Page 91 of Bonetide

And I’m too tired to think about it.

I fall back asleep with the rain on the window, and the last thing I’m aware of is that he is mine now, and I am his, too.

I don’t know yet what that’s going to cost me.

Chapter

Eighteen

Iwake to grey light and a familiar ceiling.

Except…it’s the wrong kind of familiar. I’m staring at the low, whitewashed plaster of my own bedroom, the slope of the wall where Effie’s wardrobe stands shadowed in the corner, the gauzy curtains pulled across the window facing the bay. It’s the ceiling I’ve been waking up to for almost a month, and this morning it’s all sorts of backwards because…

Didn’t I fall asleep at Alasdair’s castle last night?

I lie still under the quilt and try to put last night back together. I remember the roaring fire, the Spanish wine. The dining hall, and the tapestries with their blue-dressed women watching me eat his fish. His mouth at my throat. The four-poster bed. The post under my forehead. I have you now. I remember falling asleep against him. I remember the rain hammering the windows.

I remember the flash of his eyes in the middle of the night.

But I don’t remember leaving.

The pillow under my cheek smells like the lavender sachet I tucked into the linen drawer last week. The quilt is Effie’s. But I think I’m wearing one of Alasdair’s shirts? It’s a man’s shirt, far too big, soft old cotton, the cuffs frayed…

And I’m wearing nothing else. My hair’s dried in damp tangles. From the rain, maybe? From whatever the fuck happened between the bed I fell asleep in, and the bed I woke up in? There’s a low ache between my legs from him, but at least I do remember how I got that.

I just don’t remember being moved.

I sit up, my body aching. The wood stove’s been tended to, the warmth of it flowing softly underneath the bedroom door. I eye the window and the salt that is still there, undisturbed, in a thick line. Which, of course, means nothing. Those are Effie’s superstitious habits, not literal protections. A line of salt isn’t going to stop a grown man from walking through a door.

Because he did walk through the door. He’s here. Alasdair is inside the cottage, I can tell. The air has weight to it now. The wood stove smells the same, the radiator ticks the same, and the fridge hums the same, yet the whole house has tilted a degree on some axis I can feel under my skin. The walls and the floorboards all seem to scream, he’s here.

I get out of bed, and cautiously pad to the bedroom door in his shirt and bare feet. I push it open and look down the hall.

He’s in the kitchen.

He’s standing at the window with his hands curled around a steaming mug, his gaze on the bay. The early light coming through the glass showcases his profile—the way his dark wet hair shapes his jaw, the glint of blue in his eyes, the firm, sculpted planes of his bare back, shoulders, arms—because of course he’s only wearing pants.

He’s heard me; he knows I’m there from the way he’s gone still, like a predator does when it thinks it’s been spotted. But he doesn’t turn to face me. He keeps his focus on the water, as if he’s looking for something.

“Uh, hi?” I say, throwing an arm out to get his attention.

“Good morning,” he replies. Gradually, he turns his head and looks me over and something like a smile ticks at the corner of his mouth. “My shirt looks good on you.”

I just stare at him. “That’s all you’ve got to say? Your shirt looks good on me? Your shirt that I don’t fucking remember putting on?”

Now he’s fully facing me, leaning against the wall beside the window, one ankle crossed over the other, looking utterly at ease and at home in a way that shouldn’t infuriate me but does. “You didn’t put it on. I did. The clothes you wore to my place seemed too uncomfortable to be dressed in again.”

I shake my head, and when no sense appears, I press my fingers into my temples as if that might make everything come together. It doesn’t. “How did I even get here?”

“I drove you home.”

I blink rapidly. “In my car?”

“Aye,” he confirms with a nod before having another sip of his drink. He’s drinking out of my second favorite mug too, the one with the sailboats painted on the side.

“You drove my car,” I repeat, my voice rising.

“You were dead on your feet, foxglove. I would have taken my own car, but I knew you’d want yours anyway.”