32. Rory
RORY
She fits perfectly against me, her hair spread against the pillow like a flame. I trace a finger along the curve of her shoulder, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. She stirs but doesn’t wake, her breathing deep and even.
The fire is down to embers now, casting the room in a soft glow. Outside I can hear the last stragglers from the ball making their way to bed. Laughter and snatches of conversation drift up through the part-open window.
I should be satisfied. I’ve had her, again, and it was every bit as intoxicating as the last time. More so, even, because now I know her. Not just her body, but the sharp wit and the humour. Her kindness and the way she sees people for who they are.
But instead of satisfaction I feel an ache of something dangerously close to longing, and that’s something I can’t allow.
She makes a soft sound in her sleep, her hand curling against my chest as if she’s staking a claim.
I cover it with my own, looking at her sleeping face.
This woman who isn’t afraid to challenge me, who stood her ground when I was at my most imperious.
Somehow, she sees this place not as a burden, but as something magical.
And I almost drove her away with my suspicion and my pride.
I’ve spent most of my life guarding myself against disappointment – from my father, from the estate, from the burden of responsibility I never wanted but couldn’t escape.
I learned early to expect the worst, to prepare for betrayal. It’s an exhausting way to live.
But Edie doesn’t seem to operate from that place of caution. She throws herself headlong into life, into stories, into adventure. She’s breathed life into this place as she’s written its history.
And yet even when I was nothing but a bartender in her eyes, she gave herself to me without reservation.
I think of her face when Fenella’s barbed comment landed. The flash of hurt was masked so quickly but not fast enough. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own fears that I missed the obvious, Edie has as much reason to be wary as I do. More, perhaps.
She’s had to fight for every scrap of recognition in a world that’s handed everything to me on a silver platter, regardless of whether I deserved it or not.
My father’s poison, dripped in my ear, the doubt that’s shadowed everything I’ve done since. Every achievement tainted with a whisper as I try to rebuild a legacy that might not even be mine.
And yet despite all my defences I let Edie in. Let her dig through the family archives, read my father’s diaries with their damning secrets and petty cruelties. Worst of all, I let myself need her, this beautiful, brilliant woman who somehow sees the best in this crumbling piece of history .
It should terrify me how close she’s come to breaking through the walls I’ve built. And yet instead I feel something that feels almost like… relief.
Tomorrow will bring complications. The diaries and all their ugly truths will still be there. The responsibility will still weigh on my shoulders. But for now, I allow myself this – the weight of her arm on my chest, the momentary peace of pretending this could be more than it is.