Page 41 of Captive Mafia Wife

Maybe…three is a crowd.

Chapter Eleven

Fredrick

The next fewweeks are a flurry of activity. I know her heart aches for her family, and I want to keep her as distracted as possible as Callum works to make amends with the islander Kings while planning an act of retribution against the Hoax for using Freya as they did.

And if he can’t?

Our marriage must go forward. She’ll need that extra layer of protection. Until then, I’ll do everything I can to keep her safe.

Though my current job for the Kings is much less tumultuous than Callum’s, I dare say my days are filled with more tension than his. The constant pull and tug of power between Freya and me, the sexual tension notwithstanding, has me on my toes every moment of every day with her.

No matter how things work out for Freya, I’m determined to make her my wife. Defeating the Hoax feels like a chess game compared to getting the fiery Valkyrie princess to marry me. I’ve not given up hope.

The dress remains hung in her closet, where she can see it daily. Every morning, she moves it to a different closet in the castle. I seek it out every afternoon, replacing it in her closet so it’s there when she prepares for our evening meal together.

If Joyeux and I get my way, one of these nights, she will wear it again.

Days are spent walking the property, planning renovation projects, and training the young staff.

We work well together.

Except when we don’t.

Nights, we dine together in the dining room, dressed well, having “good banter” as she says, her sipping wine or whisky, me sparkling water. We make a pretty picture. After our meal, I walk her to her room. She allows me a kiss. Then sends me to bed in my separate room.

With tension in my balls that makes me feel as if they’ll break, I’ve taken to swimming in the nude at night, under the moonlight, the frigid temperatures cooling my blood. MAWR-vein stands on the river's edge, blankets wrapped around her shoulders.

“Lifeguarding” me, as she says. There’s no way she’d go in after me, but she figures she can call for help. I think she’s softening toward me. The luxury suite I booked in town for her and her husband to celebrate St. Andrews’s Day probably didn’t hurt our relationship.

She’s not taken to Freya like I’d hoped.

“Too pretty,” she said to me. “The pretty ones are nothing but trouble, Mr. Fredrick.”

Luckily, I’m game for a bit of trouble where Freya is concerned.

Tomorrow is St. Andrews Day, and as Freya says, it’s a big deal in Scotland. It happens every year on November thirtieth and celebrates a saint named Andrew, who was once an apostle. In 1320, he became the official patron saint of Scotland when they declared they wanted to be their own independent country.

Hourrah Scotland!

See. I can be fun.

The day is all about having a good time and embracing Scottish culture—that means tables spread with food, lots of fiddles and bagpipes, and Scots debuting their best moves on the dance floor, ceilidh dancing into the late hours of the night.

And they eat, God, they eat.

For starters, there’s Cullen Skink soup—the soup tastes better than the name sounds—made with smoked haddock, taters, as they call the potato, and onions. Then comes the main course: haggis (if you're brave enough), turnips, and mashed potatoes. You can make it at home or go to any pub or restaurant in Scotland that day for the classic options. For dessert, warm up with some clootie dumplings and custard—a delicate Scottish dish with dried fruit, spices, oats or breadcrumbs, flour, and beef suet. I’ve no idea, nor do I want to know, the meaning of the word clootie.

It's a bank holiday. MAWR-vein threatened to lead the staff in a revolt if I didn’t give them St. Andrews Day off with pay. As I had already planned, I gave them the day off with pay and threw in a generous bonus with a note telling them their St. Andy’s Day drinks are on me.

MAWR-vein truly has a husband, a reclusive artist who lives in a cabin in the forest. Tonight, they have a date planned at their favorite pub, The Walrus and the Carpenter, where they will enjoy buckets of ale and piles of haggis.

With the staff away and neither of us allowed to use the stove—they didn’t teach a cooking class in the fancy boarding school I attended—I planned a getaway evening for Freya and me.

There will be no party, no rowdy pub for her this year. I need to distract her from that fact, so I’m taking her into town. I’ll have the place we’re going heavily guarded and escorts for the drive. She’ll be safe outside my walls from the Hoax for this one night.

She won’t be safe from me, though.

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