Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fran
I think I should be afraid. Okay, hell, I am definitely afraid. But I think maybe people don’t normally like fear? Maybe there's something broken in me, something defective, because I definitely like a little fear.
I like the adrenaline rush. I like not knowing what's going to happen to me. I like knowing that what I'm doing isn't safe at all.
And Tate Cowen is definitely not safe. He's bloody fucking angry at me, and I have to admit I don't blame him. I feel a little guilty for lying to him, though, because I like him. Hell, I like all of them. I never did any of this to double-cross them or anything stupid like that.
I don’t know why I did it.
Maybe I wanted him to find me out.
Maybe I wanted him to be angry with me. Maybe a little part of me hoped that I'd get attention this way.
Or maybe I just never even thought it through, which is a decided possibility. Like getting a Brazilian wax, or ordering the raw sushi instead of the delicious cooked kind.
One time, I went on vacation to this place that offered “Thai fish pedicures.” And they had this option, for like an extra twenty quid they’d put these little fish in the water with you that literally eat dead skin, leaving you supposedly with soft, tender feet.
Other people would use loofahs. I, however, went for the Thai option.
None of my friends were brave enough to do it, but I was really into it.
And every time the little fish drew close my friends squealed and covered their eyes, but I watched them, mesmerized.
I mean, I'm Scottish. My people live for tales of the Loch Ness monster. Our favorite delicacy is haggis—minced heart, lungs, and liver of a calf boiled in the stomach.
In other words, my Scottish blood makes me brave as fuck.
The only problem with us is that… Tate’s Scottish, too. And I know he’s got to defend the honor of the Clan.
I know I should be afraid. I know that I never should've even tried to escape. I mean where was I even going to go? A foreign country? He knows exactly where I live. He knows where I work. And short of going into witness relocation, I really didn't have anywhere to go.
I definitely don't want him to tell his brothers about this. Up until recently, I thought they were all my friends, but now I'm more than a little worried. Now I feel like even Islan and Paisley may be upset with me when they find out what I've done.
I am out of my mind. Not only does he know that I’m the writer, he knows that I’ve been lying to him.
Why did I lie? Why?
I hate that I have. I have a feeling that if he makes eye contact with me, I'm toast. Toast! He'll see to my very soul. I know he will. So of course, the very first thing he says when I reach him is, “Come closer.”
“If I come any closer, I'll step on your bloody toes."
He's not in the mood for this. He reaches for my good arm and yanks me over to him so I smack against his chest, a hard wall of muscle. And looking away from his eyes? Also not happening. Because the next thing I know, he's pinching my chin and dragging my eyes to look at his. The only way to not look at him right now would be to close my eyes, and I’ve a feeling that won’t go over well.
So I look in his eyes. And when I do, I just quake inside.
Because I hate that I've been lying to my friends.
I hate that my stupid ideas have gotten me in trouble again.
I hate that I've lied to this man, a man who's been a good friend to me for all these years. I’ve ruined everything.
I'll probably lose my best friends over this.
And as I think about it my lip begins to quiver and tears fill my eyes.
"You look upset," he says shortly. "Should I take that to mean admission?"
And then I decide to give it to him. All of it. The entire truth, maybe every single thought that I've ever had about the entire thing. There's no point in lying anymore. It's only going to get the people that I care about in worse trouble. It's only going to make things worse for me.
I rehearse quickly in my mind, what it would feel like to give him the bloody truth.
I didn't mean to hurt any of you. I didn't mean to hurt anybody. But as soon as the books started making money, I couldn't stop.
“How much trouble am I in if I tell you that I wrote the books?" I say, and I hate the fact that my voice is all shaky, like I'm a child who’s about to be punished. That's how I feel, though.
Okay, not really a child, because there's definitely an element of arousal woven into this fear. Not sure why.
"I didn't admit to anything," I say quickly, before he answers.
He narrows his eyes on me.
“You’re definitely in trouble for what you’ve done,” he says. “But in far more trouble if you don’t confess to the truth.”
"What are you going to do if I tell you about the books?"
"Punish you."
"What kind of punishment are we talking about?"
"Anything I want."
Bloody hell.
