Chapter Eighteen
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Sarelia
“Your family is incredible,” I gush on the walk back to Archie’s—sorry, to our house. “Especially Rosie. Rosie number one, everyone else number two.”
Archie tugs on my hand, catching me when I topple. He spins me into a dip as I squeal.
“Am I not number one, my princess?” he asks, grinning devilishly down at me while he plays at dropping me on the gravel.
I clutch his sweater vest for dear life as I giggle. “Of course you are, my knight. But I’m talking about your family, not you. You’re in a whole different stratosphere.”
Satisfied with my answer, he pecks the tip of my nose, then whips me upright with a twirl.
I sigh, content beneath the moon and the stars with freaking Archibald Charles Pine. No, content is not a strong enough word. Elated, more like.
I’ve been with him barely two days, and already my shoulders feel lighter.
I can’t remember the last time a family dinner back at home ended in anything but tense silence.
Fred usually got off scott-free, if only because he has enough teenage hubris to not care that Mom and Dad are trying to fix him, but I left every dinner table full of guilt and a gut-deep surety that I am Wrong with a capital W.
I did not leave the family table full of terrible-for-me chocolate cake, invitations to tea and book club, or the sort of carefree freedom that being accepted and wanted as you are brings.
I didn’t even know that a person could feel this way.
As we approach the bright pink door of our home, I wonder if the kitten will make this feeling even better. Will coming home to a sweet little face add to the experience? Or will I spend family dinners too worried about my ward to get to this level of unbothered bliss?
“What are you thinking about?” my knight asks, guiding me through the door.
“I’m pondering if our marriage kitten will cause me much distress,” I admit.
“I have never cared for another creature on the level that a cat requires, and I’m unsure if I’ll be able to stomach leaving the poor thing to go to family dinners.
” I frown. “I dearly wish to continue going to family dinners, but I equally wish to be a good cat mother. I feel conflicted.”
Archie toes off his shoes, setting them carefully on a rack in the bottom of the coat closet, and I follow suit.
“Family dinner rotates houses,” he tells me. “So they’re hosted here, at our home, every sixth week, but if you wish for them to always be here so that you don’t have to leave our kitten, then we will take over hosting.”
I bite my cheek. “Will that mean we don’t get any more Rosie meals?” I ask. “Because I’d really like more Rosie meals.”
“Rosie always cooks,” he answers. “Even when other people host, the majority of the food comes from her. We tried for a while to make her take breaks, but she hated it. She loves cooking, and she loves feeding us. Stryker and Millie even get their lunches from her every day, and sometimes breakfast, too.”
Having only had a Rosie dinner, I cannot imagine what a Rosie lunch would be like. She’s probably not putting roast duck, mashed potatoes, or homemade rolls into lunches, and the chances that that chocolate cake makes it into them are pretty slim, too.
“She makes bentos,” Archie announces, apparently reading my mind.
“Intricate bentos with cute little faces on the food. They look adorable and taste absolutely incredible. I normally ask her for one a couple times a month. I’ll see if she can arrange for us both to have one sometime this week. A honeymoon bento!”
I beam. “Rosie food!”
He chuckles, then bids me get ready for bed. “I’ll be there in a few minutes to tuck you in.”
I pause, putting on my very brave girl hat to give him a quick kiss on the cheek before escaping upstairs in a flurry of blush and goosebumps.
By the time Archie knocks on my door, I’ve showered, dried my hair, and donned a long, lacy, butter-yellow nightgown.
“Come in!” I call, tucking my hair into a pale-pink bonnet to protect the strands from the dangers of rubbing against my pillowcase all night.
I’ve seen enough video deep dives on the subject of the best haircare practices to be properly scared into the healthiest of habits.
I shudder to think of the days I was using three-in-one and sleeping on it wet every night.
Not only was I getting terrible breakage and split ends, but I was missing out on taking advantage of all the cute bonnets there are in the world. A tragedy, that.
