Page 40 of The Cuddle Clause

Roman

I sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, rubbing the back of my neck. My skin felt too small for my body. Like my body didn’t know how to hold all of me inside it right now.

Across the room, Maggie paced back and forth. Arms crossed. That crease between her eyebrows digging deeper with every step.

I kept my face blank, my body still, but internally? I was spiraling. Fast.

Lucien’s words wouldn’t stop looping in my head. You and Maggie will be the headliners.

Like we were entertainment. The perfect romance to distract the pack from the politics underneath it.

Maggie stopped pacing and looked at me. There was no softness in her face right now. Just curiosity layered over betrayal, her expression unnaturally neutral.

I cleared my throat. “Okay. So, wild idea… I think we can fake it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Fake a magical soul bond?”

I forced a shrug. “Well, fake the appearance of one. The magic surge from the other couples might mask it.”

Maggie crossed her arms tighter. “Explain.”

So I did. I told her how the bond will be measured collectively during the ceremony, how the ley lines flare when the magic hits.

“If the ley lines light up just enough, Lucien won’t ask questions. At least not right away,” I said.

I didn’t say what we were both thinking. Lucien would find out eventually. I was gambling with everything—my place in the pack, my standing, my future…

But I couldn’t—wouldn’t—claim her without her explicit desire. Without her understanding what it meant. It made my stomach turn. It made my jaw hurt just thinking about it.

I’d rather get exiled than hurt her like that.

She flopped onto the couch next to me, limbs loose but eyes tight. Thinking. Always thinking. “Okay, let’s say we fake it. How? Like, is there a script for this? A magical Pinterest board of How to Pretend Your Souls Just Bonded?”

I snorted before I could stop it. Her sarcasm cracked something in my chest open. “Sadly, no. But we could make one. Add it to the fake-dating archives.”

We started planning. Fake blood to simulate the bite. Scent-masking herbs to throw off the enforcers afterward. I’d wear something sharp enough to look like I still had my shit together. We synced the timing down to the second: when to step forward, when to flinch, when to arch, when to breathe.

It was a plan. A stupid, fragile, desperate plan.

My temples throbbed, and I pinched the bridge of my nose.

Maggie gave me a look. “That’s it, right?”

I hesitated. God. I hated this part.

“Almost,” I said. “There’s… one more thing.”

She tilted her head warily.

“There’s a reception the day after. For all the newly bonded couples.”

She blinked. “A reception?”

I nodded. “Slash gala. Dress code: intense. Full pack attendance. A whole... thing.”

She groaned and dropped her head back against the couch. “Holy fuck. How many events can one pack have? You guys must really love each other.”

I smirked, even as my stomach curled in on itself. If only you knew how hard I’m trying not to love you.

“We’ll use costume paint. Make it look like bite marks. No one gets close enough to check. I’ll handle scent patrol.”

“Can’t wait,” she mumbled.

We moved the coffee table to clear a space in the living room and started running through it.

Just practice.

That’s what I told myself.

I stood behind her, hands hovering near her shoulders. She turned to me, face tilted up like she wasn’t about to punch straight through my chest just by looking.

“Do I flinch or melt when you ‘bite’ me?” she asked.

I deadpanned. “Ideally? A little of both.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t look away. I stepped in close. Leaned forward. My mouth hovered near her neck…close enough to feel the warmth of her skin.

I didn’t touch her. I didn’t breathe. But her scent wrapped around me anyway. Soft and sharp. Like cedar and morning. Like heat. Like her.

My pulse stuttered in my throat. My wolf pushed forward, clawing inside my chest. He knew what this was. He wanted it for real.

But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

She deserved to choose. To understand. To say yes with her whole self.

I closed my eyes and pulled back. The air between us felt electric. Dangerous. Like one wrong move would light the whole room on fire.

“Okay. From the top,” Maggie whispered.

I nodded and stepped back. Reset.

Again.

If I played this wrong, I could lose her.

If I played it right, I still might.

