Chapter 42
brUNCH
Iwoke to the scratch of beard against my cheek, soft kisses trailing over my skin. I blinked slowly, letting the pale morning light filter in through lashes still heavy with sleep, expecting to find a naked Baird sprawled beside me. Instead, he hovered over me fully dressed.
“Thirty minutes, Mrs. Campbell,” he murmured, his voice a lazy purr, his thumb brushing the curve of my jaw as if he couldn't stop touching me—a touch that made me want to drag his annoyingly alert morning-self back into bed where he belonged.
But the words registered a second too late.
I bolted upright and squinted at the clock.
Damn it. He was right. We had to be at the inn for the morning-after brunch before Anne, Dillon, and the rest of the Garvie clan caught the early afternoon ferry back to the mainland.
I launched myself out of bed and into the shower, his hand skimming my hip as I passed, wincing just slightly at the pleasant soreness the night had left behind—made worse—or better—by the second round, slower and sweeter than the first, but no less effective at leaving its mark on tender skin.
Ten minutes later, I was dressed—soft knit tunic, leggings, and suede boots tugged on without ceremony.
My hair was still damp, twisted into a messy knot that would either fall beautifully or betray me at the worst possible moment.
My cheeks were flushed, my body humming, and all I needed was a quick swipe of mascara and lip gloss before facing the world.
Baird and I piled into the Range Rover, Just Married still scrawled across the back window, and made the short drive up the coast to the inn. I hopped out before he'd even cut the engine, bounding up the steps two at a time, hand already reaching for the door when I heard him say my name.
“Mira.”
I turned.
He stood at the bottom step, hands in his pockets, that familiar smile tugging at his mouth. “Do ye remember?” he asked quietly.
And I did.
The first night. The way he'd walked me back here after I'd collapsed at the grave, still disoriented and shaken.
How I'd stood on these very steps with my hand on this handle, unsure of everything except an irrational desire to kiss him.
How he'd lingered at the bottom then too—but that evening his face had been carved with something heavy.
Grief. Loneliness. A sorrow so deep it had made my chest ache for reasons I hadn't yet understood.
But the man standing there now, bathed in morning light, wore none of that weight. His smile was easy. Unburdened. And it wasn't lost on me that I was the reason.
He took the steps two at a time and caught me in his arms, pulling me into a fierce, breath-stealing kiss the moment my hands slid around his neck.
His grip was unashamedly tight, fingers splayed at my lower back like he was anchoring himself to me.
The heat of our wedding night still lingered beneath our skin.
We were both lost in it—smiling, breathless, entirely unconcerned with the world—until a chorus of catcalls and applause broke through the moment.
“Christ,” someone called, “get a room—oh, wait.” Our friends had spotted us through the window.
I pulled back just enough to laugh as cheers echoed from inside, the sound full of affection and well-earned teasing. Baird only grinned wider, forehead resting against mine, utterly unbothered by the audience.
It had taken some coaxing—from both Sorcha and the goddess herself—but Baird was finally learning how to loosen his grip on restraint when the human part of him faltered.
The vampire didn't hesitate the way the man did.
Didn't soften the touch or lower his voice just because there were witnesses.
Didn't second-guess or pull back. Baird Campbell might have been mortified by the little scene we were making on the inn steps, but the vampire in him had no such qualms.
I was his. Heart, soul, and every inch in between—and he wanted the world to know it.
The certainty of it thrummed through me, heat pooling low and dangerous, the kind of possessive devotion that felt less like a claim and more like a vow.
And God help me, it was the most intoxicating aphrodisiac I'd ever known.
As if I'd ever needed help where Baird was concerned.
It was Evie who opened the inn door with a giggle and ushered us into a room of our closest friends and family, sprinkled here and there with strangers staying at the inn who'd decided to join in the well-wishing.
“Look wha's finally decided tae join us,” Granny Margaret called, as if we were an hour late instead of five minutes.
