Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Everything feels surreal, as if it’s moving in slow motion.
“You don’t look well, lass. Are you feeling poorly?”
I am. I feel as if I’m going to be sick.
I nod, and swallow hard. “Aye,” I whisper, stifling a yawn. “Not feeling well at all. Maybe I need some rest.”
We climb into the car and he nods. “Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit?”
So I do, my mind spinning through the choices I have, trying to formulate a plan for how to escape. But I can't come up with anything, not yet.
I know we're being watched. And I know I have to talk him into taking me.
When we land in Paris, we’ll be watched there as well.
If I don't do what my father says, my life is over. I know this now. There is no hope to escape the Aitkens Clan. Maybe there never was.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I open my eyes. I shield the screen from Mac, but he isn’t even looking my way.
Dad: In your bag is a vial. It’s poisonous. You’ll have drinks with him, slip this in his drink. Send me a picture so I’ll know you’ve done what I told you.
I stare in shock and horror at the text. Is he joking? He can’t be. How can this possibly be what he wants me to do? How could I have been so stupid?
Mac’s distracted, so I quickly respond.
Bryn: You didn’t tell me I would kill him! You told me to seduce him. To trick him. You didn’t say kill!
Dad: Do you really think there’s any place for you in this Clan if you can’t follow the simplest of tasks? Perhaps you should be wed to another after all.
I shove my phone in the bag and see the little bottle inside.
Mac looks over at me. He frowns with concern and reaches his palm to touch my forehead. The gesture’s so tender, a lump rises in my throat.
“You do feel a wee bit clammy. Something you ate at the wedding?”
“Maybe.”
“Poor lass,” he says gently. “Why don’t you get some rest?”
“Alright, I’ll rest.” I yawn widely and think to myself it isn’t possible for me to actually sleep, not when I’ve got so much weighing on my mind and heart. It surprises me, then, when I wake a while later with Mac shaking my shoulder.
“We’re home.”
Why does that make me feel so sick to my stomach? Home.
“We’re home, darlin’,” he repeats softly, as if he doesn’t want to speak too loudly and rouse me from sleep. “I hated to wake you, you slept so soundly.”
I yawn and stretch. “I’m surprised I fell asleep. I thought I’d be too wired.”
“Wired? You’re knackered, love.”
He doesn’t know, of course. Maybe I fell asleep just for a chance to forget it all for a little while, to pretend I don’t have to make the hardest decision of my life.
What’s the brave choice here? What would someone who truly loves another do in this situation?
Telling him is a selfish choice. It puts the onus of decision on him, and I can’t do that. It would guarantee war with our clans, and could I ever forgive myself if one of his brothers—or, God forbid, Mac himself—was hurt because of me?
Though I long to tell him the truth, to beg him to run away with me, it’s the selfish choice. If he feels about me the way I do about him—and something tells me he does—I couldn’t live with the result.
Running is the cowardly choice.
If I leave him… and go home without fulfilling the obligation and promise I made to my father… I'll end up wed to my father’s friend’s son. My stomach flips.
My thoughts go to deeper, darker options, ones I don’t even like to entertain. It seems so hopeless, though.
“You still feeling poorly, darlin’?” Mac asks. Tears prick my eyes at the concern in his voice.
I nod dumbly, unable to trust myself to speak. If I do, I’m apt to cry.
“Aw, lassie,” he says, reaching to give me a hug. “C’mere.”
When he embraces me, I swallow hard so I don’t cry. His familiar scent, so strong, so masculine, makes me sigh. I hate what this has come to.
His bags are already packed, and the car waits to take him to the airport.
“Please take me,” I say, but I don’t push hard. I want to go with him, but if I do…
Mac’s eyes look stern, his jaw firm, and it makes me wonder if he suspects something.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. I long for the time we spent together that was carefree, when he looked at me with tenderness.
“Aye, lass,” he says, reaching for my hand and giving me a little squeeze. “Just a lot on my mind is all.”
He must think me ridiculously insecure, asking him all these questions.
I wish I could believe what he tells me.