Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
ROMAN
I wake up cosy and comfortable.
The human body pressing against me kind of warm. The kind I haven’t been since my last relationship all those years ago.
Maggie is tucked against me. Her back pressed to my chest, my arm slung around her waist. Her hand rests on my forearm as if I’m a bloody teddy bear. Wild curls tickle against my face. She sleeps more deeply than I’ve seen her do so far. Seems a good hump really does sort her right out.
I stay still. Barely breathing.
I drag a finger over the curve of her hip. She fits next to me like we were made for each other. The faint citrus smell of her shampoo curls around me. The sweet way she lets out the occasional little snore.
This is bad.
Very bad.
You do not get kidnapped by a woman and wake up thinking that she feels right in your arms. It has to be my brain trying to protect me or something. Her glasses rest on the bedside table, abandoned for contacts most of the time since we’ve been here. I like the glasses on her. They suit her.
God, I’m more messed up than I thought.
I tell myself, firmly, that I’ve lost my mind. Stress has done something weird to my brain, and my nervous system has latched onto the nearest source of warmth and comfort like a traitor.
And yet.
I can’t pull away.
Maggie shifts in her sleep, pressing her lovely arse back against me. When fingers tighten slightly on my arm, my chest gives a stupid little lurch.
Eventually, my bladder forces the issue.
I extract myself from the bed like I’m diffusing a bomb, freezing when she makes an unhappy groan. Thankfully, she rolls onto her side, one arm flopping into the space I’ve abandoned.
She doesn’t wake. Her curls fall across her face as she settles back to sleep.
I head toward the bathroom and relieve myself before washing my hands and face, and on the way back, I see something poking out from behind the mantelpiece clock. A gleam of something metallic.
Her car keys.
My heart jumps into my throat.
This is it. This is my wayout. It’s early, and everyone is asleep. People will be coming and going with wedding prep… Could I do it?
I could be dressed and downstairs in minutes. Even if I didn’t get far, at least I’d be doing something.
I pick up the keys. Running a thumb over the fob. Sneaking glances at Maggie’s sleeping form, I pull on my clothes and shoes before opening the bedroom door an inch.
Then I look back.
Maggie is sprawled diagonally across the bed now, hair a riot, face slack with sleep. All the tension she carries around has slipped away. She looks so much softer like this.
And then a thought hits me, sharp and hard. Are you really going to leave her to Eddie?
To his creepy glances and his cock-sure determination to have her. The way he spoke to her like he owned her. To a family who has promised her to this maniac. To a wedding she doesn’t want because it’s better for everyone but her.
My chest tightens, and I swear under my breath. Putting the keys back exactly where I found them, I kick off my trousers and climb back into bed, wrapping myself back in her soft heat.
She sighs, nestling closer like she’s been waiting for me, and settles immediately.
I close my eyes and breathe her in, all her lemony softness.
You’re fucked.
The evening card game is surprisingly loud for the number of people in the room. I’m wedged between Maggie and Eliza, like the ham in a cackling sandwich.
Fraser sits opposite, hood up despite the roaring fire. Eliza is an absolute card shark, as expected. Evan is both jolly and utterly ruthless, while Priscilla sticks to him like glue.
And then there’s Eddie.
Eddie watches Maggie like a hawk.
It’s like he catalogues every laugh. Every movement. His attention follows her, making my skin crawl. He barely acknowledges me, which suits me fine.
Coffin, the pet/not pet crow, decides I’m his new bestie.
He hops onto the arm of my chair and drops something shiny into my lap. A coin. Then stares at me expectantly.
‘Is he… paying me?’
‘Feels like a trade,’ Eliza says before nodding at my biscuit.
I offer up a corner, which he graciously accepts. A few minutes later, he brings me another coin.
Around the table, there’s a murmur.
‘He usually hates strangers,’ Priscilla says.
Maggie glances at me, then back at Coffin. ‘Well. He’s not a stranger.’
‘He is to us,’ Eddie says, narrowing his eyes.
I place a hand on Maggie’s thigh, shaking my head slightly to deter her from rising to Eddie’s bullshit. Her shoulders loosen as she sits back in her chair.
The game carries on until Maggie reaches for her drink and knocks it straight over the table.
Cards soak through, and everyone groans.
‘Maggie,’ Eliza laughs. ‘Honestly.’
‘Some things never change,’ Evan says.
‘Classic Maggie,’ Fraser mutters, not unkindly.
Maggie folds in on herself before reaching for a stack of napkins on the side.
And despite my role as a relative stranger, I snap.
‘Hey,’ I say, sharper than is proper. The table quiets.
I look at Maggie, then at the others. ‘Stop picking on Maggie. It’s not like we haven’t all knocked over a bloody glass every now and again.
You keep acting like she’s a joke to you all.
Maggie’s determined. And she’s fun. She takes on the world in her own way, and I admire her for it.
She goes after what she wants, no matter what stands in her way. That’s not a flaw.’
Silence hangs over the somewhat shocked-looking faces.
Maggie stares at me like she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. All pink-cheeked and shiny-eyed. Even Eddie neglects to throw a retort our way.
A new deck of cards is produced once a staff member cleans up the table, and the games resume as if nothing had happened.
Maggie leans toward me, daring to slip a hand tentatively on my thigh. I don’t hate it. ‘You didn’t have to make all that up.’
‘I didn’t.’
She bites her lower lip before turning back to the game.
The next round of drinks arrives shortly before Eddie comes back from the bathroom, leaning against the fireplace and looking like someone had shit in his sandwich.
I grip my glass overly tight and take a sip, ice clinking amongst the fiery whisky. Something sharp nicks my lip. I reach up to touch the pained part and note a smudge of red on my finger.
I lower the glass slowly, inspecting the drink. A shard of glass bobs amongst the ice.
Across the table, Eddie raises his own glass, meeting my eyes.
And smiles. The absolute fucker.
I don’t react. I just fish out the shard, slide it into my palm.
The cards are dealt again.
But I’m done pretending this is a game.