Page 20

In which Logan and Uncle Lachlan spend some quality bonding time and Arabella is buried under a mountain of lingerie.

Logan…

Four hours later…

We’ve been working on the man my wife called Head Bastard in Charge, and he’s stubborn. Half his fingers gone. Most of his teeth and still nothing useful.

“Are ye thinking there’s gonna be a rescue? Ye truly think any of the scum ye worked with will risk themselves by coming to rescue your sorry arse?”

“Stykke lort…” It comes out a bit mushy, his face is a mosaic of red, blues and purples, but his eyes are alight with hate.

“What’s that? Ah, ye calling me a piece of shite, aye? I’m not offended. I can see why ye might not be feeling I’ve got your best interests at heart.” Looking over the table of instruments in the corner of the room, I select a power drill. He’s a tough bastard, but there’s a flare of terror in his eyes when I hold the drill up.

Hamish is yawning politely into his hand. He’d chained Head Bastard in Charge to the metal chair in the center of the concrete room when the Chieftain’s men brought him in tonight.

“I know what you’re probably thinking, mate. Do we really need the concrete walls, the hooks dangling from the ceiling and the drain under the floor? No, though it’s important to set the stage.” I press down on the drill’s button and the silver bit spins with a screech.

“I can always do the job with whatever tools are at hand,” I hit the button again. “Though there’s nothing like a DeWalt. Good, powerful engine. Ye can drill through anything, really. Shall we put it to the test?”

“He’s a stubborn one.” My Uncle Lachlan joined us during my session with the drill; he’s still in the suit he wore to take my Aunt Aria out to dinner. Taking off his jacket, he rolls up his sleeves. “Good tools, lad. The DeWalt is a solid contender, though I prefer my Makita. I use the diamond head drill bit. Ye can punch a hole through a steel wall with that one.”

Our guest’s eyes roll back and he passes out.

Uncle Lachlan scoffs. “Ye canna have a civil conversation without the wee bastard fainting on ye?” Eyeing my blood covered shirt, he adds, “I’d like to congratulate ye on your marriage. Your Da called to tell us the happy news. She sounds like quite the brave lass. Why don’t ye get cleaned up and go home to her? You’re newlyweds, after all. What did ye get from our guest here?”

“Not much,” I grumble, pulling off my shirt and heading for the big industrial sink. “He says there’s two other key players, and they’re gonna steam ahead like Anselm’s death dinnae even slow them down. I got something about ships and vacations just before ye showed up.”

“Ships and vacations?” Uncle Lachlan eyes the unconscious arsehole. “He could be hallucinating, but it seems a wee bit soon for that. Why don’t ye let me work on him a bit, see if I can jog his memory. I’ll call ye as soon as I get something.”

Once I’ve washed off all the blood, I pull on the t-shirt Hamish gives me and shake Uncle Lachlan’s hand. “Thank ye. Your work is legendary, Uncle. I’m looking forward to the results.”

“Off with ye.” He’s holding one of the scalpels up to the light. “Oh! I picked up an anti-tank rocket launcher, and she’s a beauty. We should take a trip up to the lodge and I’ll show her in action.”

“The FGM-148 Javelin? Just tell me when!” Uncle Lachlan does collect the best toys.

“There’s a good lad,” he says, putting down the scalpel and picking up some wire cutters. “Go spend some time with your bride.”

Arabella…

I pass by those damn lingerie bags four times.

Taking a shower.

Finding some lotion because air travel is apparently hell on dry skin.

Finishing off the rest of the sticky toffee pudding.

Then, pawing through the ridiculously large walk-in closet to find my clothes that were so rudely hijacked from my apartment. My sad little stash was neatly hung up in one little corner, with my knickers and bras folded and put away in one of the mahogany dressers. Pulling on some ratty-looking running shorts and a sweatshirt from Uni, I ponder the pile of glossy gold and black bags and boxes, creating their own mini Mt. Everest on the sofa in the sitting area of the master bedroom.

The sheer flagrancy of the stash offends me. Who buys one of everything in my size in an entire store? I guess I should be grateful that it was a tiny boutique and not the House of Fraser department store downtown.

I should really get on the treadmill in the gym and try to work off the approximately eighteen thousand calories of dessert I’d just gorged. Maybe try to get some sleep?

The shiny lingerie bags glitter at me.

“Fine. Stop looking at me with your judgy little faces!”

Bras draped over the big leather couch and two armchairs by the time I’m done. Knickers with far too many variations to count cover every inch of Logan’s king-sized bed. Lace and satin corsets hang on the top of every door, and the sexy little babydoll nighties and rompers decorate the bathroom counter tops.

Logan’s bedroom/sitting area is bigger than my entire apartment and I still haven’t figured out where to put all the robes. Satin ones, silk ones, lacy robes and some that are a delicate, weblike material that looks pretty but cling to my skin like spiderwebs.

Ugh.

“Those definitely are going back,” I mumble.

