Chapter 57. So Much Trouble
2002 Words
The morning light in Easkey didn't creep into the cottage; it arrived with a sudden, unforgiving brilliance that shattered the protective gloom of the night before. It was a sharp, Atlantic gold that slanted through the salt-crusted windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the stark reality of the choices made in the attic.
Rayna stood at the bottom of the narrow stairs, her fingers tracing the smooth, cool wood of the bannister. She was drowning in the charcoal wool of one of Caspian’s oversized sweaters- a thick, ribbed garment that smelled so powerfully of him it made her head swim. The sleeves swallowed her hands, and the hem fell nearly to mid-thigh, leaving her legs in tights but feeling the biting morning air. She felt exposed and cherished all at once, a walking confession of what had transpired between the guitar strings and the moonlight.
From the kitchen, the rhythmic sizzle-pop of bacon and the earthy, yeast-heavy scent of soda bread acted as a siren call. But it was the humming that made Rayna pause. Lydia was singing a low, melodic tune- the same one Caspian had played on the battered guitar.
Rayna took a steadying breath, adjusted the brim of the hat she had reflexively grabbed from the bedside table, and stepped into the light.
The kitchen was a tableau of domestic warmth. Lydia was standing at the stove, her silver hair caught in a messy, practical bun, moving with the effortless grace of a woman who had owned this space for half a century. Caspian was already there, seated at the small wooden table. He looked like a titan forced to sit in a child’s chair.
He was nursing a mug of black coffee, his dark hair still damp from a cold wash, his jaw shadowed by a night's worth of stubble. He looked lethal, exhausted, and- the moment his eyes landed on Rayna, completely undone.
His gaze didn't just land; it anchored. It traveled from the tips of her bare toes, up the length of her legs, to the hem of his own sweater, and finally to her face. The "King" was back, his expression a mask of stony resolve, but his eyes were a different story. They were dark, turbulent, and filled with a heat that threatened to scorch the breakfast table.
"Morning, sunshine," Lydia chirped, not even turning around. "I hope the attic didn't have too many spiders. It’s been a while since anyone spent that much time up there."
Rayna felt the heat rush to her cheeks, a vivid crimson that matched her hair. "It was... it was fine, Lydia. Very peaceful."
Caspian choked slightly on his coffee, a sharp, ragged sound.
"Peaceful, is it?" Lydia turned, carrying a plate of thick-cut bacon and eggs. Her "grocery list" eyes swept over Rayna, taking in the oversized sweater and the way Rayna was instinctively pulling the sleeves over her knuckles. She didn't say a word about the wardrobe change, but the corners of her mouth twitched with a knowing, infuriating amusement. "Sit, dear. You look like you need the energy. My Elijah used to look that pale when he’d stayed up all night worrying at a song."
Rayna slid into the chair opposite Caspian. The table was so small their knees brushed- a deliberate, electric contact that made Rayna’s breath hitch. Caspian didn't pull away. In fact, he pressed back, his heavy denim-clad leg a solid, burning weight against hers.
"Coffee?" Caspian asked. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, the kind of sound that made Rayna think of the attic floorboards and the way he’d whispered her name in the dark.
"Please," Rayna murmured.
As he reached over to pour her a cup, his wrist-bone grazed her hand. It was a tiny touch, but in the quiet of the morning, it felt like a lightning strike. Rayna looked up, catching his eye. He was staring at her mouth, his pupils dilating until the emerald of his irises was just a thin, vibrating ring.
Rayna felt a sudden, reckless surge of confidence. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she took a piece of the warm soda bread. She looked directly at Caspian, holding his gaze, and slowly, deliberately, bit her lower lip. She worried the soft skin with her teeth, her eyes wide and dark with a challenge she didn't quite realize she was issuing.
Caspian’s hand tightened around his mug until his knuckles turned white. He didn't blink. He looked like a man who was watching a fuse burn down on a stick of dynamite.
"The bread’s good, isn't it?" Lydia asked, appearing at Caspian’s shoulder to refill his coffee. "Elijah, stop scowling at the girl. You’ll sour her milk."
"I'm not scowling, Ma," Caspian said, his voice strained.
"You are," Lydia insisted, patting his shoulder. "You have that look you get when you’re trying to solve a puzzle you can't find the pieces for. Relax. The Atlantic isn't going anywhere, and neither is Rayna. Yet."
The meal was an exercise in beautiful, agonizing torture.
Every time Lydia turned to the sink or the pantry, the tension in the room ratcheted up. Caspian’s gaze was a physical weight. It lingered on the curve of Rayna’s neck, the way the oversized sweater slid off one shoulder, and the way her lips moved as she ate.
