They’d survived its ominous influences—many of which could have been lethal—relatively unscathed. At least physically. The curse had caused plenty of mischief since its inception, but thinking about it now, she couldn’t recall any record of fatalities on-site in three hundred plus years. No, she didn’t believe the curse wanted anyone six feet under. Instead, it seemed to be trying to send them signals, nudges in the right direction.
She turned to Clark. “What’s the opposite of enemies?”
“Huh?” Repeated urgent clicking and his refusal to remove his eyes from the computer screen said PayPal was giving him trouble.
“I’m doing the crossword on my phone,” she fibbed, holding up the device that had been sitting next to her on the armrest. It didn’t seem like a great time to explain the whole “I tried to drive you away because I thought that was what the curse wanted but now I need to rethink my strategy” thing.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he snapped, and then, after a moment of reluctant pondering, “Does friends fit?”
Oh. There was an option that never would have occurred to her.
Was that plausible? Could you end your enemy by turning them into something else? She guessed so. Though she couldn’t see Philippa Campbell and Malcolm Graphm setting aside their families’ blood feud to bond over—Actually, what do friends bond over? Hobbies? Entertainment properties?
“Do you—” There was no way Clark watched Criminal Minds. CSI was way more evidence oriented.
The computer made a womp sound. “Riley, figure it out yourself. I’m clearly busy.”
Right. Something twisted in her chest. Clark would make a good friend. For someone else. He was loyal to a fault, strangely considerate, funny sometimes—mostly by accident.
But, of course, after what they’d done to each other, he and Riley could never go back.
As night fell, it became harder to avoid the looming presence of his bed and all that had occurred there—both decadent and devastating.
“Why don’t we stay in my room at the inn tonight?” At least the mattress was bigger, and neither of them had made the other moan in it. “We can get dinner at the pub on the way.”
Her belly had not enjoyed “working” through lunch, but asking Clark to stop and make her a snack while he wielded various sharp objects had seemed like pushing her luck.
Reluctantly, he agreed. Probably half because he hadn’t had time to change his sheets.
Anyway, they went.
“Could you please stop drawing attention to yourself?” Clark gritted his teeth the second time Riley knocked over the saltshaker.
“Sorry,” she said, using her free left hand to set the shaker back beside its peppery fellow. “These things” —she jangled the cuff on her right wrist— “are heavier than they look.”
Contrary to what he seemed to believe, she wasn’t actively trying to humiliate him.
Besides, in her opinion, the reception to their manacled appearance at the pub had been downright mild. A few stares, a few chortles behind raised hands. One good-natured scolding that they shouldn’t involve bystanders in their kink games without informed consent. No big deal.
Eilean wasn’t even working tonight. Riley could just imagine what the no-nonsense bartender would make of Clark trying to block their chain-linked wrists behind a propped-up menu. Luckily for him, it was Ceilidh who appeared at their table wearing an apron and carrying a notepad.
The redhead raised an eyebrow at their joined wrists, but when Riley mouthed, Don’t mention the handcuffs, she pivoted quickly.
“Are you both ready to order?”
“Definitely,” Riley said. The sooner they got this over with, the better. “I’ll have the balsamic spinach salad without onions, please, and a side of fries.”
Clark ordered his usual burger and “the largest glass of whiskey you can legally serve.”
After Ceilidh scribbled their requests on her pad and returned to the kitchen, Riley leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “People will lose interest if you stop looking around like we’re about to dine and dash.”
“Fine.” He stopped peering at the tables around them and leveled the force of his gaze on her.
Uh-oh. She realized her mistake as mounting silence grew between them. It was the first time since they’d been chained together that neither of them was occupied with a task.
Sweat began to gather on her lower back. What were they supposed to do for the fifteen or twenty minutes it took for their food to come out? They didn’t even have drinks yet—Ceilidh appeared to be swamped at the bar—so Riley couldn’t pretend to be occupied with taking a sip or plucking at her garnish.
There was nothing for it. She was going to have to talk to him.
The trouble was, she had no idea what to say.
Thanks for the great sex last night. Sorry I tried to make you feel like shit about yourself after.
Yeah, no.
It would have been clean, at least, if You’re a good person had been the last thing she ever said to him. Frankly, she hadn’t even planned on admitting that much. After last night, she wasn’t supposed to say anything to Clark ever again. She’d hoped (mostly hoped) to find him gone this morning when she returned to the castle.
But of course, there he was in the entranceway, all handsome and stoic and wounded, and as she watched him leave, Riley couldn’t help herself.
To be fair, it wasn’t supposed to matter what she said at that point—he’d openly admitted nothing that came out of her mouth could make him stay.
What she’d said hadn’t even been a compliment, not really. She’d just stated a fact. It didn’t make up for the way she’d broken the sacred code of postcoital interaction, not even close.
That hadn’t been her aim. Riley just wanted—needed, for some reason—Clark to know. He’d gone his whole life thus far believing he had to be useful in order to be wanted. What if no one else ever thought to correct him? The idea made her irrationally angry . . . even if she was the asshole who’d tried to use his misconception against him.
God, no wonder Clark had nothing to say to her. Everything he’d shared—no, everything she’d barged in and yanked out of him—Riley had thrown back in his face at the coldest opportunity possible. He’d been open with her, more vulnerable than he had to be, trusting her, even though she’d never been brave enough to do the same.
The least she could do was try to even the score between them a little. Riley couldn’t change the way Clark’s dad treated him or what had happened with his brother, but he didn’t have to feel like he was the only one at this table who had been measured by their kin and found wanting.
She gathered her resolve. “Do you want to know the worst thing about me?”
“Excuse me?”
“You can say no,” she rushed to assure him. She wasn’t trying to trauma dump or whatever the kids called it these days. “I just thought you might feel a little better if you had some leverage on me, you know, after I . . . you know.”
His mouth twisted like he’d bitten into a lemon.
Riley was sure he thought the offer was silly, or worse, insulting.
“Sorry, never mind. I don’t know why I—”
“Go on, then.” He motioned with two fingers for her to proceed.
Oh.