Page 12 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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Lochkelvin estate is such a welcome, pretty sight after trudging through mud and fallen branches for nearly two full hours. Although the storm dispels, it cedes to the buffeting gale, which blows us almost directly to the manor. Most of the windows glow with a butter-yellow, old-fashioned light, the kind of light that reminds me of late-night study sessions in Lochkelvin library, golden halos that guide us back to comfortable warmth.

Not that Rory needs lights to find where he belongs. I have a feeling he knows it instinctively, even in the dark, even in what feels to me to be the middle of nowhere, the way a passenger pigeon is honed to sense direction and steer itself home.

The wild weather had quashed all ability for conversation beyond the usual warnings ofwatch out for that treeandbe careful, there’s a burrow over here. So when we finally stumble into the warm shelter of Lochkelvin, slamming the door on the raging gale, gathering breaths that had been attempting to catch up with us as we followed a loping Captain Porthos, who’d beat the first messy path to the manor, there seems a surreal quality to our togetherness now that our voices can finally be heard without struggle.

Now that we’re upright, no longer creating pleasure on the ground, no longer beings of pure elements… now that we’re in some fancy-ass manor with Degas paintings and objects that had been produced with price tags in mind — a whole world away from the hills and glens we’d roamed for free — none of it feels real anymore.

Rory tugs off his wet wellies, shooting me a once-over glance when I refuse to move. Even though my teeth are chattering from the cold and I’m drenched from head to toe, I don’t want to strip off. I don’t want out of these clothes, this costume I’d put on for the afternoon, because casting it aside would mean lessening the memory, lessening the sway, the hold, the power that had had us bound up in each other like demons. Waterproofs and wellies are now destined to spark a deep, triumphant lust in the pit of my stomach, like the imprint of a fetish, something that will make my shy heart beat ever faster in future recollections. When I cling on to this memory with tight fists, it’s because I don’t want to lose the one good moment, the one gift, Rory has decided to bestow me with.

I know all too well that Rory is carved from cruelty and broken hearts. That he thrives on pain and torture. I’m not naive enough to think we’rea thingnow after a quick fumble in the mud. I know my obsession with him — and by now it is an obsession — eclipses whatever extent his feelings are for me. Pity, shame, embarrassment? Maybe that’s why it happened out of sight, out of earshot, on the crown of a windy, desolate hill.

But today he gave me a present. Today he gave me hope.

And that’s a dangerous thing to give a girl with an obsession.

“You have mud on your cheek,” Rory points out, ever graceful.

“So do you.”

He scowls at me but there’s no heat in it. I stare as he undresses in the hallway, as bold as anything, peeling layers of waterproofs from his body, casting them to the floor and stepping outside the puddle of fabric by his feet. His bottom layer is one of tan corduroy slacks and a crimson cashmere sweater. His blond hair flops neatly across his forehead, as though it isn’t soaked to the root. He inhabits the style of posh-boy country gent almost as well as he inhabits the role.

“If you’re waiting to dry before getting changed, you may be waiting a while.” He approaches me as he drawls this. With a raised eyebrow as I say nothing in response, he asks, “Have you gone numb?”

With shaking fingers, I hold the zipper of my waterproof. I pull down teeth that feel glued together until it jams completely. Rory takes over, guiding the zipper down with a careful glance at me. “You should shower before dinner,” he notes, and I try not to feel offended. His sweater looks so warm and inviting, so fluffy and un-Rory, that all I want to do is bury my mud-streaked face into it.

“Will you be with me? For dinner, I mean,” I ask, hoping to God I don’t sound as desperate for him as I am in my soul. It’d be funny if it weren’t so tragic.

But Rory doesn’t laugh. He nods, peeling the waterproof away from me and tugging at my elastic waistband. “I’ll be there.” Perhaps sensing I need some kind of reassurance about this afternoon, he informs me in a low voice, “I won’t tell anyone about today, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

No. No, it’s not what I’m worried about.

I’m worried you’ve slaked your thirst.

I’m worried you’ve scratched an itch.

I’m worried you’ve used me like you have all year.

I’m worried you’ll never be with me again.

I’m worried I’m a goddamn fool.

I pull off my wellies and step free of my waterproofs, bundling all the dark slick fabric together.

“Ah, you’re back, sir.” Armstrong’s voice drifts down the hallway, his well-heeled shoes clicking on the marble floor. “I’ll take that from you, ma’am,” he says, taking my dripping waterproofs and tutting at the small puddle they’ve made beside my feet. He opens a silver hatch embedded into the wall and tosses the clothes away. I assume it’s some kind of laundry chute, but part of me wildly wonders if it leads to a furnace. Everything here gleams with wealth that they could probably afford to destroy their clothes after a single use.

Armstrong returns, buffing his white-gloved hands together and tilting his head at Rory. “You have a guest, sir.”

Rory’s brows furrow. “So soon?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Young Mr. Fraser arrived unexpectedly while you were away. He is in quite a state. He’s currently playing darts in the drawing room and, if I may, attempting to eviscerate the traditional wood paneling in the walls.”

I blink in surprise. My brain short-circuited at the mention ofYoung Mr. Fraser.

Finlay’s here?

Rory turns to me, as though sensing the sudden catch in my throat. “Go upstairs. I’ll see to him.”

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