Rayna, flushed and feeling the lingering hum of the whiskey and the kiss, couldn't stop herself. She shifted her leg, her bare foot tracing the line of his calf under the table. She saw the muscle in his jaw jump.
"So," Lydia said, leaning against the counter, her eyes moving between the two of them like a hawk. "Daniel mentioned you’re leaving today. In eight hours, is it?"
"The flight is at six," Caspian managed, his voice tight. He finally looked away from Rayna, focusing on his mother, but he didn't move his leg. "Max is meeting us at Knock."
"Such a rush," Lydia sighed. "But I suppose the world won't wait for a girl with hair like a sunset and a boy who thinks he’s a wall. You’ll be careful, won't you, Rayna? This one," she gestured to Caspian, "he thinks he can carry the whole world, but he forgets he needs someone to hold the map."
"I'll look after him, Lydia," Rayna said softly.
Caspian let out a short, sharp huff that might have been a laugh if he weren't so busy trying to maintain his stoicism. He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the stone floor. "I’ll... I’ll go check the bags. Make sure the car is ready."
"The car isn't coming for five hours, Elijah," Lydia pointed out. "Go help Rayna with the labels in the scullery. I have to go see Mrs. O'Malley about the parish bake-sale. I won't be long."
Lydia grabbed her coat from the hook, giving them both a look that was far too sharp for a woman her age. "Try not to break anything while I’m gone. That scullery glass is fragile."
The front door clicked shut, leaving the cottage in a sudden, deafening silence.
Rayna didn't move for a long minute. She sat at the table, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She could hear Caspian in the next room, his footsteps heavy and restless. Then, the sound of the scullery door creaking open.
She rose, the oversized sweater swishing against her thighs, and walked toward the back of the house.
The scullery was bright, the glass panes of the lean-to magnifying the morning sun. Caspian was standing by the herb rack, his back to her. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed. He looked like a man fighting a war with himself.
"Elijah?"
He turned, and the sheer intensity in his face made her take a step back. The "King" was gone. The "Rockstar" was dead. There was only a man who had been pushed to his absolute limit by a girl in his sweater and a morning of quiet provocation.
In two strides, he was across the room. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed her waist, his large hands nearly meeting around her middle, and lifted her off her feet. Rayna let out a small, startled gasp as he backed her into the heavy slate counter, pinning her against the cool stone.
"You're a very cruel woman, Rayna," he growled, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot, smelling of coffee and the salt-air, his eyes dark with a possessive, unbridled hunger.
Rayna’s hands flew to his chest, feeling the frantic, powerful beat of his heart through his shirt. She was breathless, her skin tingling everywhere he touched her. "I don't know what you mean."
"The lip biting," he rasped, his thumb coming up to trace that very lip, his touch heavy and demanding. "The looks. The way you’re standing there in my sweater, knowing exactly what it does to me to see you in it. You think because my mother is in the next room I won't do anything?"
Rayna looked up at him, her eyes bold and bright despite the blush that stained her throat. "I think you’re a man of great resolve, Caspian. I wanted to see where it broke."
"It’s broken," he whispered, his forehead dropping to hers. He was shaking, a fine, rhythmic tremor of a man holding back a flood. "It’s been broken since the attic. Since the Mojave. Since the first time you sang and I realized I was never going to be the same."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice dropping to a jagged, predatory whisper that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"Enjoy the next eight hours, Little Rocker," he breathed. "Eat your bread. Talk to my mother. Be the 'lovely creature' she thinks you are."
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his grip on her waist tightening until it was almost painful- a delicious, grounding ache. His gaze was a promise, a dark and beautiful threat.
"Because the moment we are on that plane, the moment that cabin door closes and the world can't see us... you are in so much trouble."
Rayna swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. "Trouble?"
"The kind of trouble you won't want to be rescued from," Caspian said, his voice a low vibration she felt in her marrow. He leaned in one last time, his mouth hovering just a fraction of an inch from hers, denying them both the kiss they were starving for. "I’ve spent weeks being your wall. On that plane, I’m going to be your storm."
He released her so suddenly she almost stumbled against the counter. He turned and walked out of the scullery without a backward glance, his posture once again rigid, the "King" regaining his throne by sheer force of will.
Rayna stood in the sun-drenched room, her hands gripping the edge of the slate counter to keep from falling. Her skin was on fire, her heart was a riot, and as she looked down at the oversized charcoal sweater, she realized that the "Month of Silence" had just become the loudest thing in the world.
She had eight hours. Eight hours to breathe, to pack, and to say goodbye to the cliffs of Easkey. But as she heard the front door open and Lydia’s cheerful voice return, Rayna knew that the girl who had walked into this cottage wasn't the one who would be leaving it.
She was the "Red Queen," and she was about to find out exactly what happened when a storm finally met the fire.
- Writer
