Page 3 of Room 1212

I tried not to thrash, tried pulling myself up, but my hands had cramped, and I was beyond exhausted; my body was giving out. One by one, my fingers pulled away from the cliff edge. Rock crumbled and fell, and I had to close my eyes against the grit behind my lids, blurring my vision. Tears tracked down my cheeks.

At least I would be blind as the ground rushed to greet me.

I held on as long as I could, until I was dangling by just one pinky. “Goodbye, Ritter,” I whispered, wishing my final words would carry through the ether to find him. “I love you…”

I felt the exact moment my grip finally gave out, and the relentless pull of gravity took hold. I began to fall—when suddenly, a hand clamped over my wrist.

“I’ve got you,” Ritter growled, hauling me up as though I weighed nothing, as strong as he was. His biceps flexed, and he drew me up until I was once again on solid ground, safe in his arms. He gripped me around the waist, pulling me flush against his hard chest, and I could feel the outline of his massive member pressing into my hip.

“I was so scared,” I whimpered. “I thought I would never see you again.”

He cupped my face in his large hand, stroking his thumb over my full lower lip. “I would never let anything happen to you,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You are mine, and I will always protect what belongs to me.”

As Ritter smashed his lips down onto mine, claiming me, owning my very soul, I allowed myself to feel safe for the first time in my life. I knew my enemies would come for me. The fae king was still out there, hellbent on revenge, but that was a problem for another day. I knew with total certainty that Ritter would save me from every peril.

He swept me up with him onto his horse, my back pressed firmly to his front, and as we rode for home, my heart echoed with what I knew to be true. In all of Emperor City, there was only one man for me. My alpha, my mate… my Ritter.

“The…end…”Ichokedout loud as I typed the final words. “Gods, that’s good.” Tears were streaming down my cheeks, and I wiped them away with the back of my hand, sniffling back the snot that threatened to drip down over my lips.

Where was a tissue when you needed one? The tissue box sat empty on the desk next to me, and I frowned and threw it into the garbage can under the desk.

I pushed back from my chair and padded across the hotel room to the bathroom. I unwound a whole handful of toilet paper and dried my cheeks, then blew my nose into it. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and winced. My eyes were puffy and bloodshot, my skin mottled pink, but at least I was smiling.

“I’m done!” I whooped. “Take that, stupid looming deadline!”

I always got super emotional like this when I finished a book, but this had been ten times worse. My publisher had set a tight deadline, hoping to time it with holiday promo, and it was really weighing on me, which resulted in writer’s block. In turn, the deadline got closer, and my anxiety got worse, and I had an even harder time getting words down. It was all a massive toxic cycle, getting me absolutely nowhere. So, I had rented a room at The Scarlet Hotel and sequestered myself here with no distractions so I could properly work. No TV, no social media, and more importantly, no hourly calls from my nagging agent.

I did a little dance over to the mini fridge where I had my reward chilling. “Ahhh, well earned,” I said, pulling out the bottle of champagne. I told myself I should order some food from room service so I wasn’t drinking on an empty stomach, but first… I had an important call to make.

I powered up my cell phone, ignoring the dozens of missed messages and emails, and dialed my agent. Sean picked up the phone on the second ring. “There you are. I was starting to wonder if you’d died—or worse, that you’d found yourself a new agent.”

“Of course not, Sean,” I replied calmly, “I would never die without telling you.” I grabbed a glass from the sideboard. They didn’t stock the rooms with wine glasses, so I settled for a tumbler.

“Very funny,” he scolded. “Maybe you should start writing comedy.”

I’d known he was going to be upset with me, so I just let him get it out while I poured myself a glass of champagne.

His voice was sharp down the line, ringing in my ear, so I set the phone down and put it on speaker. “I’ve been over here, making excuses for you with your publisher. They’re starting to panic. Your deadline is next week, and they still haven’t even seen any chapters. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“You can tell them the book is done,” I said with a smug grin, bringing my cup to my lips. The bubbles popped against my lips, and the sweet-acidic flavor danced across my tongue. It tasted like success.

There was silence on the line, and I knew he was probably pinching herself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Are you serious?” he said after a moment. “Like,donedone?”

I brought my drink over to where my laptop was set up at the desk, and I plopped down in the chair, attached the file to an email, and hit send. “First draft is entirely finished, and you should see the file appear in your email right… about… now.”

I heard the little bell in the background on Sean’s end as he was notified of a new email. I heard clicking, as though he needed to confirm I hadn’t been telling him a giant fib, then he blew a long breath out. “Jordan, you had me seriously worried there. I have no idea how you pulled this off, but you are amazing,” he gushed.

It almost sounded like he had been expecting me to fail, which only made me wonder why they’d arranged such a ridiculous scenario in the first place. Why did this keep happening? With each new contract, I kept telling myself that this was the last time, that I would refuse to put myself in such a stressful position again, but then here I was, six months later, in exactly the same spot.

The publishing business was cutthroat. An author could spend a year writing a book, pouring their soul onto the pages, and then a reader would devour the whole thing in under a day and be asking where the next book was because they couldn’t get enough. And as the publisher kept telling me, if I couldn’t keep up with the schedule they set for me, my fans would forget about me. They would move on to the next big author, and I would become irrelevant.

That potential future opened up before me like a bottomless pit. Some days, when the voices in my head got too loud, I considered throwing myself over the edge, saying screw you to the publisher and my agent, and leaving this lifestyle behind. I could get a job in a restaurant waiting tables, or maybe, like, as a lumberjack or something. That guy on social media who filmed himself chopping wood seemed really happy with what he was doing. I looked down at my frail arms and quickly nixed that possibility, but the point was, it could be any job. I didn’t need to be rich and famous. I could buy a little lot of land in the middle of nowhere and live off my savings.

But then, just when I hit rock bottom, I would get a message from a fan telling me how much my book meant to them. I would go to a signing and meet the people who read my books, and I would fall in love with the job all over again.

“I am sooo excited to meet your latest heartthrob,” Sean went on. “I’m going to sit down right now and read this whole thing in one sitting. And then I’ll send it over to the publishing team so their editors can tear it apart. Then the real work will begin.” He laughed as if it were a joke, when it really wasn’t.

Ugh. Thanks for the reminder. I’d almost been feeling good about this book for a hot minute. I threw the rest of my drink down my throat and got up to pour myself another.

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