Page 11 of Ward

My water bottle slips from my hand and falls to the hardwood with a heavy thunk.

I jump away from the door and then freeze, stunned. By the time I hear the thump-thump-thump of footsteps approaching, it’s too late—

The door is open, and Aidan is looking straight at me.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks.

My throat is suddenly bone dry. He’s no longer wearing a shirt, and his naked chest is even more powerful than I imagined. Sheened with sweat, his ab muscles ripple with each breath he takes.

“Did you need something, Grace?” Standing in the doorway, he seems bigger somehow, like his presence is commanding more space from the air around him. There’s an authority to his voice I’m not used to hearing. One that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end like soldiers at attention. Even my nipples salute.

I swallow to release the tension in my throat. “I was on my way to my room when I heard...”

His gaze narrows. “What did you hear?”

My breathing grows shallow. I know what I heard, but I’m afraid of what it’ll mean if he confirms my suspicions.

“I heard crying,” I murmur. I can’t bring myself to elaborate beyond that.

He runs a hand over his mouth and down his chin.

“It’s not what you think.”

“What is it, then?” I ask.

Aidan’s chest expands as his gaze bores into mine. I’m convinced I can feel him digging around in there, unearthing long-buried secrets and planting more seeds. My heart feels like it could hammer its way out of my ribcage.

He points down the hall, over my shoulder.

“Go to bed, Grace.” He shuts the door, leaving me standing there gasping like a goldfish that’s been flung from its tank.

As soon as I can take charge of my limbs again, I pick up my water bottle and scurry back down the hall. Instead of going to my bedroom, I slip downstairs to the sitting room attached to the foyer. I want to see Fiona again before she leaves. Just to make sure she’s okay.

Aidan’s words echo in my mind. It’s not what you think...

I’m not sure what to think anymore.

About forty minutes later, I hear bootsteps on the stairs. Aidan and Fiona appear in the entryway, fully dressed and somewhat flushed.

“You really are a master at the reverse figure-eight,” she says. Reverse figure-eight? Is that a sex position? “When Jacob comes home from Oslo, you’ll have to come round for dinner and teach him your technique.”

“I look forward to it.” Aidan holds her coat up so she can slide her arms into the sleeves.

Fiona’s gaze hitches on mine in the sitting room. She turns to Aidan.

“May I say hello?” she asks.

I instantly tense.

Aidan sighs. “If you must.”

Fiona makes her way over to where I’m curled up on the suede couch with a copy of Jane Eyre that I haven’t cracked open once since I sat down.

“Hello, love,” she says kindly. “I’m Fiona. I’m terribly sorry if we alarmed you.”

“It’s all right.” I’m not sure what to say beyond that, so I don’t say anything. The fact that Fiona seems okay—happy, even—relaxes me somewhat, but I’m still wary. I watched my mother smile through her tears more times than I can count.

Aidan clears his throat. “Grace should be in bed.”

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