Page 89 of Wicked Ruin

“You alright?” he asks behind me, but I can't bother to answer because I’m barely holding it together. I make it to the toilet just in the nick of time.

“Ah, there,” he says, because of course Declan is next to me, holding my hair out of the way and whispering soothing things in my ear. “Sorry, lass. You'll feel much better soon.”

I'm not even embarrassed because this is Declan, and he's my best friend—but I don't want to spend this one stolen moment I have with him by throwing up the contents of my stomach.

Finally, I'm exhausted and spent, my head resting on something that feels like tile. When I come back to myself, he's sitting in front of me, his brow furrowed in concern, one hand moving in slow circles between my shoulder blades. He holds a warm washcloth to my mouth and a glass of water.

“Water?” he asks. “I don't know if pregnant women who throw up want that.” And then he kind of grimaces and half smiles at the same time. “Most of my experience dealing with people throwing up has to do with the club, after they’ve had too much to drink. This is a bit different.”

“Water’s good.” I take the water and give him a weak smile.

“Better?” he asks.

“Grand,” I say, which is a lie, and we both know it.

He laughs, and I rinse and spit the water back into the toilet because I don't have the energy to stand. Then he's holding me, carrying me, helping me to my feet.

“Come on, love.” He puts an arm under me and walks me back to the bed. I want to protest, but I don't because I like being carried by Declan. He settles me against the pillows and takes my tea from the end table, checking the temperature of the mug with the back of his hand before handing it to me—which is the cutest thing and so Declan that I actually smile.

I take a sip. It's gone a little cold, but I drink it anyway. He sits at the edge of the mattress beside me, and it feels so damn comforting.

“Maybe I should get a dog,” I say, my eyes closed from exhaustion.

“A dog?”

“It feels nice to have someone sit on the edge like this. Dogs do that, don't they?”

“Do you think I look like a dog?” he says with that teasing glint in his voice that makes me laugh.

“You know what I mean.” He pats the top of the blanket by my arse, effectively giving it a muted smack.

I smile, then sigh, and I’m on the cusp of crying because… I want him to stay.

He bends and kisses my forehead. “I told you—you need to trust me. Okay?”

I nod. “Maybe we can run away,” I whisper, already knowing it's not true, that it's not a possibility. It's not even something I really want to do.

“Run away,” he repeats. “Where would you go, if we could?” I love that he doesn't say we can't—just gives me the space to dream.

“I heard Germany is beautiful. And I do like pretzels.”

“What would you do there?” he asks. “Besides eat pretzels.”

“Go to one of those Christmas markets. The ones with the little wooden stalls and the mulled wine and the smell of cinnamon on everything.”

“You'd drag me around a Christmas market? You know I hate shopping.”

“Gleefully. You'd hate every second.”

“Probably,” he agrees, and he's smiling. I let myself believe it for a moment—the two of us, somewhere nobody knows our names, eating pretzels at a wooden stall in the cold.

“I loved a cold beer,” he says thoughtfully, “even if I don’t drink it anymore. You could drink mine for me.”

“That's a lie,” I tell him. “I swear to god, everyone who claims to like beer is lying. Same with matcha. Both taste like punishment.”

He laughs out loud. “You would say that.”

I sigh. “When do you have to go?”