Archie enters the room only to come to an abrupt halt, eyes dragging from the top of my bonnetted head to the tips of my wiggling toes. “You tempt me,” he accuses.
“The collar of this dress goes all the way to my neck,” I reply. “And it’s about as form-fitting as a potato sack.”
“It’s lace,” he murmurs. “And silk. I assure you, the shape of it does little to hide the shape of you.” His nostrils flare as his hands disappear behind his back. “Get in the bed. If I have to put you there myself, I’m not sure what I might do.”
He groans when I hesitate. “Sarelia, please. I am trying to be good here.”
I pout. “You’re always good. I’m just wondering what version of good I want to bring out in you right now.”
He chokes on a laugh. “Give the siren an ounce of power and she goes mad with it!”
I smile, fluttering my eyelashes. “I think I’d like to see what happens when you put me there, if you’d be so kind as to grant my request. I’m a curious sort, you know. Particularly when it comes to you.”
His laughter dies as his eyes darken.
He takes a step toward me, but his hands stay firmly behind his back. “Get in the bed, Sarelia.”
I wait just long enough for his eyelids to lower and his lips to tip in the start of what I’m sure would be the hottest smile I’ve ever borne witness to, then I lose my nerve. I squeak, turning to the bed and jumping in with haste. I burrow under the covers.
Behind me, Archie snorts. “You’re very cute.”
“Me?” I ask, peeking out from beneath the blankets.
His caramel-brown eyes lay soft on me as he approaches the bed, taking a seat beside me. My eyes widen as he begins to literally tuck me into bed.
“You’re tucking me in,” I whisper.
He hums. “I did declare my intentions first.”
“Yes, but… I thought you were using a metaphor or something.”
“A metaphor for what?” he asks.
“For saying goodnight.”
He smiles. “Not a metaphor, my love. Just an addition.” His eyes flick to mine. “Would you like a story as well?”
I kind of definitely very much would. “Isn’t that a little childish?”
He shrugs. “I don’t think so. Plenty of adults read before bed, or they watch television.
Consuming a story before you rest is a widely accepted practice well outside of childhood.
” He rests a hand on my cheek, running his thumb over my cheekbone.
“But even if it were childish… who cares? I do not view you as a child. I simply wish to care for you—to spoil you. In any and every way that I can.”
“Oh,” I whisper, gazing up at him.
He frowns. “My thought process was that your parents do not seem the type to tuck you in and read you a story, and every person should have that experience if they can. I mean to make you feel safe, cozy, and loved. I apologize if I’ve made you feel juvenile instead.”
“You haven’t,” I promise. “I don’t even know why I asked. I want the story.”
“You asked because your parents have consistently made you feel like you are not adult enough to make your own choices wisely. Consciously or not, you were checking to see if this relationship would turn into the same thing—if your judgment really is as bad as they’ve always implied, or if you really are as childish as they’ve always made you feel. ”
I blink. “Oh,” I repeat. “Yeah, that does sound correct.”
He nods. “Are you okay?”
Um. “I think so? I don’t feel childish, and you said you don’t see me as childish.”
“I do not,” he confirms, eyes dropping to the lace at my throat. “I really do not.”
My cheeks heat as I squirm beneath the covers. “Then I’m okay,” I assure him. “And ready for my story.”
His eyes meet mine, crinkling. “In case you fall asleep, how would you like the lights while you rest?” he asks. “At home, you are not consistent with them. I’ve been trying to decipher a pattern to your choices, but haven’t been able to.”
Me falling asleep while Archie’s thigh presses against my side through my blanket and the dulcet tones of his voice tell me a story? I resist a scoff. Highly unlikely.
That other thing, though…
“It depends on the moon,” I answer. “I sleep with my curtains open. If the moon is high and bright, I turn all the lights off. If it’s not out, I turn on my lamp at the softest light option. Then I use my nightlight for the in-between nights.”
“The moon,” he mutters, head turning toward the window, where the moon hangs half-lit beyond my open curtains.
