Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Does it turn you on, Cairstina? When I promise to punish you?”
I shiver visibly and nod. Aye, it sure as hell does, and I don’t know why. I know I love the loss of control. I know that it makes me more vulnerable, and I love that I can trust him not to hurt me. But would he hurt me? I can't imagine that he would.
He’s stern and uncompromising, but the most loyal protector of the lot. His mouth still at my ear, he whispers, “Then you’d better behave yourself today, or there’s a certain chance you’ll find yourself in a heap of trouble with that smart mouth of yours.”
I reach for my mobile.
Outrageous accusation! I can’t speak, and you’d have me believe that it’s my mouth that’s getting me in trouble?
He smirks, and says with mock sternness, “Now, now, you know how to communicate snarkiness perfectly well, doll.”
We hear footsteps nearby, so he releases me and holds onto my hand. Tate and Mac enter the foyer, with Lachlan and Clyde close behind.
“Definitely nothing there,” Tate says, shaking his head. “They did a thorough sweep.”
Leith’s lips thin. “Are you sure?”
“Just got off the phone with Tully. He was nearby, and said that that house is abandoned.”
“Can’t believe it was a fucking set-up,” Leith mutters, shaking his head. He turns back to me. “Cairstina, you’ll stay here today. I’ve an errand in Inverness again.” He curses under his breath. “The most bloody time I’ve spent in town in ages.”
I send him a text.
It’s okay, I understand. Come back to me tonight, and I’ll be sure to misbehave so you have to punish me. Then we’ll have a nice snuggle by the fire, hmm?
He smirks, and sends me a text back.
If you misbehave on purpose, this becomes very real, and you find the sharp end of my palm across your arse.
He slides his mobile back in his pocket and leaves me with a stern look. My heart hammers in my chest.
Did he just gain the upper hand?
Flora watches as the men leave, and sighs.
“Well, that leaves us two then. The girls are going to Fran’s to study, but I think the car’s full up, and it might be taxing for you to go with them. They’re practicing debate for Islan’s class.” She smiles at me sheepishly, as if she’s embarrassed that the girls aren't taking me with them. I'm not going to lie, my heart hurts a little bit at this. Am I not their friend yet?
“Cook with me again, Cairstina?” Flora smiles.
I nod. I love cooking with her in their large, airy kitchen, with the fire burning at the hearth and the smell of freshly baked bread and stew filling the air.
“Making Leith’s favorite,” she says with a smile. “Do you know how to make a scotch pie?”
I shake my head. I’ve had all the Scottish traditional foods my entire life. Haggis and sausage, blood pudding and stew. Shortbread and fruitcake, and the like.
But scotch pie’s something I’ve never made before.
I write on a slip of paper, I’d love to learn.
Is it only in my imagination, or is she teaching me how to do this because it is Leith’s favorite? Does she think that matters? Maybe it's important for me to learn how to make his favorite foods, because if there is anything at all between us, maybe I'd like to make it someday…
Or maybe this is all just my imagination. Again. I’m so used to making things up in my mind, that I'm not very good at differentiating between the truth and what's only made up in my head. Still, I need something to do today, and I think this might be at least something that will pass a few hours before Leith comes back to me.
Should I even be thinking that way?
Back to me.
He isn’t mine.
Flora rolls out pie crust, while minced lamb, spices, and onion sizzle in a frying pan. My mouth waters. She tells me about how he was as a child, a veritable force to be reckoned with, sounds like.
“And we tried to train that boy to watch his temper, but it’s who he is. His father was hard on him, so hard, trying to get him to master himself. You know. You can train a child only so far, as their personality is deeply embedded in them.”
I think on this as I help her spoon the cooked meat into the pastry dough. She shows me how to fold the edges and pinch them together. I don’t like thinking of his father being “hard on him.” I like the rest of the family, but I am not a fan of Bram Cowen.
She looks at me quietly for a moment, not speaking. “I can tell that something’s on your mind,” she says. “Can you share it with me?’