Chapter 12
The train was nearly empty, all darkened windows and the hush of tired passengers.
She pressed her forehead to the glass and watched the night spool past. At Paddington, the cavernous station swallowed her—too bright, too busy, her heart beating like a drum as she scrolled through the Trainline app; her app now, not Ronin's.
For years she had leaned on his account, his reminders, his plans.
But now it was her fingers, clumsy and alone, choosing where to go.
The Highlands came to her suddenly, to their trip to Inverness years ago, when they were still young and in love.
The air had been sharp and clean. There was magic in the Highlands—hiking through Rannoch Moor while the wind bit through their layers like butter and falling into their freezing bed in that ancient inn because they couldn't afford anything else.
They were still in university, and Ronin's parents, though affluent, kept the purse strings tied up tight.
She wanted that again, to escape, to be somewhere that wasn't here.
By dawn, she was at King's Cross, boarding the train north.
She sent a message to David and got no reply, though she had expected his anger, his silence.
Her phone battery was draining fast, each percentage ticking down like a countdown, and she forced herself to be careful until she could buy a charger.
The farther north the train carried her, the more her body ached.
A dull heaviness had settled into her lower abdomen, a familiar twisting pressure building.
Her thighs felt leaden, sore as if every muscle were bruised from within.
She knew the signs too well; her period would come soon. The timing, as always, was merciless.
Four hours later, Edinburgh blurred into another platform, another transfer, and then she was on the ScotRail to Inverness.
With her phone officially dead, she bought a paper ticket at the counter, folding it neatly into her pocket.
There had been no time to look for pads, and she didn't have any with her—yet another thing she had forgotten.
She leaned her head against the seat, her whole body aching now, as if it had been wrung out.
And then the cramps started, deep, twisting, and cruel.
Heat flushed her face, and she knew before she even shifted in her seat that it was the dreaded time of the month again.
Of all times, of all days. No pad, no spare anything.
Just her jeans, her bag, and the growing dread at the wet warmth spreading beneath her.
Two stops later, the train jolted to a halt, and new passengers boarded.
Among them was a massive man who strode down the aisle with the kind of presence and bulk that made people lean back in their seats to give him space.
Broad-shouldered and gruff in a thick wool overcoat, his whiskered jaw set hard.
He stopped in front of Sage and jerked his chin towards her.
"You're in ma seat." His voice was low, rough, and threaded with a Scottish burr that made it sound more like a warning than a statement. His voice was deep, edged with impatience as he fixed his icy blue eyes on her.
Sage blinked, fumbling for her ticket. She glanced down, then up at the little digital display above the seats. He must be right. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
"Oh, sorry," she mumbled, scooping up her bag while surreptitiously checking if she left a stain.
She slid out of the seat, trying not to brush against him, and crossed to the opposite side of the table where a free space waited.
That proved to be difficult as he stood there like a sentinel guarding the train from annoying women.
"I really am sorry, I didn't notice..." she stammered as she settled herself into her seat.
He didn't answer, just looked at her like she had crawled out from under a rock.
Then he lowered himself into the seat she'd vacated, his sheer bulk filling it and half of the next besides making the lad next to him precariously balance on the edge. Sage sat opposite him, clutching her ticket while wishing she could melt into the upholstery. But she was only human and couldn’t help notice the dark hair, strong jaw and broad shoulders bulging beneath the thick coat.
Handsome, in an almost brutal way with a hard and unfriendly expression to match.
He glanced at her once, twice, the kind of look that made her sit straighter, as though the headmistress had come down for an inspection and her skirt was a couple of inches too short.
Then he proceeded to ignore her, turning his gaze out to the darkness beyond the glass.
"Hi, I'm Sage. Haven't been to the Highlands in a while." Sage tried as an awkward prelude to asking for a charger when he took a book out of his pocket.
No answer or response. She might as well have been talking to the table between them.
Sage hesitated, clutching her nearly-dead phone, before finally leaning forward and making another desperate attempt. "Excuse me, would you mind if I borrowed your charger?"
He lifted his head slowly, and for a moment, those icy blue eyes fixed her with a stare so sharp she felt skewered.
He didn't speak; he just held her gaze until the silence stretched uncomfortably.
Then, deliberately, he looked back down at the book in his hands, turning a page as if she hadn't spoken at all.
Heat crept up her neck. She shrank back into her seat, mortified, her phone heavy in her hand.
A few minutes later, he set the book aside and dragged a laptop from his bag, the movement curt and economical.
As if making a point, he plugged his own phone into the wall socket, the small light flickering on as the battery ticked up.
She couldn't help herself as she glanced sideways at the screen. Seventy percent.
