Page 43 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

I was on my third glass of wine and my third glass of water, trying to strike some kind of balance that wouldn’t leave me clinging to Roman’s arm like a spider monkey at the end of the night.

My heels already hurt. My cheeks were sore from fake-smiling.

And every time someone clinked a glass too hard or laughed too loud, I jumped like a bomb had gone off behind me.

Roman stood at the bar beside me, deep in conversation with one of his childhood friends whose name I’d forgotten the second he’d said it.

He looked relaxed—chin tilted, easy grin—but I knew him well enough now to know he was uncomfortable.

It was in the way his fingers tapped against the glass in his hand, the subtle angle of his shoulders like he was bracing for a shift in the wind.

I sipped my water. Cold, thank God. My throat was dry, and the ballroom had grown hot with all the dancing and champagne and unspoken tension in the air.

That was when Lucien appeared. Not his usual grand entrance with a sweep of silk or a stage-worthy proclamation.

This was… different. His smile was stretched too tight, his eyes too sharp, his movements a fraction too quick.

He caught Roman’s arm like it was urgent but tried to do it with the elegance of a man plucking lint from a lapel.

I wasn’t supposed to hear what he said, but the band was on break, and the hum of conversation had dipped low enough that Lucien’s stage-whisper carried straight to me.

“We have a serious problem,” he said, still smiling like he was complimenting Roman’s tie. “The wards and ley lines are not responding to the bonds. At all. Not like I expected.”

Roman’s tapping fingers went still. “How bad?”

Lucien’s smile didn’t move, but his voice dropped to a sharper register. “Bad enough that if anyone with half a sense for magic takes a walk outside, they’ll notice. The readings are stagnant. There’s no surge from the new pairings. Nothing.”

I froze, glass halfway to my lips.

Roman’s voice was low and even. “Maybe it just takes time. You can’t expect centuries-old magic to rearrange itself overnight…”

Lucien’s jaw flexed in a way I’d never seen. “The magic should have responded instantly.”

My stomach turned. My pulse picked up. Maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t responding because our “bond” was a performance.

Roman shifted his stance, blocking more of Lucien’s view of me. “Then give it the night. Let everyone drink and dance. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Lucien glanced around the room like the walls might have ears, then gave a curt nod. “Fine. I’m going to take a shot of top-shelf tequila and try to forget about it until sunrise. But if those readings are still flat tomorrow…” His smile sharpened to a blade. “I don’t know what we do next.”

He patted Roman’s arm, turned with a swirl of silk, and melted back into the crowd.

If the wards were relying on this whole farce to work—and it wasn’t working—then what? What happened when the magic called our bluff?

Out of nowhere, someone clipped my elbow with their purse.

It was just enough force to jolt my hand and send half the water cascading down my arm.

I gasped quietly, flinching as the chill bled through the fabric of my dress and soaked into my shoulder.

The sharp sting of cold trickled under the strap, and I fumbled for napkins off the bar top.

Roman didn’t notice. Still talking. Still pretending everything was fine.

I blotted at my arm, dabbing the fabric like a woman trying not to make a scene, until something caught in the corner of my eye.

Seraphina. Waltzing toward me like she was floating, one hand wrapped around Dwight’s arm and the other holding a flute of champagne with the confidence of a girl who’d gotten everything she wanted.

She looked happy. Radiant, even. Her eyes sparkled with something genuine and soft. Her hair was pinned up with perfect intention, strands tucked behind one ear so the entire left side of her neck was on display.

The claiming mark was unmistakable. Two raised scabs just above her collarbone, deep and red-purple like a permanent bruise. It looked painful. And proud.

And then it hit me.

Scars. Bruises. Water.

Fuck. The water. My hand was still clutching a damp napkin. Had I—? I dropped it and reached up to brush my fingertips along the curve of my neck, where Roman had faked the bite the night before.

The makeup. The foundation. The fake blood stain Roman had blended so carefully.

Was it gone?

My skin felt… smooth. Not sticky. Not powdery. Just skin. Panic flared in my chest. Without thinking, I tugged my hair loose from its twist and let it fall across my shoulder, covering my neck. I did it quickly. Too quickly. Like I was hiding something.

Because I was.

I scanned the room, heart hammering. I didn’t see Lucien. I didn’t see any of the elders. Roman’s eyes narrowed. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. Just whispered the word, barely audible. “Scars.”

He stilled. His hand ghosted over my lower back as his face paled. “Shit.” He tilted my face toward the light and cursed under his breath. “It’s gone.”

“No kidding.”

“I can try to fix it.”

“With what? A cocktail napkin and red wine?”

His lips twitched like he wanted to laugh but knew better. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You keep saying that,” I whispered, “but we’re not figuring anything out. We’re tap dancing.”

