Do Your Worst

by Rosie Danan

“I guess I feel guilty seeing you walking around all extra mopey.” “It’s called brooding,” Clark said, standing up a little straighter, “and no one complained when Darcy did it.” “Yeah, well”—she gave him a look just shy of a leer—“that’s because Colin Firth had the decency to get his shirt wet.”

“Here.” Clark tossed her a beige towel, avoiding looking directly at her. Staring down, she realized it might be because water had turned her already thin top fully translucent. Whoops. “We’ll both need to change, I expect.” He plucked at where his soaked denim work shirt had plastered itself to his chest like it paid for the privilege. “I can get you some dry things.”

When the next tug on her hair pulled sharply, Riley let out a soft gasp. “Sorry.” Clark immediately relaxed his grip. “I’ll be more careful.” “Don’t bother. I like it,” Riley blurted without thinking. There was a heavy pause. Her pulse began to match the wild riot of the storm pounding against the metal roof. There’s no need to get embarrassed, she told herself, fighting off a mounting urge to panic. So she liked a certain kind of sex. So what? She knew this about herself and had for a while. It wasn’t a big deal. And sure, it required a partner with certain complementary inclinations, but Riley didn’t expect Clark Edgeware to give her what she needed. He was English. His people had practically invented repression. Except he was slowly wrapping the tendrils of her hair more firmly around his fist. “Do you?” The words fell like velvet against the skin he’d exposed at the back of her neck. This time when he pulled the pressure was deliberate. A test. Riley shouldn’t do this. They’d been in a constant power struggle since they met. He thought she was beneath him. She wanted to be. “Yes,” she said, heart thrashing inside her chest.

a section tagged Artifacts and an instant photo of the dagger underneath. Doesn’t respond to fire, cleansing, or charms, she’d noted in the photo’s white space. Beside it, a Post-it read, belonged to Philippa? While Clark scanned the next few items on the wall, Riley grabbed a pad of fresh notes off the nightstand and scribbled manacles before throwing it up beside the dagger. “Oh, good. If you hadn’t written that down, we might have forgotten about them.” Riley drew a cartoon penis and promptly stuck it to his chest. “Very mature,” he said,

Riley couldn’t help stopping to take a deep inhale of the sweet, dry scent of preserved paper. America had a lot going for it, as far as she was concerned, but man, Europeans really took the cake when it came to old stuff. And gun laws. But that was a different story.

“In that case,” he said, a little breathless, a little giddy, “I love you.” Even after all the lead-up, the words still took her aback. Riley hadn’t known how much she wanted to hear them. How much she wanted them to come from Clark. How much she kept from herself, because wanting it scared her. But now. She carried his love for her in her chest. As if she’d swallowed the sun. And all she could think was I hope it’s the same for him. That he doesn’t just hear the words, but that they stay somewhere safe behind his ribs—a light that doesn’t burn out.

“You’re so fucking sexy.” He took her bottom lip between his teeth until she whimpered. “I almost want someone to walk through that door right now, see you like this—clothes half undone, gorgeous tits bouncing, pussy so wet for me you’re gonna leave a mark on this desk.” “Clark, Jesus.” Riley squeezed her thighs around his waist, locking her ankles behind back. “When we first met, I thought you were repressed.” Laughter made his strokes stutter. He brought two fingers to Riley’s lips, gently pushing inside so they rested on her velvet tongue. “I was a lot of things before I met you.”

He’d asked her once, after his father had forgotten her birthday for the second year in a row, why she stayed with him. Your father is a great man, she’d said with a sad smile. And I’ve never been able to stop myself from believing that with our help, he could also be good.

As it turned out, sometimes what you needed was someone who brought out the worst in you. There was a gift, she realized, that could only be exchanged between former enemies—permission to forgive yourself. Because if someone could see all your failures and faults, could actively seek out every possible reason to dislike you, and somehow still come around in the end, well, maybe your worst wasn’t so bad after all. The next morning, Riley and Clark woke up to find that for the first time in three hundred years, indigo angel’s-trumpet had bloomed on the grounds of Arden Castle.