Page 50 of Princess of Pride
“She’s your fucking wife. If you stop forcing her into situations she doesn’t like, she could learn to like you too. Give her some choices.”
“I can’t give her choices and keep her safe,” Lachlan replies, his fingers brushing my thigh again. “Not until we resolve this ancient feud once and for all.”
“It’s my feud too,” Rory says. I can’t help you if I’m with her. Let Lorna handle it.”
“Lorna is busy running the castle,” Lachlan states in a calm voice.
“What about Tessa?” Rory asks.
“Are you fucking serious?” Wes snarls with bear-like rage.
“I would never do that to Tessa,” Lachlan says in a sincere tone. “In fact, I’d rather they not meet at all.”
“She works for you,” Rory says. “Seems inevitable. Plus, she still cares about you.”
My brain must be working better because one thing is clear. Tessa means something to Lachlan, and my gut says it was an intimate relationship.
Wes groans. “I need a drink.”
The air stirs as he passes by. From what I can tell, we’re in a set of four seats that face each other like in Dad’s private jet.
In the distance, a woman asks, “What can I get you, sir?”
“Whisky,” Wes mumbles, sounding farther away.
Ice clinks in a glass.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Rory?” Lachlan asks in a hushed voice. “Don’t ever bring up Tessa regarding Emery, especially around Wes.”
Rory sighs with disdain. “Mum warned you this could happen.”
Lachlan’s entire body stiffens under me. Even his hold on me tightens. “Don’t.” The quiet reply is delivered with the force of a sledgehammer.
Tension fills the air for long moments. Wes doesn’t come back. Eventually, Lachlan’s body softens. Unable to move still, I grow tired and let the drug coursing through my veins drag me back under.
A hard jostle rattles me from my slumber.
My lashes flutter as I struggle to open my eyes. Lachlan’s face comes into view. He’s staring at his phone, his head turned slightly away. I’m on his lap, in his arms. Warmth radiates from his strong body.
“What happened?” I croak.
His gaze snaps to me, and he studies my face. “How do you feel?”
I touch my head where a dull ache lingers behind my eyes. The movement feels weak and uncertain, like I don’t have full control over my body. “Tired and fuzzy.”
“Headache?” he asks with a tenderness that suggests he cares.
“Yes.” I make several slow blinks.
He adjusts me so my head rests on his shoulder, then takes a glass of water from a nearby tray. He helps me hold it, aware my fingers aren’t at full strength. Together we get a few sips down my throat.
“Is your stomach upset at all?” Again, the sincerity in his voice throws me.
“No. Just my head hurts.” Should I feel sick? He still hasn’t told me what happened.
“Ibuprofen,” he orders Rory.
His brother pours pills from a bottle and hands Lachlan two.