"And if I don't tell you that I wrote them? If I tell you who did?"
He knows, I can see it in his eyes, and he looks as if he’s running out of patience.
Honestly, I'm not sure he had that much to begin with.
He frowns. "You were the only person that would know the things that you wrote.
You were the only one privy to the information that was in those books.
And the reason why we need to know is because it's clear that you also know things in those books you haven't revealed, things that would risk your friends’ safety and mine. And I want to know everything."
It's true. I do know things, because I've researched as much as I can. Though this is the only Clan I've watched, it isn't the only one I've investigated. I have connections to the McCarthy family in Ireland and to the brutal Welsh.
“Fran.” One word, one syllable, a warning I should heed.
I open my mouth to talk, but no words come out.
“We’ll start with you stripping, then."
I blink in surprise and try to laugh it off. “Oh, Tate. I didn't know that you were interested in me like that."
I expect him to deny it. I expect him to say something all macho like, "This has nothing to do with my attraction to you.
This is about me researching for our Clan.
" But he says nothing of the sort. He looks at me with bald truth in his eyes, the kind of look that’s honest. The kind that makes you want to be honest yourself.
He leans in, lowering his voice so it’s a whisper against my cheek. "Don't you realize that if I didn't want you for myself, I would've gone straight to my brothers?"
Oh God. Yes. This makes sense. I don't know if I’m excited or more afraid than ever.
“I guess you could've done that," I say diplomatically, my words drowned out by the pounding in my ears, the rapid beating of my heart making me feel lightheaded and woozy. Again, I war with excitement and fear, a delicious combination that leaves me breathless.
He wants me.
He’s going to punish me.
But he wants me.
How does a man who wants a woman punish her?
"Of course I could have. Instead, I decided that I’d take you alone. Here, in the privacy of my cabin, where you’re going to tell me everything." He jerks his head to the bedroom. “First, go to my room.”
He takes my arm, and I feel all tingly and lightheaded as he leads me to the bedroom.
There's nothing seductive about what he's doing right now, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment.
This is nothing more than marching me off to face my punishment.
I feel as if I'm being hauled into the headmaster’s office.
"Oh," I say in what I hope is a seductive tone. "Am I getting marched to the headmaster’s office to be paddled?"
He grunts. "Absolutely."
Oh God. I thought that he was going to deny it or make some quip about punishing a different way. But apparently, that’s exactly what he has in mind, dammit.
He lets me go when we're in his room, and I quickly take a look around. It's fucking gorgeous, with the continuation of muted colors and clean lines, a sturdy bed, and a faintly masculine scent that lingers. I wasn’t prepared for how this would feel, seeing the lion’s lair in person.
Excitement ripples through me at the sight of the navy duvet, and fluffy white pillows.
Does he bring women here? I perish the thought.
I can see the toilet from here, complete with an ancient clawfoot tub, everything gleaming white and silver, clean and tiled.
There's a stand-up shower as well, a nice touch so no one needs to be subjected to antiquated ways.
But to the left there's a door that leads out to a patio.
From here, I can see a circular fire pit, and comfortable-looking chairs.
And is that a bar? Everything's glass windows.
I feel so exposed here.
“Clothes off.”
“Wow, so no foreplay then?”
He responds with a growl. I quickly move to obey.
He goes over to a side table and pours himself a few fingers of scotch. Then he slouches into an overstuffed armchair, looking comfortable and at ease, the exact opposite of me.
“You know if you do this, your sisters will never forgive you.”
It’s definitely a last-ditch effort.
“And you know if I don’t, my brothers will never forgive me. My sisters are far more forgiving.”
Lovely.
“Now start stripping, before I do it for you, and believe me… you don’t want that.”
My fingers fumble over fabric, and I'm well aware of the rigid line of his cock, the way his eyes are half-lidded, as if he can't hold back his lust.
I feel like a total jerk for writing these books about his Clan, for putting them in any type of dangerous situation.
And now I want to tell him. But I don't speak while I take off my clothes down to my knickers and bra.
I just start stripping, letting them fall to the floor in a puddle.
Fabric glides over my naked skin, heightening my senses as he undresses me along with his eyes.