
“And you don’t know where his hands go?”
“I just mean…” She trails off, her brow furrowing as I wrap my fingers around her biceps. “Sam…”
“His hands go here.” My voice comes out unfamiliarly low, unrecognizable to my ears.
Still, she doesn’t move away. She doesn’t move at all. And I wait for her to tell me to fuck off or to be serious, but she doesn’t.
I suddenly become hyperaware of her. Of all of her. The piercings in her ears. The freckles on her shoulder. The faint line on her forehead and the low arch of her brows and the small birthmark on the side of her neck. The more I notice, the more I see. And the harder it is to look away.
Ciara’s lips part, and I watch the movement of her throat as she swallows. “Then what does he do?” she asks.
“You tell me. Talk me through it. Where are they?”
“Her bedroom. It’s before the execution. All her guards are outside.”
“They can be heard.”
“Exactly.” She’s staring at my left shoulder now. “So they have to be quiet.”
I pause, trying to visualize it. “That’s good.”
“I know,” she mutters, and I fight back a smile.
“How did he get past the guards?”
“He snuck into the castle earlier. They’re looking for a man with long hair, so no one recognizes him.”
“How did he know where her room—”
“It’s a plot hole and I don’t care,” she says, finally bringing her eyes to mine. “There’s a big tourist map. He paid five euros for it.”
“Ciara.”
“He guesses. All castles are the same. He grew up tending one. He knows how they work. And he’s willing to risk it all because he has to see her. That’s all he wants.” But she pauses, doubt creeping into her voice. “Unless that’s too much,” she says. “They’ve already slept together.”
“It doesn’t matter. They haven’t seen each other in months. And if you’ve been following the—”
“Of course I’ve been following the timeline,” she interrupts, sounding exasperated. Another smile pulls at my lips. But it disappears as she shifts on her feet, reminding me I’m still holding her.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice asks, what the fuck am I doing? But I barely hear it. I definitely don’t pay attention to it.
I don’t know what I’m doing. But I know I can’t stop.
My fingers trail down her arms, stopping just above her wrists.
“Keep going,” I say, squeezing gently when she starts to fidget. She looks distracted, but I need her back on track. “She’s surrounded by enemies. Is she scared they might be found?”
“Her guards are in the corridor outside. She’s supposed to be asleep.”
“What about Finn?”
“He’s not scared. He just wants to see her.
He wants to know that she’s safe. And he…
he’s forgotten what she looks like too,” she says, and her eyes drift to my collarbone, where, in the book, Finn has a long, jagged scar.
“She’d been younger, in his head. Softer.
But living in the castle has changed her.
She’s not a princess anymore. She’s a queen. ”
“Go on.”
“He’s awed by her,” she continues. “And he’s nervous. He was always the one who knew what he was doing in their relationship. But now he’s unsure. He’s tongue-tied. For the first time in his life, Finn has no idea what to say to her.”
I know the feeling.
“So that’s where they’re at,” I say after a long second. “Now we need to break it down. Where are my hands?”
“Really?”
“Where are my—”
“My wrists.”
“And where would Finn—”
“Her hips.” Ciara’s cheeks go pink, but I say nothing, resting my hands carefully on her waist. She shuffles the tiniest step forward. And then nothing. We hover there for a minute, as though neither of us wants to take the next step.
I take a deep breath. “Then what would he—”
She kisses me.
Every thought, every wall, every single line in my mind dissipates into nothing as her hands shoot up to cup my face. As her lips press to mine.
I tighten my hold until she lets out this little noise that makes my knees go weak. It’s like my body breaks out in a fever, going warm all over as she plasters herself against me.
When she sweeps her tongue into my mouth I taste lemonade, and when she leans against my chest, I swear I feel her heartbeat.
I feel starved for her. Alive for her.
And maybe Ciara’s right, because I’m not even aware of my hands moving.
I’m too focused on her. Too lost in the sensations to think about how one second I’m holding her to me and the next my hands are under her tank top, fingers spanning her back.
I move to the soft skin of her rib cage, aiming for her breasts, and only regain some sanity when she jerks away, breaking from me with a gasp.
“Wait, wait, wait,” she says rapidly, and I stop immediately, worried I’ve gone too far, but she’s almost laughing as she squirms.
“Maeve isn’t ticklish,” she says between heavy breaths. She stares at where she clutches fistfuls of my T-shirt, making an oops face before loosening her grip.
After a second, the roaring in my ears goes down, and I cover her hands with mine.
“Then what happens?” I ask thickly, and it takes her a moment to answer.
“He leaves,” she says finally. “He needs to get to the prison. He doesn’t have time for much more.”
“Through the door?”
“Out of the window.”
“I think you can use your imagination for that part,” I say, and she laughs quietly as her gaze flickers to mine.
“Yeah,” she says quietly, dropping her hands. “Okay.”
Okay.
“Try to get some sleep,” I say, because I don’t know what else to, and she gives me a little salute that makes me want to kiss her all over again. I don’t, though. I let her go instead, even though every part of me is screaming NO. WRONG. And I—
“Sam?”
“Yeah?” I stop so abruptly I nearly walk into the door.
Ciara’s mouth twitches, and she looks so beautiful in that moment it takes me a second to remember I’m not dreaming. “This was very helpful. Thank you.”
“Sure,” I say, and have to clear my throat with how hoarse it sounds. “Anytime.”