Page 82 of The Cuddle Clause
There it was. The subtle jab. Roman’s hand tensed, just enough that I felt it.
“And you always did have a flair for being condescending without breaking a sweat,” I said with a sweet smile.
Eric shrugged, pretending at harmlessness, but his eyes glinted. “No judgment. You look…happy. I guess that’s what matters.”
Roman shifted, his body turning slightly, and I could see the flicker of wolf beneath the surface. Calm. Controlled. Definitely not amused.
“Thatiswhat matters,” Roman said, voice easy, but there was steel under it. “She deserves to be happy.”
Eric opened his mouth, maybe to volley back another layered compliment that was really just an insult, but Roman moved. Just a step, turning as if to gesture for us to head out, but his boot caught the uneven edge of the path—whether by accident or design, I didn’t know—and in the process, his shoulder clipped Eric’s.
Eric, who was too busy trying to look unbothered, stumbled. One foot slipped on the damp stone near the fountain’s edge, arms flailing, the perfect picture of surprise and indignation. And then?—
Splash.
The sound was glorious. Echoing. Final. Bianca shrieked, jumping back as water sprayed her leggings. Her phone nearly slipped from her hand, and for the first time all night, she looked up, eyes wide with horror.
Eric surfaced, sputtering, his hair plastered to his forehead, his shirt clinging in all the wrong places. The shock on his face was funny enough, but the way he tried to recover, tried to summon even a scrap of dignity while standing ankle-deep in fountain water, was what broke me.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It bubbled up and burst out before I could stop it, leaving me breathless, tears pricking at my eyes. Roman looked down at Eric, the picture of innocence, though his lips twitched at the corners.
“San Francisco’s unpredictable terrain,” Roman said, deadpan, offering no apology, no explanation. He just stood there like the ground itself had betrayed Eric without any help at all.
Eric glared, water dripping from his nose, but he had no comeback. He hauled himself out of the fountain, his shoes squelching with every step.
Roman turned to me, his grin finally breaking through, and took my hand again. He squeezed it gently, and we startedwalking, leaving the sound of Eric’s wet footsteps and Bianca’s frantic scolding behind us.
We didn’t rush. Roman glanced down at me as my laughter faded into quiet giggles.
“You good?” he asked, his thumb brushing mine.
I smiled up at him. “Better than good.” I meant it.
Because for once, I didn’t feel like the girl who lost. I felt like the girl who got away.
The clue came through with that now-familiar golden shimmer, Lucien’s enchanted app practically glowing with self-satisfaction:Bring back a token of your adventure that represents your bond.The words scrolled across my screen like the grand finale of some fairy tale, but all I felt was the quiet thrum of my heart, still trying to settle from the chaos of Eric, from the way Roman’s hand felt in mine as we’d walked away from that mess like it had never touched us.
I exhaled, glancing over at Roman as we crossed the park to the car. The city was soft around us now, the glow of the streetlights casting halos on the damp paths. His hair was mussed from the wind, shirt untucked at the hem, sleeves pushed up like he’d forgotten to care, and his smile—the real one, not the practiced one he gave the world—lingered at the corners of his mouth.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” I asked, holding up the phone like the app was some divine authority we couldn’t ignore. “What’s our grand token? A rock? A leaf? One of those free newspapers?”
Roman stopped walking, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled something out with a quiet kind of certainty that made my chest ache before I even saw it. He opened his palm, and there it was: a crumpled streetcar ticket stub, edges worn, the ink faded from where he’d clearly fidgeted with it all night without realizing.
“This,” he said, his voice low, roughened by the night. He caught my gaze and held it, no teasing, no smirk. Only honesty. “I don’t need anything fancy to remember this night.”
He tucked the stub into my hand, folding my fingers around it like it was something precious. And maybe it was. My throat felt tight, too tight for words, so I nodded, closing my fist around the little scrap of paper that somehow meant more than anything Lucien’s app could’ve dreamed up.
We drove back to the estate in an easy, comfortable silence. Roman’s hand rested on the gearshift, brushing mine every now and then, and neither of us pulled away. The city lights gave way to the dark curves of the road leading into pack lands, the trees tall and shadowed, the night cool and clean. I stared out at it, at the soft glow of Lucien’s estate on the hill ahead, and felt that same traitorous flutter in my chest that had been building all night.
When we pulled into the circular drive, Lucien was waiting. He stood on the top step like some sort of Alpha Gatsby, arms spread wide, grinning like we’d just returned from battle rather than a scavenger hunt. Around him, the pack was gathering, some looking tired, some laughing, all of them eyeing the absurd enchanted trophy perched on a velvet-draped pedestal. It gleamed in the moonlight, silver wolves intertwined, magic making the eyes glow just faintly, like they were alive.
Roman helped me out of the car—of course he did—and we climbed the steps together, the city’s night air still clinging to our clothes, to our skin. Lucien clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the courtyard.
“Our champions return,” he announced, because subtlety had never been his thing. “And with what token of their adventure do they bless this sacred rite?”
I held up the ticket stub, my hand shaking just a little, though I told myself it was from the chill in the air. “A streetcar ticket,” I said, feeling a little ridiculous. “It’s... it’s ours.”
Lucien’s smile softened, something proud and knowing beneath all the theatrics.
