Page 63 of Merging Wright

I nod, but the tears continue to leak. I want to curl into myself, push away from him, but Mach holds my face and lingers on my forehead. And more damn liquid trickles from my eyes, flowing down to my ear.

Mach saved me. He came after me. I don’t want to read into his actions. He clearly reacted to a life-or-death situation. He jumped in after me so I wouldn’t drown. There isn’t more to his response. His reaction was only instinct.

I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

More tears fall as relief and hope clash inside me.

“I’m tired,” I whisper, although I’m certain I’ve been sleeping for long enough.

Mach gently presses his forehead to mine. “Rest, baby. I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.” As he releases me, I can’t look at him, so I only nod with my eyes closed. Then I shift to my side with a sharp wince before drifting into fitful dreams.

+ + +

As I’m surprisingly not suffering a concussion but sore ribs and a cut on my head, I’m released after twenty-three hours of observation. Mach is incensed, but the hospital needs the bed, and I don’t want to be here any longer.

Our ride home is silent. To my amazement, Mach is driving his truck. I have so many questions about why he hasn’t driven it and what made him drive it now, but my head hurts too much for deep conversations.

When we arrive at the big house, Camilla flutters around me, asking how I am, if I’m hungry, do I need anything. She’s a buzzing bee of attention and anxiety.

“Ma, let her be,” Mach directs, holding my elbow like I’m an invalid.

I can walk. I’m just weak.

“Whatever you need, dove. You just ask.” Camilla is sweet, and my own mother should probably know I nearly drowned, but I don’t have the energy to call her and explain everything. I can hardly comprehend all that’s happened myself. Fortunately, Mae never called our mother to out my secret marriage.

“You need rest,” Mach says behind me.

I want to argue that what I need is to work. I’ve lost a day or two with the river debacle, but I can also admit I’m not myself yet. Staring at a computer screen or trying to decipher a business plan hurts my head just thinking of either.

“Okay.” I head for the stairs.

Mach follows me. His attention would be everything to me if I thought it came from his heart and not someplace else—like obligation. If I had died, his inheritance would have been jeopardized. He needs a wife as stipulated by the will. We still have months to live through this arrangement. Death has no place in our predicament.

Still dressed, I crawl onto the bed.

“Change, baby,” Mach softly commands. “Or I’ll undress you myself.”

Even with stitches in my head and an ache in my chest, his words set my blood rushing. I want to draw him to me, hold him tight, and thank him with my body for saving me. Having sex with him would only confuse matters, though.

The other night, he mentioned renegotiating the terms of our arrangement. I had no idea what he wanted to suggest as our conversation fell off-topic with my big reveal. I don’t know why I told him about Ripley and me. Or why I mentioned the baby. No one had known, not even my sisters. I had been hoping to get to three months before I’d announced my pregnancy. Twelve weeks felt like a safety net. I’d miscarried at seven and a half.

The memory adds to my exhaustion.

“I can do it myself,” I mutter, sitting upright and wincing at the pain around my mid-section. Thankfully, I hadn’t broken any ribs.

“Let me help you.” Mach rushes forward as if to catch me. As if I’ll tumble off the edge of the bed.

“Why?” The word comes out harsher than it should, so I try again. “Why?” My voice cracks on my second attempt. Why is he being so nice to me, so attentive, so sweet?

“I just . . .” Mach swipes a hand over his hair, and his eyes hold on mine. “I want to help.” That uncanny ability he has to hold his eyes still would typically upset me. But I don’t have the will to fight him. His lies fill me with sorrow instead. I don’t want help because of some misplaced sense of duty.

“I can do it.” I stand on shaky legs while Mach watches me cross the floor to the dresser containing some of my clothing. We each have a box in the corners of the room, emphasizing the temporariness of our situation.

Only eleven more months. Less than four, if we rush.

I fumble in the drawer for comfy leggings and a loose shirt. My hand wades through the things my sister sent me until I brush against something silky smooth.

“What’s this?” Mach questions from behind me, glancing down at the dresser drawer over my shoulder.