“We’d both know, I suppose,” he said, “that the only reason we were doing it was to test your theory.” Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you want me beyond your job. Beyond sense.
“Absolutely.” She raised her head to nod at him, cautious optimism in her voice now. “That would be one hundred percent crystal clear. Honestly, it probably wouldn’t even be very sexy, if that makes you feel better. Since it’s for the ritual, you could think of it as sperm donation, almost!”
“Good idea.” So much for the remains of his ego. “I’ll try that.”
“Are you saying yes, then?” Riley sat up against the headboard. “You’ll do it? You’ll help?”
As if taking her to bed was some bloody act of charity instead of a privilege.
“Yes,” Clark said into the darkness. “As long as we both go in with the proper boundaries, I don’t see how it could hurt.” He was such a fucking liar.
The next thing he knew, there was a heavy metallic click.
Chapter Eighteen
You’re a fucking professional. Act like it. Wait, that wasn’t right. Riley wasn’t a fucking professional. Just someone who happened to need to fuck as part of her job. Shit, it still sounds like—The point was, she could remain detached about this ritual. She would treat it like every other slightly off-center strategy she’d ever attempted in the hopes of overthrowing a curse—trusting her instincts and going forth with conviction.
Needless to say, she was giving herself a pep talk on the way to the castle. It had been three days since the manacles released them. Three days since Clark had stared down at their miraculously free wrists and said, “Well, you’ve got to admit that seems like an encouraging sign.”
The blacksmith who’d taken the train all the way to Inverness was less than pleased to be told her assistance was no longer needed upon arrival. But once Clark assured her he wouldn’t be pressing for a refund, she decided to sign up for a loch tour and made a holiday out of it.
After so much prolonged exposure to one another, Clark and Riley both agreed that taking some time apart to regroup made sense before they attempted the ritual. She would read and research while he drafted his report for the HES.
Gran had left some interesting theories about sex rituals to consider, and cited plenty of external sources, but no two curses were the same. The more Riley read, the more apparent it became that she would have to develop something from scratch.
Once she’d done so, she realized they’d be lucky if they were ready to attempt this thing before the week was out. Even with Clark helping, it required a surprising amount of prep work.
They were meeting now to iron out their game plan.
Riley wasn’t nervous. She was sweating because her sweater was too tight.
When she’d sent a text yesterday that put him in charge of location scouting, Clark suggested they reconvene in his first choice—the great hall. After a bit of awkward pleasantries better suited to strangers than people who had seen each other naked and would again, they finally got down to brass tacks.
“Okay.” Riley paced in front of the camp chair where Clark sat. “So, the central goal of the ritual is to prove we’re not enemies, right?”
“Hmmm?” There was a crinkling of plastic as he pulled a Clif Bar out of his pocket.
“Clark.” She stopped pacing to snap at him. “Seriously. I need you to buy into this whole thing. It’s not gonna work if you’re expecting us to fail.”
She already had enough doubts about letting him into her process, giving him so many opportunities to mock or dismiss her ideas well before she took her clothes off.
“I’m committed.” He made a show of shoving the granola bar back in his pocket to demonstrate. Then, his voice serious, he said, “Go on, I promise I’m listening.”
“Fine.” Riley didn’t really have a choice but to take him at his word. “The ritual I’ve written has four steps, each one designed to show the curse that we’ve abandoned our hostility toward one another. It’s all about demonstrating trust, and”—she wet her lips—“tenderness.”
There was no getting around that last part; she’d checked.
“It won’t be easy to pull off. There’s a lot we’ll need to set up, and once it starts, if either one of us balks, it could blow the whole thing.”
Clark pulled out his notebook and uncapped the pen tucked inside. “What do you need me to do?”
As Riley outlined the steps of the ritual, she made sure Clark had an opportunity to weigh in on and agree to each act. By the end of it, she actually felt confident that his questions and suggested tweaks had made things better.
Well, mostly she felt confident.
“Are you sure you can build a tub using raw materials from a garden supply store and the remains of one of those old stoves in the kitchen?” She frowned down at the sketch he’d done of a proposed design.
“You just worry about your part of the list”—he closed his notebook with a clap—“and I’ll worry about mine.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “Then there’s just one more thing.”
“Hmm?” Clark began packing up, folding his chair and shoving it into its little carrying bag.
“I think it would be best if you didn’t masturbate leading up to the ritual so that we can make sure you have, you know, enough stuff.”
His head shot up, “Are you implying that I underperformed in that area last time?”
“No,” she rushed to assure him, trying not to dig up that memory. “Trust me. You were very . . . effective.”
She covered her eyes as he smirked.
“I’m just trying to cover all our bases.”
“Whatever you need.” Clark hitched the strap of the bag higher on his shoulder and gave her a once-over that teetered on the edge of a leer. “It’s my pleasure to be of service.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. What was that saying? Hoisted by her own petard?
The next day, she recruited Ceilidh to help hunt down her half of the supplies.
“An enemies-to-lovers sex ritual with a smoldering Englishman?” The Scotswoman groaned. “Why are the requirements of your job so much better than mine?”
They bought salt in bulk and gathered rowanberries, going back to Ceilidh’s little flat to cook the vivid red fruit down, low and slow, for hours, trying to get the consistency right. They ended up adding some wild honey from a local crofter. It perfectly cut the tartness, turning the bubbling ruby mixture sticky and just shy of syrup-thick. Riley stuck her finger in the cooling concoction and brought it to her mouth for a lick. Perfect.
By Wednesday, they were almost ready. Clark assured her that even though an issue with a valve had “thrown a spanner in the works,” the tub would be ready the following night.
The last thing to do was have the slightly awkward but necessary conversation about protection.
While Clark chopped firewood, they ran through STI testing (good to go) and birth control (Riley’s IUD). It all felt very mature, as close to professional as they could make it.
Finally, the day of reckoning arrived with everything prepped, carefully outlined. There was nothing left to do but it.