Chapter 86

Ruby

“I’ll never doubt you again,” Atwood says as he holds my face in his hands. A soft smile plays on my lips as I lean my cheek against his palm.

For the first time, I feel confident that Atwood is on my side. Now that I know that there is no curse and that Atwood will protect me from being poisoned, I feel as though I can finally rest easily.

On the way back to the castle, I realize how exhausted I am from everything that has happened recently and fall asleep on Atwood’s shoulder, the taste of his kiss still lingering on my lips.

I’m awoken back at the castle by a gentle kiss on my forehead.

“We’re here,” Atwood says softly as I open my eyes. “Do you want me to carry you to bed?”

I nod, still exhausted from the stress of the past few days and the pancakes in my belly. Once all of the turmoil is finally over and I get my happily-ever-after, I imagine that I’ll probably just want to do nothing but sleep for a week straight.

Atwood slides his arms under me and scoops me up to carry me inside. As I rest my head on his shoulder, I can feel his cool hands gently stroking my waist. His touch makes me aroused.

He enters the castle and carries me up the stairs to my room, where he gently lays me down on the bed and plants another soft kiss on my forehead before standing to leave. Before he leaves, though, I open my eyes and grab his wrist.

“Are you alright?” Atwood asks, turning back to me with a puzzled expression on his face. I simply nod, my wolf hormones taking over as I pull him down to me and kiss him.

Atwood lets out a soft groan as his body collides with mine. I wrap my legs around him as I kiss him deeply and pull him closer, my fingers trailing down his neck and working at the buttons on his shirt. I can feel his erection press up against me through his pants as I unbutton his shirt to reveal his smooth, muscular chest and abs, which only makes me more aroused.

“Ruby…” Atwood whispers, his lips brushing my ear as he speaks and sending a chill down my spine. “...Not yet.”

I know that he wants me now, but his sense of tradition is stopping him from going through with it. He sits up on his knees, his hair a bit messed up as his chest heaves. I sit up, too, my face red with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment.

“Why do we have to wait?” I ask quietly as Atwood stands and buttons his shirt.

He avoids my gaze. “I just want to do this right,” he answers. “I want to make you my bride, and make love with you for the first time on your wedding night.”

“When, though?” I ask. “You were in such a rush to marry me before. Why wait now that we’ve marked each other?”

Atwood doesn’t answer, but I almost feel as though I can read his true thoughts.

“It’s her,” I say.

Atwood spins around to glare at me, his face depicting an expression of shock at my words. “What do you mean?” he growls.

I stand from the bed to face him. He towers above me, but lately I’ve been feeling more confident, more like his equal.

“You’re still in love with Vivian,” I say, shocked at my own candidness, “and you’re not ready to have sex with me.”

Atwood’s face becomes red with anger. He balls up his fists at his sides and storms out of the room without another word.

I know that what I said was cruel, but it’s been on my mind for some time now. Truthfully, I’m not upset or hurt that he’s still in love with Vivian. She was his first mate, after all. I just wish that he would be open about this sort of thing with me instead of burying his reasons behind a veil of wanting to wait until marriage.

Around dinnertime, I finally emerge from my room to find something to eat. When I enter the kitchen, Atwood is already there. His back is turned to the door as he stands over the stove, cooking something that smells like garlic. I’ve never seen him cook before, but watching him sauté the food with his sleeves rolled up makes him look even more handsome in my eyes.

“Pasta aglio y olio,” he says without turning around. “Spaghetti with garlic and olive oil.”

“It smells delicious,” I say, walking up to him and peering around him to see what he’s cooking. He waves me away.

“Sit down,” he says sternly, in such a way that it makes me aroused again. “It’s almost ready.”

I do as I’m told and sit at the kitchen island. He finishes cooking and shuts off the stove, placing the pasta on two plates in neat little nests, then sprinkles them with parmesan cheese and fills two glasses with white wine.

“Bon appetit,” he says with a slight smile, holding his glass up for a toast. We clink our glasses and each take a sip. The wine tastes light and sweet. We eat for a bit in silence. The food is hot and savory, and the taste of garlic permeates my senses. As we eat, I think to myself that I hope Atwood cooks for us like this more often.

After a little while, Atwood finally speaks. “I am still in love with her,” he says quietly, avoiding my gaze as he swirls his wine around in his glass. “But that doesn’t mean that I care for you any less.”

“I know,” I respond, reaching across the counter to touch his hand. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Atwood looks back up at me with a smile and takes another sip of wine. “I just need a little more time,” he says. “And I do mean it when I say that I want to marry you first. I’ve always been a man of tradition.”

We finish eating our dinner, making casual conversation as we eat. When we’re finished, Atwood clears away the plates and disappears in the pantry for a few minutes to return with a large slice of chocolate cake topped with ice cream and cherries.

“What are you doing all of this for?” I ask softly as he sets it down between us.

He shrugs and sticks his fork into the cake. “I haven’t been the best mate since you’ve come here,” he replies. “I want to make it up to you.”

With a smile, he holds out his fork for me to take a bite.

The cake is sweet and moist and makes me smile, but as we eat there is still one thing on my mind that I just can’t shake.

“How are you going to deal with… well, with what we learned today?” I ask, wanting to be vague in case someone might be listening.

Atwood swallows his bite of cake and furrows his brow. A loose strand of silky black hair falls in front of his face and he tucks it back behind his ear. “I want to give it a little time,” he says. “I want to make sure that we have concrete evidence before doing anything.”

“How long, though?” I ask, somewhat impatiently. The thought of potentially being poisoned by Alice or the Queen between now and whenever that may be worries me.

“Christmas,” he says. “I’ll do everything I can to get all of the information I need by Christmas. And then, I’ll confront whoever it is; although, I’m almost certain that both of us know who is behind it.”

“Why Christmas?”

Atwood sets his fork down and sits back. “Christmas will be when they least expect a confrontation.”