Page 89 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
Lochlan’s gaze dropped to his lap. His fingers brushed against the ring Nia had given him, the token that was meant to ground and protect him, protect his life with her. Here.
“I don’t want you to go,” Becket said, quietly. “But maybe it’s a good idea to get closure.”
“Maybe,” Lochlan murmured, though his voice lacked conviction and unease coiled in his stomach.
What would Nia say?
Wulfric’s elderly assistant offered Lochlan a drink as he stepped into The Sword’s office. He declined with a polite shake of his head.
Wulfric peered at him over his glasses, seated behind the imposing desk that dominated the room. A single sheet of paper was in his hand, its crisp edges catching the light as he glanced between it and Lochlan. His expression was unreadable. Silence stretched between them, tense and uncomfortable.
It was the opposite of how Lochlan had felt when they’d first met.
One of the older herbalists at the castle had told Lochlan about Stella Rune: a town where magic was everywhere but glamoured from humans. His father had spoken of it once, wistfully, as a place he’d always wanted to see.
When Lochlan finally left Dover, desperate and alone, he’d followed that faint thread of hope. He applied for a groundskeeper job at the Videt, anything to stay afloat. Instead of handing him a rake, Wulfric handed him a lifeline: a scholarship to Videt Hall, the hidden school for the magical elite. Housing, food, tuition—all covered. It had reshaped his future and, at the time, felt like a miracle.
Now, Lochlan wasn’t so sure.
Wulfric had once been his mentor, a guide for a lost witch trying to navigate a new world. But that same presence now felt more like a looming shadow.
Lochlan took a breath. “I stopped by the ballroom and offered my assistance with the cleanup.”
Wulfric’s lips twitched, though his gaze remained steady on the paper. “I appreciate that.” Then, with a slight tilt of his head: “And where is the cause of the chaos?”
It wasn’t spoken with anger or condemnation. In fact, there was something smug—maybe even proud—in his tone.
“She’s at the Charis Foundation,” Lochlan said evenly.
Wulfric nodded, his expression unreadable. “And why have you asked to speak with me?”
“I need to leave for Dover.”
At that, Wulfric set the paper down and his face hardened. “For what purpose?”
Lochlan hesitated but pushed forward. “I have family business to attend to.”
Wulfric’s eyes narrowed. “Is my daughter going with you to that witch-hating cesspit?”
“I don’t know.” The words tasted bitter. “I haven’t asked her yet.”
Wulfric exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t like how this distance bodes for my bargain.” He folded his hands on the desk. “But, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t let her go.”
Lochlan nodded, careful to keep his expression unreadable. They had just one family dinner, one witch event, and a public appearance left. Three opportunities to convince Wulfric this marriage didn’t work. Three chances to secure the annulment Nia wanted.
But did she really want it?
Lochlan exhaled slowly. That was the deal—prove this marriage was a mistake, and they’d be free. Wulfric had stacked the odds against them, forcing them into shared moments, into each other’s space, hoping they’d fail at failing.
And Lochlan? He was failing spectacularly.
The autumn festival, the stolen moments, the way she had laughed, warm cider in hand, her fingers wrapped around his like she belonged there. Then the desk—her gasping beneath him, the sharp rip of fabric, and later, the sex. Fuck, the sex. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not here. Not now. Not with Wulfric staring at him like he could see every filthy thought running through his head.
But Nia was consuming.
And did any of it mean she wanted to stay married to him? That she wanted him—more than she wanted to prove her father wrong?
He didn’t know.
