Storm Reawakened

The Contract

"Scoundrel!"

"Vixen!"

"Insipid!"

"Insolent!"

"Ahem. Tea is served," came a voice slicing into our tug-of-war of hurling insults. The sound of a cart being wheeled in interrupts the stifled air that's boiling with anger. Hawthorne and I managed to remain civil for less than five minutes before I rose from the sofa and he came marching from his desk to intimidate me with his height.

We're currently in each other's faces, our chests meeting while I point an accusing finger at his broad chest.

There's no way I'm not having the final word, so I splutter the first thing that comes to mind. "Dog liver!"

Hawthorne looks torn between wanting to act appropriate in front of a third set of eyes or to throttle me. Ha. I win.

The old servant merely raises his bushy eyebrows, inclining his head to one side to consider the new mistress he'll have to serve.

Fine. I guess I'll show a little compassion. "No, I take it back. Dogs don't deserve to be dragged into this, those poor creatures," I said demurely, softening my voice.

"Isn't she just the sweetest thing," Hawthorne bit out with extreme effort, splitting into a smile bordering maniacal.

Say what now?

I raise a brow questioningly and wait for him to explain himself when he scrunches my cheeks and pulls them with force. "Just the sweetest wife a man could possibly ask for."

"Ow, ow, ow. Oowwww," I groaned meekly, my voice losing volume thanks to his hold on me.

Hawthorne lowers his head to whisper, his breath tickling my ear. "Don't say another word and I'll release you."

Harrumphing through chipmunk cheeks, I do the righteous thing and stomp on his foot which immediately forces him to let go.

A smile of venomous contempt is all I give him before plopping down on the sofa and motion for the servant to hand me tea and cake.

He obliges silently—and I swear I catch a hidden smile twitching briefly—as Hawthorne grunts and takes the sofa opposite. I thank the servant graciously as he bows and sense Hawthorne's eyes on me that are assessing every breath taken. Cautious and suspicious all at once.

Rolling my eyes, I wield a dainty fork like a weapon and jab the air towards him. "Say one more thing, and I'll throw this fine delectable cake at you."

"Old habits die hard?" he asked acidly, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Actually husband, you've just inspired me to be more ingenious. Maybe I should toss extremely hot tea in your face instead?"

Losing patience, he tightens his jaw. "Can we please just come to an agreement?"

"Why? Do you intend to cheat and lie your way through this as you have everything else?"

Sighing, he runs a hand through his tussled hair roughly and turns to the servant. "Leave us, Hamish."

"Of course, your grace. Will the Duchess require anything more?" the servant questioned calmly turning to me as I shove a huge helping of cake into my mouth. Shit. This is like when waiters catch you off guard and ask how the food is when you obviously can't talk.

Nodding, I purse my lips after swallowing. "Yes, if I don't walk out of here in ten minutes—send word to my father to write my obituary. I'll probably be executed for murdering your master."

"Very well, madam," Hamish replied politely.

He bows once more before leaving, having set the table separating Hawthorne and I with afternoon tea treats and a pot steaming with fragrant black tea.

"Oh, I like him. Discreet and disinterested at all costs," I commented, sipping out of a cup in order to prepare myself for another verbal match with the Duke.

"We need to finish the contract, Evara. I'm more than happy to force you to commit to all your duties as a Duchess," Hawthorne said pointedly, the underlining of that statement bringing back the bulging fish eyes.

Sputtering, I choke on my tea and it takes several moments for me to calm down. Raising a hand in protest, I look at Hawthorne imploringly. "No, no, noooo! No way!"

"Then let's hear your terms. Preferably before dinner if you can manage to keep your temper in check," Hawthorne returned mockingly.

"My temper? You're the one who's indecisively conflicted when it comes to his emotions!"

"I'm waiting," he said through clenched teeth.

"Fine. It can only last up to a maximum of one year. You will help me persuade my father to send me far far away from the capital, irregardless of us catching my killer or not. And there must be absolutely no physical contact between you and I."

He considers my terms seriously, crossing his arms and offers a curt nod. "I'll agree to the first two only."

"Excuse me?" I asked blinking in surprise.

"That's my proposition."

"Erm, I think you're forgetting the fact that I hate you?"

Didn't think he needed to be reminded of that after being called dog liver, and yet. Here we are.

"And I think you're forgetting the fact that we need to make this marriage believable."

"Fine. I'll hold your hand in public. Happy?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "It's going to take more than that to convince the vultures out there, Evara."

"Then only when it's absolutely necessary. Now what are your terms, Duke?"

"One. You need to start calling me Eli. Second, it would be nice if you weren't going to broadcast to the world how ill of a match this is. And lastly, you won't interfere with my work."

"What work? You mean for the person pulling your puppet strings?"

"....Yes," he admitted begrudgingly.

Shrugging, I take a sip of tea. "Fine, I guess I can handle that."

"And one more thing."

"What?"

"You'll fulfill your duty as Duchess Hawthorne."

Shocked, my eyes widen. "You actually want me to run your estate? But this marriage is the fakest thing in this known world!"

"Like I said, we have to make it real."

"Wouldn't it be in your best interest for me to just act like I don't exist? I know I'd love to remain locked away in my room," I said, feeling my jaw ache from the false smile my lips are frozen in.

Hawthorne smirks, his eyes gleaming. "No such luck."

"You're impossible."

"And one more thing."

"I'm almost afraid to ask," I groaned, shoving a forkful of cake into my mouth.

"We'll be sharing a room."

I watch Eli Hawthorne scribble his demands on a pristine sheet of paper, my horror surmounting with every stroke of his pen.