Eventually, she’d have to walk back to the inn wearing whatever lingered from the physical remnants of their passion. If that wasn’t cursed, she didn’t know what was.
Riley needed to regain her composure and stat. She’d let this happen. Fine. It wasn’t ideal, but she could handle it. And she needed to because she wasn’t the only one in danger here.
In the end, when Clark took his pleasure, he had looked at her like he was . . . lost. Like Riley was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. And she wasn’t. Couldn’t be that. Not for Clark. Not for anyone. She’d never been more sure than she was right now.
Curses didn’t understand the concept of pain or mercy. They were destruction, unrelenting. And she’d made a vow to her family and to herself to meet them in the arena. To break them by whatever means necessary.
Sacrifice. Not just Clark as a forfeit, but herself.
Because she wanted this—the afterglow, beyond. She couldn’t lie to herself anymore. Tonight he’d left marks on more than her body.
Riley wanted Clark. With all his flaws. With hers.
She ignored the knot in her throat. The sudden wave of dizzying nausea.
Curse breaking was more than her job. It was her calling. Her purpose. She didn’t get to quit because it got harder. Because the cost became personal. She couldn’t be good for him. But she could be good at this.
One of her first clients had been a painter who’d lost his muse. They’d tried everything else: charms, cleansing, rituals. Nothing worked.
You’ll have to give up the thing you’re most afraid to lose, she’d said, as kindly as she could.
He hadn’t painted for a year. Said it ached, every day. I’m alive but I feel like I’m dead.
You have to have faith, she’d tried to console him, that sometimes the hard thing, the thing that seems impossible, is the only way out.
It had come back eventually, the muse, the art. Riley had never asked him if it was worth it, the dead year. She’d been too afraid of the answer.
Clark deserved better than her anyway. She hoped that after this he’d find someone who’d never try and hurt him. God knew they’d be less trouble to look after than her.
He came back holding a damp washcloth. His jeans were still undone, sitting low on his hips, and the collar of his shirt was stretched away from his neck. Riley could almost see where she’d touched him, as if he’d walked away from the bed just as marked as her. Dread pooled like iron in her stomach.
The curse had led her to an opportunity she never would have considered on her own, the chance to climb into his bed, to get naked with him. To slink past defenses, leave him armorless.
Philippa Campbell had captured Malcolm Graphm. The thing that seems impossible.
“Riley?” For a minute he looked like he wanted to clean her up himself, but then Clark held out the cloth. “Are you all right?” He sounded concerned, nervous. “Do you want some water?”
Don’t you dare cry, she told herself. You owe him that, at least.
She took the washcloth, stalling. “I’m okay.”
Riley knew how to reject someone. To make it clear they didn’t stand a chance with her. She worked in a sports bar in South Philly. It was kinder to be ruthless, to cut to the heart of the issue, leave no ambiguity, so the worst part could be over as quickly as possible.
Come on, she told herself. You know what you have to do. How to do it.
The cruelest thing you could say to someone was the cruelest thing they said to themself.
“You knew, didn’t you”—she made her voice steady—“on some level, that Patrick had lied in Cádiz.”
Clark froze.
“What?”
Was that the manipulation he’d accused her of? If she hadn’t earned the insult before, it would be harder to argue after tonight.
Riley had forgotten—had willfully let herself forget—that the double-edged sword of making Clark her villain would cut both ways.
“You pay too close attention.” She sat up, crossing her arm across her tacky chest. “You wouldn’t have missed something that big. Your gut would have told you to investigate, to help.”
“You’re truly unbelievable.” There was genuine incredulity in Clark’s tone, though he’d managed to shutter his face. It was the kind of thing he might have said to her as a compliment ten minutes ago, along with all the other lust-induced nonsense he’d spilled against her skin. No one would mistake the meaning now.
An end to enemies.
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Do you think on some level you wanted to see him fail? To lose your father’s trust? Break his heart? So that you could finally know what it felt like to be the favorite?”
He’d schooled his features into a mask of coolness, but he wasn’t particularly good at holding his temper. His eyes flashed with mounting fury. “Is everything a game to you?”
Riley turned away, running the washcloth over herself, quick and perfunctory. She’d shower and apply salve when she got back to the inn, could whisper sweet nothings to herself as she fell asleep. Riley pulled back on his sweater. She wasn’t going to voluntarily fight topless. She found his sweats under the bed, stepped into them despite the mortifyingly damp inseam.
Clark was beautiful in his anger, clenched fists and steel jaw.
He’d been mean to her earlier because she’d asked him to. This was so different.
Riley brought her hand to his cheek, the skin burning hot under her palm. She traced her thumb over his lips, those lips that had kissed and caressed her, that had brought her such lethal temptation.
He closed his eyes, practically vibrating with the effort it took to hold himself still under her palm.
Come on, she urged herself. Finish it.
He’d given her all the tools. All she had to do was make it official. Make him hate her.
“But it didn’t work, did it?” she whispered, unable to speak the words even a decibel louder. “You’re still not good enough.”
The harsh bark of his laughter rang in her ears as he pulled away, pacing for the entrance to the camper and opening the door. Outside, the storm had exhausted itself, stalled to a slow pitter-patter.
Clark walked out and into the darkness, leaving Riley alone in his home.
This time when she cried, he wasn’t there to dry her tears.
If through her terrible treatment, Riley managed to drive Clark away—the curse wouldn’t be the only thing she’d broken tonight.
Chapter Fifteen
Clark couldn’t get the taste of Riley out of his mouth.
He’d been so foolish. So bloody eager. Desperate enough for her after prolonged exposure, all that frustrated wanting, that he’d ignored every warning sign. Told himself it was just sex. Nothing to get worked up over.
It was pathetic the way she’d made an absolute mug of him. In his bed, he might have been the one on top, but Riley had him eating out of the palm of her hand.
He’d expected her to strike against him, just not like that. Not then.