The bell above the bridal shop door chimed softly. Inside, everything smelled like lavender and money—some expensive candle combination that warned me not to touch anything unless I could afford a spontaneous destination wedding.

I followed Maggie in and immediately regretted every decision I’d made that brought us here. Cream walls. Rose gold racks. Mirrors everywhere. Some vaguely witchy music playing low under the buzz of recessed lighting.

A saleswoman glides toward us with a terrifying amount of enthusiasm. “Welcome to Precious Lace! Here for a dress fitting?”

I opened my mouth to say no, but Maggie nodded like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Yep,” she said. “He’s the mate. I’m the problem.”

The saleswoman laughed like that was cute. I tried to smile. It probably looked like a grimace.

Words like purity fabric, ceremonial layering, and lunar silk started flying around like confetti. I stood stiffly beside a mannequin wearing a dress that had more crystals than fabric and kept my hands shoved in my pockets, pretending I wasn’t dying inside.

Maggie disappeared behind a curtain with a handful of options.

I could hear her voice—casual, a little snarky, and a whole lot of strain underneath it all.

She was pretending too. That’s what we did.

Because if we pretended well enough, maybe no one would notice we were both a little broken under the surface.

I tried not to pace.

My wolf didn’t understand what we were doing here. He kept scratching at my chest, confused, growling in circles. This should’ve been a mating moment. Real. Sacred. But it wasn’t.

“Ready?” Maggie called, then pulled the curtain aside.

My brain stopped working.

The dress was simple. White, fitted, no glitter or lace.

It hugged her waist and hit just above the ankle.

Her shoulders were bare, and the light caught her skin, making it look like she belonged in a painting.

Her hair was piled on top of her head in careless elegance, a few strands falling out like they’d gotten bored of perfection.

She didn’t look like she was wearing a costume.

She looked like my future.

My lungs forgot what their job was. My chest ached like I’d taken a punch from the inside out. I blinked too fast, throat tight.

She frowned. “Hey… are you okay?”

I cleared my throat and waved a hand in the air, grasping for some kind of joke to cover the spiral. “Yeah. No, it’s just… what the hell are they burning in here? Sage? Rose petals? My allergies are staging a coup.”

Her mouth twitched into a half-smile. She turned to the mirror. Twirled a little.

God, she looked perfect. She looked like she should have been mine already. She looked like the life I could’ve had if I hadn’t screwed everything up a long time ago.

But she wasn’t mine. If she was, she’d have stopped this ridiculous act and told me she wanted it for real.

She hadn’t. So, I played my part.

“I’ll take it,” I said when the saleswoman reappeared.

Maggie gaped at me. “Seriously?”

I nodded once. “It’s the one.”

I paid while she changed back into her real clothes. I didn’t look at the receipt. I’d pay double if it meant I got to see her in that dress again.

We walked out of the shop together, the sun dipping low between the buildings. She held the garment bag like it was something fragile. I offered to carry it. She let me.

That small gesture—letting me help—nearly undid me.

As we walked, she took my hand and intertwined our fingers.

I didn’t say anything, but I did commit the moment to memory. I wished it could always be like this. No performances, no politics. Just her and me, walking home. Existing in the same space, hearts beating in sync.

If things had been different… If I hadn’t propelled us into this whirlwind of fake dating… If we hadn’t experienced the pack pressures and the staged ceremonies…

Would she have chosen me?

I loved Maggie. Not the kind of puppy love I used to roll my eyes at. Not lust. Not affection. Not convenience. I loved her the way I loved running as a wolf in winter. With my whole body. With bone-deep clarity.

She challenged me. She called me out when I shut down. She made me feel seen when I didn’t want to be.

I’d never wanted someone the way I wanted her.

And I was terrified I was going to ruin it.

As we neared the apartment building, I looked over. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. When she’d stepped out of the changing room, she’d looked like a bride. She’d looked like a lie.

If I lost her, I wouldn’t recover.

Not from this.

But I didn’t say any of that. I opened the door for her and followed her inside.

I pretended everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be.