Page 64 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“Don’t want to do it, or don’t want to hurt?”
“Both,” she whispered.
“Okay.” He ran his fingers through her hair, down her spine. His palm splayed flat across her lower back. Steady and solid. “You’re not ready now, but you will be. I hope you think about it. I hope you feel safe enough to try. Notstrongenough—it’s not a matter of strength.Safeenough. With me.”
Her shoulders collapsed forward, yielding to him. “I will think about it,” she promised, surprised to find she actually meant it.
Safe enough, not strong enough.
The distinction was quite revolutionary.
The vast majority of Margot’s life had been spent locked inside her head. And it didn’t often feel like a safe space. Maybe she did want to change. Maybe shecould.
“Are you tired?” he asked, lips gently pressing into the crown of her hair.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go to bed.”
When he lifted her off the ground, when he tucked her into his arms and carried her up the winding stairs, she didn’t feel weak. She felt cherished.
When he kicked open his door, when he laid her across his bed, she felt chosen.
And when he stepped back, shucked off his shirt and trousers, and dressed for bed directly in front of her—holding her eyes the entire time—she was aflame.
He disappeared for only a moment, passing through the adjoining door to retrieve a white nightdress. He undid the buttons on her back, kissing her bare shoulder. The nightgown went overhead, the day dress and chemise pushed to her feet. He pulled them off, his roughened fingertips just barely brushing the skin of her ankle.
When he pulled back the covers, when he curled his body around hers, wrapped his bare arm snug around her middle, she felt protected.
“Will you keep the ghosts away?” she whispered, her muscles growing loose, eyelids heavy.
“Yes, I promise. I will always keep you safe.”
21
July 14, 1933
Mr. Merrick Dravenhearst,
Excuses, excuses. Case in point: you missed our last.
That’s two strikes. You don’t want a third.
Don’t be late.
—A
Thecreakingoffloorboardswoke her. The slow, deep groans of a century-old wooden house resting in the still of night.
Margot didn’t move, hardly dared breathe, but she did crack an eyelid. Merrick was there, at the foot of the bed. Slipping into a pair of pants. Tucking in his shirt.
He was dressing. Going out.
She could hardly believe it. Going out in the dead of night, while she—his wife—lay right here in his bed. After he’dpromised, mere hours ago, she was safe with him.
Hadthis man no shame?
Merrick turned his back to her, sliding open a drawer with a whisper. He tucked something shiny into his waistband, shrugging into a jacket immediately after.
