Chapter 13 This Is Not The Guest Room
ALISTAIR
Legacy is a heavy thing to carry when you’re running out of ways to build it.
I don’t answer Jackson’s question. I just keep my eyes on the dark landscape outside the window, watching the rain streak across the glass in jagged lines. I didn’t even realize when it started raining.
When I was younger, rain used to be one of my favorite seasons. My grandmother would wrap me in a warm blanket and tell me stories by the fire. Back then, things were much simpler. My family wasn’t perfect then, but things weren’t as bad as they are now. Ever since the ’incident’, a lot had changed in the Wolfe family, and now, the rain just reminds me of what our family used to be.
The city lights are a blur of gold and red, retreating as we head toward the isolation of the coast. Jackson is a good man, but he doesn’t need to know the rot that lives under the surface of the Wolfe name.
My mind goes back again. This time to three years ago. It’s a place I don’t like to visit, but Jackson’s question forces my mind there. Back then, I was so sick that the doctor had informed my grandmother and father to prepare for the worst. I remember the clinical, suffocating smell of the hospital wing, the way the fluorescent lights made everything look like a stage set for a tragedy. The fever had been a monster, hollowing me out from the inside until I was nothing but bone and a pulse that refused to quit.
I really thought I was going to die.
But I didn’t. I recovered, but my recovery came at an expensive price tag.
I still remember every single detail, down to the smell of the doctor’s office. The office had been too quiet that day. The doctor had looked at the charts, then at me, his eyes full of the kind of pity that makes me want to break things.
"Irreversible reproductive damage."
Those were the words that he uttered after his pity look. They sounded so final, like the sound of a door slamming shut in a long, empty hallway.
The only viable sperm I have left is what I stored in a cryo-bank before the treatment started. It’s a finite resource. A handful of chances to ensure that everything I’ve built doesn’t crumble into the hands of my vultures of relatives. Emily is carrying my one and only heir. She isn’t just a wife or a contract; she’s the guardian of the only future I have left.
I’m glad I was the only one in the doctor’s office back then. I can’t let anyone else know just how important Emily and her baby are to me and to my future. It’s my Achilles heel, and I’m safe as long as I’m the only one who knows about it.
Jackson remains quiet for the rest of the ride. Once we get to my office, I try to round up everything as fast as I can. I usually don’t rush business activities, but today, I find myself doing that. Every second that passes, I think of Emily alone in the Wolfe mansion, and the image doesn’t sit well with me.
So I round up my work within an hour and head to the car. A few hours later, the car glides to a stop in front of the Wolfe mansion. The moonlight hits the glass walls, making the house look like a diamond dropped onto the cliffside. I step out, the sea air sharp and cold against my face. It’s midnight. The staff has likely retreated to their quarters, leaving the house in a hollow, echoing silence.
I walk up the stairs, and the sound of my shoes echoes through the empty house. I reach the door to the primary suite and turn the handle.
It’s locked.
I stare at the wood for a moment, surprised. No one locks doors in this house unless they have something to hide or someone to keep out. I give a firm, sharp knock. The sound echoes through the hallway, a blunt intrusion into the quiet.
I hear a muffled sound from inside, the rustle of sheets and a soft, confused gasp. A few seconds later, the lock clicks, and the door swings open just a few inches.
Emily
I’m standing in the sliver of light from the hallway, my hair a tangled mess around my shoulders, and my eyes stinging with the remains of a deep sleep. I look at the handsome-looking man standing in the hallway and cock my head sideways.
"Alistair?"
"Mhmm," comes a rough, deep voice.
My eyes widen, and I blink several times to make sure I’m not seeing double. He’s actually here. "Alistair, what’re you doing here?"
"You locked the door," he says and then points towards the room. "And this is my room." He shakes his head. "I forgot for a second that you were here."
I frown, look into the room, and then I look back at him. Slowly, the reality of my situation hits me like a bucket of ice water. He’s standing there in his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show his strong, tanned forearms. He looks tired, and he looks like he would sleep off the moment he hits the bed. His bed. The same bed that I was just sleeping in.
"I thought... I thought this was a guest room," I stammer, my voice sounding small and raspy. I pull my silk robe tighter, overlapping the fabric over my chest.
Alistair walks past me, his presence immediately shrinking the massive room. He looks around the suite, his gaze lingering on the way I’ve scattered my things across the vanity.
"This is the primary suite, Emily," he says, turning to face me.
"And you put me here?"
He nods.
"And you’d be sleeping here too?"
He nods.
"So we’d be sleeping...together?"
