Triplet Babies for the Scottish Mafia Boss by Rosalie Rose

7

Emma

Freefall.

Is this all I am?

Open space, yawning wide beneath me. The sea opening black jaws. The wind pummeling me toward the cliffside. Haunted walls collapsing all around me.

Is this all that I was to you?

I slam into Malcom. His arms come up around me, powerful and strong. A stunning crack! sounds behind me, followed by the roar of falling stone and crumbling earth.

We hit the ground, Malcom taking the impact by landing on his back. As soon as we’re down, he wraps me close against his chest and rolls, shielding my body with his as a wall of Blicktenner Castle shatters into the sea.

We lie there for what feels like an eternity, the reverberation of the collapse rising through the ground. I bury my face in Malcom’s chest, my entire body quaking. Beneath his rain-clothes, warmth emerges. I never want to let go. I never want him to let go.

“Are you all right?” he finally asks, his chest vibrating against my ear. “Emma. Look at me.”

I shake my head, burrowing deeper into his arms. “I’m OK,” I choke out, the tears beginning to flow once more. “I’m OK.”

“Can you stand?”

“No,” I admit miserably, my legs liquid and trembling.

He slowly stands, holding me up by the arms. When he releases me, I do everything I can to stay upright. But my body is useless with fear, and I collapse right back into him. He doesn’t hesitate, sweeping me into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” I say miserably, wrapping weak arms around his neck. “I’m sorry I ran.”

He’s silent as he begins trudging through the ruins and into the overgrowth.

The fear returns—but it’s different now. “Are you going to kill me?”

Malcom stops abruptly. I pull back, looking into his face. I can only make out traces of him. Furrowed brow, clenched jaw, glittering eyes. He leans toward me, and I don’t know what comes over me—but I lean toward him too.

“I will never hurt you, Emma Rosen.” His voice is barely a growl. “No matter what you do, I will never hurt you.”

Warm tears flood my eyes and spill over. “Then why did you take me?”

“You are the only woman I’ve ever seen a future with.” This he utters so quietly I’m almost certain I’ve misheard him. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth. That this is how that future has begun to unfold.”

I hold onto him, wanting more. Wanting better. Wanting another answer. I want him to say he’ll set me free; that this was all a wretched mistake. That seeing me in danger, my life threatened, was enough to change his heart.

Maybe Pete and Jen and Callie are right. Maybe, underneath this monster, there is a good man.

But that man is not good enough.

“Take me home,” I whisper, surrendering. I bury my face in his neck, angry and miserable and weak, but grateful, at least for the warmth of him. “Take me home, Malcom.”

And he does.

* * *

A knock.

I look up from where I’m sitting in the window seat, arms wrapped around my knees. “Come in.”

I jump up when it’s Malcom who enters, rather than Pete or either of the maids.

“It’s all right,” he says, holding up his palms. “I’m just here to talk.”

I sink back into the window seat, drawing my legs to my chest. I’m in a cotton nightgown and wool socks, my hair loose. I took a bath when we returned from Blicktenner, got some restless sleep, and I’m only just starting to feel like myself again. It has to be around noon, though from the unyielding gray sky, you’d never know it.

Malcom comes to the window, remaining a respectful distance away. For a long time, he’s silent. As he looks down on the estate, the rolling green hills, the distant castle, the ocean, I look at him. He’s as beautiful as ever, dark red curls and those deep pool eyes. But just now, he looks as tired as I feel. I think about everything Jen and Callie and Pete told me. I won’t forgive Malcom, and I certainly don’t understand him. But I can’t help but feel sympathy for the man who lost everything, and seems determined never to be vulnerable again.

“I want to be clear with you,” he says after a while. “You will be staying here, Emma.”

My stomach sinks. I wasn’t expecting anything else, but still. Some silly part of me thought escape really was possible. After last night, I’m realizing it’s not.

“I will succeed Sampson Gladwell. I will rule the Scottish mafia.” He stares dead ahead, his face grave and cold. “This life is all I know. And I owe my father this much.”

I bite my lip, studying him. “What if can’t give you a child?”

“You will.” He says it with a kind of passive confidence that makes my heart hurt. This practical stranger has more faith in me than the man I nearly married. “And you will, soon.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“I told you I won’t touch you without your consent.”

My face burns, and I look quickly to the window. “I’m a prisoner.”

“You’re a guest.”

“Who can’t leave.” I slide my eyes to him. “Malcom.”

He startles at the way I say his name, brow furrowing as he considers me.

“Is this all I am to you?”

He frowns. I don’t mistake the way his posture changes. He stands up straighter, squares his shoulders, schools his expression. “It’s all you can be. I’ll never love, Emma. I’ll never be a proper husband.”

“But you expect me to be a proper wife.”

“I expect you to live here, in luxury and controlled freedom, and bear me a child. With me, you and our child will always be protected. They will always be powerful. I was brought up in this world, Emma. I know it. And we will thrive in it.”

Tears burn in my eyes. It really is futile, isn’t it? I nod, pressing my lips together. Sooner or later I’ll have to surrender myself to Malcom. Will it be anything like it once was? Carefree? Passionate? Full of love?

Could it possibly be, when he doesn’t trust me? When I’m locked away like a princess in a castle?

“I want you to leave this room.”

The words shock me. I look up at him in question, and find him watching me, his face full of intensity.

“I don’t like that you’re in here alone,” he says softly. “Day in and day out. You…”

“I, what?” I hold my legs more tightly to my chest.

“You used to write. Poetry.” His jaw clenches, as though even admitting to remembering this physically pains him. “You can again. I have a library. A garden. You…could be happy here.”

It occurs to me suddenly that he really means this. That somehow, he’s not trying to hurt me. Impossibly, this softens my angry, hardened heart. “Happy.”

“Or an approximation of happy.” He takes a deep breath, then steps back, suddenly withdrawn and cold again. “I’m leaving again. Tomorrow.”

“So soon?” I rise, turning to watch him go.

He stops at the door, touching the handle. “You almost sound like it saddens you.”

My neck burns. For a moment, I don’t trust myself to speak.

“I know this situation is…impossible, for you.” He doesn’t look at me as he says it. “But this is your world now, Emma. Please. For your sake. Adapt. It will make it easier on us all in the end. Please. Don’t fight.”

Such a strange thing to say. I approach him thoughtfully. He looks down at me when I reach him at the door. “Let me go,” I say, “and I won’t have to.”

Suddenly, gently, he places a rough palm against my cheek. “You loved me once.”

The words are astonishing. Full of something that burns and gleams. Something that frightens me. But I don’t pull away. “Yes.”

“You’re safe here, Emma. Let me build you your own world. All I ask is that you let me.”

I stare at him in shock, but before I can think of what to say, he drops his hand and leaves.

This time, the door to my room remains unlocked when he goes.

This time, the door to my room remains open.