He stands, moves to an outlet beside my desk, and checks that the little bear-head nightlight plugged into it is working properly. Then, he turns on the lamp on my bedside table before turning off the ceiling light. “I’ll turn out the lamp when I leave,” he says.
“Okay,” I reply. “But… if you wanted to… um… stay? I would not be opposed.” I blush, delving deeper into my tucking. “You’re an outstanding cuddler.”
He freezes, fingers twitching as he stares at me. “You wish to undo me,” he whispers. “To test my control. To strain the limits of my restraint.” He inhales heavily, shaking out his arms.
I open my mouth to take it back. I don’t want to cause him any discomfort, especially when I’m not willing to physically go any further than we’ve already gone. Steamy kisses and cuddling are one thing, everything else is… another, bigger, scarier thing.
Archie’s been perfect about doing only what I wish and when I wish, which has made me more comfortable than I probably ought to be in what I ask of him. But he is a human with urges, and I should not become a tease when I’m not ready to follow through.
Before I can say any of that, though, Archie concludes, “And I believe I wish to let you. How fun it is to have you at my fingertips and not be allowed to do the things I wish to do—the things you wish me to do, just not yet, if your first forty-one goals are still accurate.” He sighs.
“You continue to give me gift after gift.”
Oh. Right. I forgot. He likes being teased.
He kisses my forehead. “Let me prepare myself for bed, and then I will tell you your story.”
“Okay,” I whisper to his back as he leaves my room. To go to his room. To prepare for bed. With me.
What if… what if his pajamas have the same effect on me as mine did on him? What if he doesn’t use pajamas? What if bedtime Archie is more than I can handle?
My breathing shallows.
Could I possibly be that lucky?
My mind conjures up image after image of Archie sleeping in varying degrees of dress, most of which make me blush.
I just barely get a hold on my wayward thoughts when my door creaks open and the man himself steps through it, wearing only a pair of red plaid pajama pants. And that’s it.
“I am so lucky,” I whisper, allowing my eyes to rove his chest, shoulders, arms, and stomach. He stops at the foot of my bed, letting me look my fill. Each muscle group is defined, and he has abs, which nearly shocks me silent. Nearly.
“Can you turn around?” I ask. “When do you even get the time to work out? You work two jobs.”
He turns, giving me a full view of his back, which is just as muscled as his front.
Freckles grace his skin, inviting me to play connect-the-dots.
“There’s a gym on the compound,” he answers.
“And a pool. I go to the gym three times a week, and I have a standing pool reservation every Friday. I do a lot of projects around the house as well. Not the sort that I do in my basement. Actual projects.” He gestures to my bed frame.
“I built this, then carved it, and almost all of the furniture in the house is the same.” He shrugs, inviting me to drool as his muscles bunch, then relax.
“My CubeCraft job takes up a lot of my time, but it doesn’t offer me a lot of physical movement.
My Monster Clean Up job does offer movement, but it takes up a lot less of my time.
Most of my methods are set it and forget it types.
So I make sure I stay active in my time away from work. ”
A muscular, active, healthy man who is handy, considerate, emotionally intelligent, and helps rid the world of bad guys.
“I am so lucky,” I repeat.
He laughs, flexing as he turns around, and I laugh, too.
He winks, then crawls up the bed to lie next to me over the covers.
“You can get under here with me,” I say. “I promise I’ll be good.”
“You’re always good,” he echoes me. “I’m just wondering what version of good I want to bring out in you right now.”
“The version that listens really well,” I suggest.
His eyes darken.
“To the story,” I specify.
His face clears, and he sighs. “Right, right. The story. Of course. Just what I thought you meant.”
I press my lips together to control my amusement. “What tale did you have planned to tell me?”
“Ah.” He turns onto his side to lean over me. “It is a daring tale, my love. Are you sure you’re ready?”
Content to receive whatever he wishes to give me, I confirm that I am, and he begins.
“Once upon a time, there was a supremely cute princess…”