This time, he sighs before he nods. He looks even more exhausted than I thought, the shadows under his eyes making him look more human than he did this afternoon. "The servants talk. My grandmother has eyes in every corner of this estate. If word gets back that the new Mrs. Wolfe is sleeping in the east wing while I’m in the west, the marriage will be picked apart by morning. We’re husband and wife in this house. That means we share a room."
I feel the heat rise in my neck. I hadn’t considered the optics. To me, this was a business deal, but to the world, it’s a romance they’re waiting to watch fail. But a romance, regardless. I step back, allowing him to close the door behind him.
The room shrinks again.
"I didn’t mean to make it difficult," I say. "I haven’t even had time to unpack properly."
Alistair looks at the bed, then at the leather sofa by the window. "You take the bed. You’re pregnant, and you’ve had a hell of a week. I’ll take the sofa. It’s long enough."
With Alistair’s height and structure, the sofa is definitely not long enough for him.
He moves toward the walk-in closet to find something. I’m guessing a blanket. I stand there, feeling awkward and out of place in my own skin. I watch him reach for a heavy charcoal throw on the top shelf. As he pulls it down, the corner of the fabric snags on my open suitcase, which I’d left on the luggage bench.
A small, delicate piece of pale pink lace flies out of the bag. It fluttered through the air like a dying butterfly before landing right across the dark wool in his hands.
It’s my bra. The one with the tiny silk bows I’d worn here because it’s my most comfortable bra. The other mature-looking ones are at Alistair’s villa, and Jackson was supposed to bring them tomorrow.
It would have been better if it were one of those bras that was currently lying on Alistair’s hand right now.
Actually, it would have been better if none of my bras were on his arm, actually. But a pink lace with silk bows? Shit.
The silence in the room becomes almost unbearable. I feel the blood rush to my face, a deep, burning crimson that makes my ears throb. Alistair looks down at the lace. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at it for a heartbeat that feels like it lasts a year. He looks at me, and I can swear that I see his eyes travel to my chest region. Then he looks at the bra again, and his eyebrows dip a little.
Is he...measuring me?
"I... I’ll take that," I stammer, lunging forward.
I snatch the bra from the blanket, my fingers brushing his for a split second. His skin is warm, and that surprises me. I don’t know why I expected him to be cold. He’s a human being like me. I don’t look at him. I can’t. I shove the lace into the bottom of my suitcase and zip the bag shut with a violent screech of metal.
"I’m going to use the bathroom," Alistair says.
His voice is perfectly neutral, as if he hadn’t just been holding my underwear in his hand or measuring my bust size with his eyes. I don’t respond. I just nod at the wall, my entire body stiff with tension. I wait until I hear the heavy door of the en suite click shut before I scramble back into the bed.
I pull the silver silk covers up to my chin, staring at the ceiling. The sound of running water starts a moment later. It’s a powerful, steady rush that fills the silence of the room. I lie there, every sense I possess dialed up to an unbearable degree. I can smell the sandalwood soap drifting under the door. I can hear the faint splash of water and the thud of the pipes.
It makes sense now. The male things in the bathroom weren’t from the last guest that stayed in this room, as I suspected. They were for Alistair.
I try to close my eyes, but that makes things worse. My imagination is even more vivid with my eyes closed. I can picture him with his shirt off, his wet hands running through his wet hair. I open my eyes and shake my head vigorously, but despite the headshake, all I can think about is the man a few feet away.
Why me? Why did he tell me that only I could bear his child?
There’s a secret he’s hiding, and even though I know what it is yet, I know there’s more to this story than he’s letting on. It’s more than just a contract.
The water stops.
I go completely still, my heart hammering against my ribs. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force my breathing to stay slow and rhythmic. I don’t want him to know I’m awake. I don’t want to have to talk to him in the dark.
The bathroom door opens, and I crack my eyes open a little. A cloud of steam and the scent of expensive soap roll into the room. I close my eyes again. I hear his bare feet on the marble, a soft, padded sound that moves toward the bed instead of the sofa.
He stops.
I can sense him standing right there, just inches from the edge of the mattress. The heat from his body seems to radiate through the air, pressing against me. Or maybe that’s just the steam from the shower. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe too hard. My lungs feel crowded, my breath caught in a tight knot in my throat.
What is he doing? Why isn’t he going to the sofa?
The weight of the mattress shifts slightly. It’s a tiny movement, just the pressure of a hand or a knee against the edge of the bed. I feel the air change as he leans down. I am so tense I think my bones might actually snap under the pressure.
I wait for him to speak. I wait for him to reach out and touch my shoulder. I wait for the wolf to finally show his teeth. But there is only the sound of the wind against the glass and the terrifying, steady presence of a man who knows exactly what he’s waiting for.