Chapter Thirty-One
In which this is not the wedding night of anyone's dreams.
Sloan…
What have I done?
Ethan and Patrick are talking quietly as I stare unseeingly out the window. I still can’t bring myself to look down at the ring, it will make this real and I’m not prepared to face it.
Patrick accompanies us up to the apartment, insisting on running a security check before bidding us goodnight.
Ethan’s standing by one of the huge, stained-glass windows in the living room, light from the street lamps sending blue and red shadows across his sculpted cheekbones. He raises his glass and I see his wedding band. It’s black, utilitarian and it suits him.
I look down at my own ring and it’s huge, as I’d expect from him.
A big, square-cut diamond with smaller violet-colored diamonds surrounding it.
I married this man. Not completely willingly, but I did. How can I trust him with Nate’s life?
“You’re awfully quiet, wife.”
Oh, my god, he said the word out loud.
“This was not on my five-year plan,” I blurt. Walking over to the liquor cabinet, I find a bottle of tequila. I haven’t had tequila since a girlfriend’s trip to Mexico, back when I had friends. And trips. And free time. Still, the smell brings back memories of the trip, sunburns and bar hopping, flirting with cute guys and breaking their hearts. I take a big swig right from the bottle. Ethan seats himself, watching me pace.
“Of course, neither was my stepfather - Gavin, he doesn’t even deserve any word that has ‘father’ in it- trying to kill Nate. Or my mom dying in that accident that was no accident, or…” I take another gulp. This tequila is making my eyes water but who cares?
Wiping the back of my hand over my mouth, I eye him. He’s just sitting there, looking spectacular in his expensive custom suit.
“I just… I don’t get you. You take the job, and instead, you decide to rescue me. There’s a lot of crashing and shooting and stabbing and instead of just… sending me to Greenland to live in a hut, you make me marry you? Why would you invite this madness into your life?”
The pacing doesn’t seem to be working out. My feet keep landing funny and making me knock into things, so I sit down on the couch across from his.
“I was expectin’ ya to lose your shite this evening, so this is right on schedule.” He has the gall to check his stainless-steel Rolex like he really did have my emotional breakdown scheduled.
“Oh, you sweet talker, you,” I sneer.
“Does that mean ya dinna want the champagne?”
Briefly, I consider throwing my bottle at him but then it would mean the tequila would be gone. Taking another swig, I try to put it on the coffee table but there must be three coffee tables and I apparently put it on the wrong one because now the bottle is lying sideways on that beautiful wood floor, the expensive rug soaking up the alcohol.
“Wife. Ya are a lightweight,” he chuckled, rising to pick up the bottle. “We have a lot to discuss, but I’m thinking it’ll keep until tomorrow. Let's slow down on the lady petrol, aye?”
“I’m not drunk!” I jump up to dig my finger into his massive chest to lecture him sternly and nearly trip over the ottoman. He grabs me under my arms, lifting me up to stare at me, eye to eye. My feet are dangling ten inches off the floor.
“What are you doing?” I snap, “This is like- are you putting me in air jail?”
He manages to laugh uproariously and keep me dangling. “What the hell is air jail?”
“They do this when they’re training a dog and he’s bad and they lift him up so he’s dangling to subdue him. That is what you’re doing!” His grinning face is right next to mine and it’s making my eyes cross, trying to look at him.
“Well, it’s working, wife.”
“I am not a dog!” I shriek, kicking my feet fruitlessly. He doesn’t put me down. This muscle-bound sociopath easily holds me up while I kick and rage at him. At least he’s not grinning anymore. “You know, trying to reason with you is like attempting to teach empathy to a shark!” My kicking’s slowing down because my ribs are beginning to hurt and it is possible that I might have been overserved.
“Aye, that’s possible,” he says, still holding me in Air Jail. He’s not even tired, his annoying and gigantic arms just as steady as when he picked me up.
Sagging in his grip, I close my eyes. “I’m going to go to bed.”
“Drink some water first.”
“I will stick my head under the fucking faucet in the bathroom and drink a gallon of water but I can’t…” I hesitate. “I can’t be here right now.”
“This is real, wife,” he says gently, which makes me hate him more. “Ya canna hide from it by getting scuppered.”
He gently sets me down on my feet and I waver, so he holds my arm until I’m steady. He would make this so much easier if he were a bastard. This tolerant, slightly amused Ethan makes me want to cry.
“I’m sleeping in one of the guest rooms tonight,” I say defiantly.
He’s looming over me instantly and I try to take a step back and end up pinned to the fridge.
“We sleep together, as husband and wife,” he says coldly.
“Well, tonight I’m drunk and I want to cry myself to sleep,” I retort. “Just… give me that. All right?”
His brow is furrowed like it’s physically painful to let me go, and he finally steps back with a sigh. “Aye. Take the first one on the right. The bed’s already made up.” His phone rings, and he checks it. “Goodnight,” he says, turning his back on me.
So, I snag the bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket on the bar and head for the guest room.
Halfway through the night, I make a list.
The Scottish Demon made me marry him and I still don’t know if he’ll kill me. Nate. He swears that Nate and Carmella will be family too, but how can I trust him? I’m trapped in fucking Edinburgh and I can’t call Nate. I don’t know if they’re safe. I don’t know anything.
After looking the list over, I realize I’m still pretty toasted because I apparently ripped off a piece of the bedroom’s wallpaper to write this masterpiece and that my drunken handwriting looks like a second grader’s. Then, number three makes me cry some more and I fall asleep, dangling halfway off the bed.
“Aye, this girl needs a day out with us.” There’s a voice and it’s drilling into my brain like I’m Alaska and they want an oil pipeline.
“She needs some friends,” another voice agrees.
Finally forcing my crusty eyelids open, I see four women standing by the bed. They all look close to my age and their expressions are varying degrees of sympathy and amusement.
“Oh, my god,” I moan. Maybe if I close my eyes again, they’ll all go away.
“Ah, ah. None of that, lass. We’re your emergency emotional support in-laws. Take advantage of that.” The woman speaking sits down on the bed, careful to avoid jostling me and tactfully turns my wallpaper manifesto face down. “I’m Catriona, Michael’s twin sister and daughter to our Chieftain.” She’s beautiful, long dark hair and a mischievous smile.
“I’m Kenna,” a blonde says. She throws away my empty champagne bottle and fetches a glass of water.
“We’re Edin and Eilidh,” a black-haired girl points at herself and her sister. “We’ll finish up all the genealogy shite later. You need a shower and we’re takin’ you to lunch.”
I’m painfully aware in front of these well-groomed, beautiful women that I look and smell like a cat vomited on me. Or a bunch of cats.
I can smell the tequila seeping from my pores and it’s enough to get me scrambling off the bed and into the bathroom. I’m slowly, painfully brushing my teeth after a very long shower when there’s a knock on the door and it opens enough for someone to hang up a robe.
“Ya probably want to go examine your clothing options for lunch,” I recognize the voice, it’s Catriona, “but since I bought ‘em all, I’m thinking those soft leggings and the blue sweater might feel pretty good right now.”
Wrapping the robe to my chin, I suck in a deep breath and open the door. Catriona’s leaning against it, checking her phone and I can hear the other girls in the living room, talking and laughing.
“Ya look like you’re feeling better,” she says approvingly. “I put some clothes out for ya.”
“Where’s Ethan?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. “Is he going to let me out of here?”
She laughs, hastily toning it down when I flinch. “Who ya think called us? It sounds like he’s made a right mess of things thus far.” Herding me over to the bed, she gently pats my back. “Why don’t ya get dressed and we’ll talk, aye?”