He knew she'd seen it. He'd made sure she did.
He must really be enjoying his petty, little game, she thought swearing off men for life.But she had bigger problems.
Her cramps worsened, her breasts swollen and tender, every movement an ache.
She shifted, but it was no use—she could feel the seep through the layers of fabric.
Mortification burned through her as she pushed to her feet, clutching her bag, and hurried down the carriage.
In the toilet, she fumbled, improvising with a folded towel in her underwear, her hands trembling with both pain and shame.
There was no way she would last all the way to Inverness.
When the screen showed the next station was Pitlochry, she gathered her bag and made for the doors. To her surprise, the man opposite rose as well, striding towards the other exit. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before the doors hissed open.
They walked towards each other before awkwardly stepping into each other's path trying to get past, before she realized she was walking in the wrong direction and turned to find the exit.
"Stop followin' me," he said roughly, the burr of his Scottish accent deep and cutting.
Sage blinked at him, too tired, too sore to reply. Her face scrunched as another cramp hit, and she simply walked on, her bag sagging against her shoulder. She had stuffed her coat into it because it felt stuffy, though the temperature said four degrees.
He slowed behind her. "Hey—" His voice carried, but the reluctance couldn't be more obvious.
Bloody knobhead.
She didn't turn as she walked past.
Then she heard him say awkwardly, "You've got...a wee bit—"
She froze, heat flooding her skin, as she knew what he was going to say. She twisted to looked down at the seat of her pants and saw a dark stain blooming across the denim. Oh, why didn’t she wear black?
He shifted, glancing around as though searching for help. "D’ye need tae go tae the hospit’l? "
Her laugh was harsh and too tired to be embarrassed. "No. I'm not dying; it's just a period. Just go do whatever it is you do, Mr. Grinch."
His brow furrowed. " Ma name’s no’ Grinch."
She turned away, ignoring him, pushing her legs forward, even though each step sent another lance of pain through her abdomen.
"Fine!" he muttered, striding ahead. But moments later, she heard his footsteps again, coming back, matching her pace.
Her breasts ached with each movement of her bag, her belly throbbed like it was being twisted from the inside. She wanted to curl up on the cold pavement and never move again, but she kept walking, because what else was there to do? Was this the worst run-away ever?
Sage's steps faltered as another cramp doubled her over. She hissed out a breath, clutching her stomach. She could feel the towel in her jeans was already soaked through. Her face flushed, humiliated and hurting, when a shadow fell across her.
"Christ, woman," the man muttered, appearing at her side. " Yer white as a sheet. Sit doon afore ye keel ower."
"I'm fine," she gritted, though her knees nearly buckled.
He snorted. "Aye, sure. Ye look aboot as fine as a sheep in a slaughterhoose."
Despite herself, a small, pained laugh slipped out. "Charming. Thank you for that imagery. "
" Dinna get ideas. I’m no’ tryin’ tae charm ye," he said flatly. "If I were, you'd know. Now sit doon."
She sank onto the low stone wall by the station, clutching her bag. He shrugged out of his jacket and held it out.
She eyed it suspiciously. "What for?"
"You've got blood all down your arse. Unless you're lookin' to start a new fashion trend..."
Her mortification deepened, but she snatched the jacket and tied it around her waist. "Congratulations, boy scout. You've just earned yourself a medal for tact."
He folded his arms, mouth twitching. "Better than lettin' you parade your business up High Street."
She glared at him. "What happened to your accent? And do you always insult women you help?"
"Ach, it comes and goes. And I only insult the ones who call me Grinch."
"Well, it fits."
He huffed a laugh, the sound reluctant but real. "You're a cheeky wee lass for someone about to pass out."
She dropped her head into her hands, another cramp rolling through her. "I don't need rescuing, you know. I've survived forty-four years of this circus."
"Looks to me like this round's winnin'," he said, softer now. He crouched in front of her, his pale eyes catching hers. "There's a chemist just up the road. I'll go in and get you what you need."
"I don't even know your name," she muttered suspiciously.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. We must at least be on a first-name basis if you're buying me pads."
He paused, then gave her a look, both exasperated and amused. "Euan."
"Euan " she repeated, trying the name on her tongue. "Fine. I'll allow it. I am Sage."
His lips twitched again. "How generous of you .You even told me your name."
She leaned back, her face pale but her tone steady. "And for the record, Euan, you're still a Grinch."
He shook his head, pushing to his feet. "A Grinch who's about to save your pretty arse, lass. Now sit tight."
And with that, he strode off towards the chemist, leaving Sage clutching his jacket and, for the first time in days, laughing through the pain.