Page 16 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

Trying to keep control, I exhale and focus on her instead of my very fucking dirty thoughts.

Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she’s twisted a towel around her hair. Loose strands have escaped to curl against her neck.

She looks vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I possess surge forward.

I can’t help but notice her sigh or the way her shoulders are rolled forward, as if exhausted from the weight of everything we have set in motion.

Maybe I should feel guilty for invading her privacy like this.

But I don’t.

Instead, I watch intently as she moves through the narrow length of her living room, the robe swaying against her calves.

In the tiny kitchen, she pulls a bottle of cheap red wine from the refrigerator and pours a generous glass.

Resting her hip against the counter, she takes a long drink.

A faint grimace crosses her face at the taste, but she keeps drinking, as if the burn might steady her.

Her phone rings on the counter.

With a sigh, she snatches it up, and I’m able to see Clinic on the screen.

She answers on the second ring, voice steady but threaded with the tension I can hear even through the feed.

“Yes, this is Sophie Langford.” A pause. Her free hand grips the edge of the counter. “The next payment wasn’t due for three weeks. My father said…”

There’s another pause, this time longer.

Caleb and I exchange glances as the color drains from her face.

“Yes.” She closes her eyes. “I understand the next cycle starts soon. I’ll make sure it’s covered. Please, just hold the slot.”

She ends the call and sets the phone down with deliberate care, but she curls even more tightly into herself.

“Fuck.”

Sophie should not have to carry the burden alone. And from this moment on, she won’t have to.

After another drink of wine, she picks up the phone to call her father.

The line rings. Rings.

The bastard doesn’t answer.

The frustration that flashes across her face is brief but vivid—lips pressing thin, eyes narrowing.

Without leaving a message, she stabs the icon to end the call.

After a sharp inhalation, she squares her shoulders and moves to her laptop to login to her bank account.

The screen fills the feed, and the bottom-line number is stark.

Far too low for the bills she is juggling. Her breath catches, audible even here, and the microthought crosses her face clear as day: how much longer can she stretch this before something breaks?

Caleb and I exchange a look. His jaw tightens, the predatory edge of him surfacing. I nod once, decisive.

“On it.”