“Dinnae blame me, Granny Margaret,” Baird said with deliberate slowness, the widest grin I'd ever seen still firmly in place. “My bride had a bit o' trouble waking this morning…”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
I felt it then—how many eyes were on us, how little either of us cared.
Before I could protest, he spun me around and lifted me off my feet, pressing another kiss to my lips, before addressing the room.
“I kept her up until the wee hours,” he added, far too pleased with himself.
His gaze dropped again, just briefly, to my mouth.
I caught the unmistakable glint in his eye—the one that promised he had every intention of doing it again.
Baird always laughed when I used the term dick-drunk to describe the effect he had on me, but ever since we'd walked through the door the night before, that term didn't even begin to cover it.
Saying we couldn't keep our hands off each other felt like a wild understatement—more like space between us had ceased to exist entirely, even now, even here.
I spotted Anne and Dillon first, deep in animated conversation with Morag and her boys. But it was Sorcha who made me slow to a stop.
She sat tucked into a corner table with—of all people—Magda.
They'd only met the night before at the wedding, and yet they spoke now as if they'd known each other for years, heads inclined close, expressions far too knowing for two women who were technically strangers.
Baird's arm tightened around my shoulders, just a fraction more possessive, the moment he noticed them too.
A subtle shift—but I felt it. A warning.
Or maybe an instinct neither of us could name.
I leaned into him without thinking, my hand sliding to his thigh, mutual touch providing a united front.
A few feet away, Robbie stood with a pint in hand, watching the pair with open suspicion. The disapproving shake of his head told me everything I needed to know—he had absolutely no control over Sorcha, and he trusted Magda about as far as he could throw her.
I gave them a small, self-conscious wave. Sorcha, apparently having decided mimosas were beneath her, had opted instead for a glass of whisky. Magda sat beside her, a highball of cloudy red liquid cradled in her hand.
“Bloody Mary,” she said, lifting the glass with a single raised brow, daring me to think otherwise.
Baird snorted softly behind me, and Magda's smile widened at the sound—warm, knowing. The first shared vampire joke between them, landing easier than I would have expected.
I slipped away from the little tableau, not quite ready to witness whatever a Sorcha–Magda–Baird conversation might entail, and made my rounds instead—quick hellos and hugs with the extended Garvie clan—before finally reaching the table where Anne and Dillon were seated.
“I don’t know what kind of sex magic you’re dabbling in, Mira,” Dillon said in a theatrical whisper, leaning back in his chair to give me an exaggerated once-over, “but whatever it is, you’re going to have to share. No exaggeration—your skin is actually glowing.”
Heat rushed straight to my cheeks. If only he knew how accidentally accurate his joke was.
“Stop it,” I muttered, swatting lightly at his arm. “You’re going to give me a complex.”
He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, while I tried—and failed—to smooth the telltale smile from my face.
“He’s not lying, Mira,” Anne added softly, her eyes shining just a touch.
“You know I was skeptical at first—worried about how you’d adjust to living here, so far from everything familiar.
” She hesitated, her gaze drifting past me to where Baird sat, animatedly telling the story of how he’d managed to trick me into designing my own engagement ring without realizing it. Laughter rippled around him.
“But…” she continued, her voice gentling in a way that made my throat tighten, “…he’s good for you.”
There was no teasing in it. No qualification. Just relief.
As if he felt our gazes, he looked up, catching my eye.
The expression on his face—open, happy, and so full of love, even with the wildcard Magda sitting across from him—made my chest ache in the best way.
I turned and pulled Anne into a tight hug, holding on a second longer than usual, before looping an arm around Dillon and pulling him into the Yankee group hug. “You too. Get in here.”
Two hours slipped by, several of the guests mentioning how bits of the reception were hazy—laughing it off, blaming the generous flow of alcohol.
I smiled along, even as a prickle of unease traced my spine.
Soon those catching the ferry began making their rounds—goodbyes exchanged, bellies full, bags packed and loaded into waiting cars.