Page 67 of A Forgotten Promise

Saar busies herself, not really doing much anymore. It’s like she is stalling. I hope to God she doesn’t want to talk about that kiss.

It was electric, and dangerously satisfying, but as I said, it was a moment of insanity. Though I probably didn’t need to be such an asshole about it.

She finally stops fidgeting and takes a deep breath. She clears her throat. “We should set the date.”

“I don’t feel too eager.” I down the vodka and glare at her.

Her eyes flare. “Are you for real? I’m not playing house with you, so you get everything and I get nothing. The sooner we marry, the sooner we can divorce.”

“That’s true. But given the shit you keep stirring…” I march across the room and yank at the plastic sheet covering the double door frame that leads to the dining room. “Case in point. I don’t feel very motivated to get you what you want from this arrangement.”

She rolls her eyes. She opens her mouth, closes it, and sighs. “Okay, you got back at me with the fucking inedible volcano pie—”

“Are you fucking kidding me? My prank doesn’t compare to this. Or to the cost of the wedding planner whose time you’re wasting.” I advance toward her, and she steps back, her back hitting the fridge. “I told you already, The Morrigan, play nice or you will regret it.”

Her breath hitches as she holds my gaze. “I promise to stop.” She swallows, and her throat moving sends shivers down my spine.

The woman fucking swallows and I’m aroused. Goddammit. While this thought travels through my useless mind, my brain gives up control or reason, and I grind my hips against her.

Her breath hitches. She fists my sweater, and for a moment I believe she’ll pull me closer. I can almost pinpoint the moment she decides against it, her expression smug.

“Momentary insanity again?” she taunts.

Fuck. I step away, and she dashes to the door. “The date, Corm.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Your promise is worth shit to me. Follow the script for a week, and we’ll set the date.”

“Asshole,” she mumbles, and turns, stumbling. She grips the edge of the counter and closes her eyes.

Before I know it, I’m by her side. “Are you dizzy again?”

“I’m okay.” But she doesn’t move.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” But her answer is weak, and she slams against the stool, lowering her head to her palms. “I just need a moment.”

The pale skin, the shadows under her eyes… the lack of food. Fuck, and I kept her hungry tonight.

“I’m calling a doctor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m anemic.”

“Why?” I ask like an idiot, the feeling of helplessness foreign and unwelcome, but so very present.

“Obviously I had a career that fucked with my hormones, and the only thing I have to show for that is getting married to you.” She climbs on to the stool.

I sigh. “I’m calling a doctor.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Can you just get me some apple juice from the fridge?”

I pour her a glass. She downs it. Fuck, she looks so tired.

“Let me heat up a meal for you.” I turn to pull something from the fridge. Damn it, Livia took it all. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“No hot sauce, please.”

“You don’t have to—” Saar yelps when I pick her up bridal-style.

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