“I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t sure what he was sorry for—this moment, this mess, all the damn pretending—but I nodded anyway. I tried not to think about how Seraphina’s scar had made her glow. Or how mine never existed to begin with.

And then, of course, Seraphina came over.

“Maggie,” she said brightly, launching into a hug like we’d been besties for years instead of passive-aggressive rivals with a history of hallway snarling.

I stiffened. Roman didn’t move. He stayed behind me, hands balled into fists at his sides.

Seraphina kissed my cheek. “I just wanted to say I’m really happy for you. I mean, we got off on the wrong foot, obviously, but I think we’re going to be such good friends now that you’re part of the pack.”

I swallowed the urge to laugh. Or cry. Or pass out.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling like I hadn’t just suffered a full-body adrenaline spike.

Her eyes flicked to Roman and back to me. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Being bonded. I mean, it changes everything. I feel like I finally know who I am.”

I nodded vaguely, fingers curling tighter around my clutch. “Yeah. It’s… life-altering.”

Seraphina turned her body slightly. “I told Dwight I was going to wear my scar out. I earned it, might as well show it off, right?”

Her eyes dropped to my neck, and I saw the exact second she realized something was off.

She tilted her head. Her lips parted.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Where’s your scar, Maggie?”

Roman took a half-step forward, his entire body coiled.

I forced a laugh. “Oh. I’m… a fast healer.”

The words felt ridiculous the moment they left my mouth, but I kept my tone breezy and light.

Her eyes narrowed. “That fast?”

I shrugged. “Guess I’m not as fragile as I look.”

I barely had time to turn my head before Seraphina’s hand clamped down on my shoulder.

“Let me see,” she hissed, yanking my hair aside so fast, my neck snapped sideways.

“What the hell?” I tried to shove her off, but her nails dug in, and she was already clawing at my neckline like a woman possessed.

“There’s nothing there,” she shouted, voice cracking into something wild and victorious. “He never bit her! Look! There are no scars!”

Everything stopped. The violins trailed off into silence, the clinking glasses froze mid-toast, and for one brief, breathless second, it felt like the entire pack turned to stone.

And then they turned on us. Eyes locked on my neck. On Roman. On me.

Roman’s voice cracked beside me, low and urgent. “Maggie. We need to go.”

I was still mid-shove with Seraphina, but he was already pulling me, his hand locking around mine. Warm. Commanding.

There was no time to think. We ran through the crowd, past the pillars, dodging gasps and whispers and at least one full-on growl. Someone reached for Roman’s arm, but he shoved them off without missing a beat. We burst through the grand doors and out into the night, the cold air slapping my face.

Roman didn’t say a word as we sprinted to the car. His fingers shook as he unlocked it. I slid in and slammed the door shut just as voices spilled out behind us. He hit the gas. The tires squealed as we pulled away from the mansion and sped down the road.

My pulse refused to slow down. My chest ached. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

He glanced at me once. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I snapped. “What the fuck just happened?”

Roman exhaled through his nose, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We’ll fix it.”

“Stop saying that.” My voice cracked, but I didn’t care. “You always say that.”

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t.

I turned toward him, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “We are standing at the precipice of hell, Roman. You get that, right? We’re not in the ‘wing it’ phase anymore. We’re in the ‘torches and pitchforks’ phase, and you’re still acting like you’ve got some secret plan stashed up your sleeve.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he said flatly.

I barked a humorless laugh. “God, do you hear yourself? You sound like a guy trying to fix a leaky sink with duct tape. You’re not even trying. You’re just reacting. Always reacting.”

Roman’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

I leaned back against the seat. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and be proactive for once? Say something. Do something. Make a choice. You say you care about the pack. You say you care about me. Prove it.”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this about whether I care about you.”

My throat burned. “Then what is it about? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re perfectly content to just float through this and let someone else decide what happens to you.”

Silence.

I turned to look at him again. “Well?”

Still nothing.

Fine. Be that way.

I stared out the window the rest of the way, arms crossed over my chest like armor, watching the familiar streets blur by.

We didn’t speak again until he parked in front of our apartment.

Roman got out first, slamming the car door a little too hard.

I followed, trying not to scream into the night air.

We were halfway up the steps when I saw Eric.

He was standing outside the door, a bouquet of white peonies in one hand, the other jammed into his pocket like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

My stomach dropped. Roman froze beside me.

Eric’s eyes flicked between the two of us. His mouth twitched, but he tried to smile. “Hey.”

“What… What are you doing here?”

He held out the flowers like they might explain everything. “I wanted to talk. I figured… maybe you’d be home.”

Roman stepped forward slightly. His entire body coiled tight like he was waiting for a punch that might already be coming.

I looked from Eric to Roman and back again.

Perfect. Just what we needed.

Another complication.