He could be patient.
He would be patient.
He had to be.
But somewhere deep down, a small voice whispered: When does she start trusting me without proof? When do I get to stop fighting for something that should already be mine?
Mac turned off the light and went back to bed. Rachel was curled on her side, Mr. Darcy pressed against her back. She looked peaceful in sleep, younger somehow, without the weight of fear on her face.
He loved her.
He just wished love was enough.
36
Rachel
Rachel was having a lovely dream about Mac reading poetry to her in a library made entirely of flowers when something heavy landed on her chest, forcing the air from her lungs.
She opened her eyes to find Mr. Darcy sitting on her sternum, staring at her with the intensity of a tiny furry drill sergeant. His green eyes were unblinking, accusatory.
"It's six-thirty," Rachel mumbled. "Breakfast isn't until seven."
Mr. Darcy meowed loudly. Once. A sound that clearly communicated:I don't care about your human schedules. Feed me now or suffer the consequences.
"You're a tyrant," Rachel told him.
Mr. Darcy's expression showed he was entirely comfortable with this assessment.
Rachel tried to shift him off her chest. He dug his claws in slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make his point.
"Fine. You win. You always win."
She sat up carefully, dislodging the cat, who immediatelyjumped to the floor and trotted toward the kitchen with his tail high, confident in his victory.
Rachel reached automatically for Mac beside her, but her hand met empty sheets.
She blinked, looking at the space where he'd been sleeping. His pillow still had the indent from his head, the covers thrown back like he'd gotten up in a hurry.
Two days since the wedding. Two days since Derek had crashed the reception. Mac had refused to leave her alone last night after the fifth unknown text from Derek, insisting on staying over again. She'd fallen asleep in his arms, feeling safe.
And now he was gone.
Rachel felt a spike of irrational panic—what if Mac left, what if—
No. Stop. Mac's keys were still on her nightstand. His jacket was draped over her chair. He hadn't left. He'd gotten up early.
Rachel followed Mr. Darcy to the kitchen, starting his breakfast routine on autopilot. Her phone sat on the counter, face down, where she'd left it after blocking the third unknown number last night.
She flipped it over. Seven missed calls from her mother. Twelve text messages from unknown numbers.
Her insides pitched.
She opened the most recent one.
Unknown:Rachel, this is—
Rachel deleted it and blocked the number.