I talk to myself all the time. The sound of my voice is important. I need it to sound exactly the way it always did, before I started losing my hearing. I carefully modulate the tone, making sure it varies properly, and that the volume is correct for the conversation. My articulation is precise. It’s a point of pride, I guess. Fate and shitty auditory nerves might take my hearing, but I’m keeping my voice.

“How can there be more?”

There’s a long, flat box that I missed in the corner, filled to bursting with swimsuits. “Really? I could lurk in the ocean like a mermaid for the rest of my life and still not need this many!” Bikinis, some scandalous and barely covering my nipples. Others with thong bottoms, leaving my entire arse hanging out. Deep-V one-piece suits that would instantly let a breast pop loose if I took so much as a deep breath.

Hands on hips, pacing the room, I scowl at the explosion of colors and fabrics and horrifyingly high price tags. “It’s not like I haven’t dated rich guys before, but this is unspeakable,” I grumble. “Is this how the one percent really lives?”

It’s close to midnight by the time I finish carefully folding the lingerie back in their little nests of tissue paper and shopping bags. I reluctantly held on to fifteen items that were just too pretty to part with. I’m spiteful enough to want to throw all this back in Logan’s face, just to prove I canna be bought, but… That bra and undie set in midnight blue and the silk robe printed with Japanese cherry blossoms are just so lovely. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful, it almost seems a shame to cover them up.

“Now, what to wear to bed?”

This is a dilemma. That slinky red chemise held together by delicate ribbons definitely sends the wrong message: “I’ll happily have sex with ye, husband for all the goodies.” Wearing what I’ve got on now seems… churlish. Settling for a silver silk cami and short set, I crawl into Logan’s bed.

It is big enough to count as an island, and its paradise . The mattress is an exquisite balance of firm while still letting me sink into it like a cloud. The sheets are Egyptian cotton and I am sure I canna calculate a number high enough to measure the thread count. Oh, these pillows… Big fluffy ones. Square ones. Round ones and a couple that are shaped like wedges. I puzzle over these until I spot some cleverly placed hooks in the bed frame.

Oh . I pile all the sex pillows at the foot of the bed, keeping an innocent-looking rectangular one for sleep.

It dinnae come. Images keep parading through my mind. The glass room collapsing with an almost human scream of distress. Logan shooting all those guards in the time it took me to register the first one down. Oh, god…

The sharp arrowhead between my fingers, sweeping awkwardly across Anselm’s hand, slashing a crimson line across his throat. The spray of blood I’d blocked out until now. How did I forget the blood?

The noise he made, a gurgling, glugging sort of sound like he was trying to speak through the ruin I’d made of him. It’s the only sound I’ve ever heard that I wish I could forget. I wish I could unhear it, even with the terror of losing my hearing I almost wish I had been deaf so I wouldn’t remember the sound of killing another human being.

Logan tried to protect me by claiming it was his bullet that killed Anselm, but…

It was me.

“Bella, what’s wrong?”

Logan’s back, and he runs his hands over my arms and shoulders, his face worried. “Are ye hurt?”

“No, I’m okay,” I blubber.

“It’s hitting ye all at once, aye?” He turns on the bedside table lamp, the soft glow surrounding us. “Vivid, full color like you’re watching it on a big screen?”

“How did ye know?” I’m wiping my wet cheeks with the hem of my fancy new chemise.

“We all go through it,” he says, producing a box of tissues from somewhere and wiping my face. “Ye canna be immune to violence unless you’re truly a psychopath. We all find ways to process it.”

“H- h- how do ye handle it?”

“Depends,” he shrugs. “Beat the shite out of a punching bag, go for a run. Sometimes, if it’s sticking with me too long, I go out and get blootered with my brother and our cousins. Though I hear drinking it all away isn’t a long-term coping mechanism. With you, my bonnie bride? I’m thinking it might help if I brush your hair.”

“What?” My sob comes out as a half chuckle and that’s progress.

Logan’s hazel eyes are warm, and he cups my face like I’m something delicate, kissing me lightly. “I’m gonna put your head on my lap and brush your hair. It’s so long and thick, I’m thinking ye might like that?”

“Um…” I take another tissue from the proffered box. “I remember my ma doing it a few times, when I was younger. But there were too many of us kids for pampering like that. There’s eight of us, if your unnaturally thorough background check dinnae include that.”

He fetches a brush from the bathroom and settles back against the headboard, putting a pillow on his lap. “Lie down, my bride. Let me take care of ye.”

Putting my cheek against the soft cotton, I feel him gently separate my hair, running a brush through the first section. He’s careful, not pulling or yanking on the strands and humming low in his chest.

“The pillow’s here in case my lower half forgets this is a nurturing moment and gets hard. My cock dinnae seem to have any sense of decorum when he’s around ye and I dinnae want him poking a hole in your cheek.”

When I laugh, this time it’s real.

Blootered - Scottish slang for completely shit-faced.