Page 59 of Xander

“Eat,” he ordered, setting it down. “You barely ate at breakfast.”

So, we were back to bossiness. I sighed. “How did you know that?”

“There was a camera in the room.”

I lowered the cheese I was raising to my lips. “You put cameras in the staterooms?”

“I was worried about you. I wasn’t sure what you would do.”

I looked at him distrustfully, but his expression was—perhaps even more terrifyingly—sincere. I swallowed the bite of goat cheese and forced a trembling smile, wondering how I was going to get myself out of this situation.

The cheese was incredible. I loved whipped goat cheese. I stared down at the plate, suddenly noticing that it held a number of my other favorite items: herbed crackers baked with edible flowers, fresh figs, goat cheese, and Spanish olives.

Xander stared at the board, not eating. “Try the jam,” he suggested. “It’s raspberry rose. I’m told it pairs well with the Manchego.”

The jam was curiously bitter beneath the sweet. Maybe Xander had meant rose hips instead of roses.

The lights overhead blurred. I pushed away the cheese board, rubbing at my temples. I’d eaten all of the goat cheese, most of the jam, and far more of the aged prosciutto than I probably should have, given how Henry had always harped about my figure. I felt lethargic as if I had drunk more than a few glasses of wine.

“Tired?” Xander asked, looking at me again.

“Y-yeah.”

“Come here.” He slid around from the table, not bothering to clean up the mess. And though I was incredibly upset with him, I sank against his weight. The warm, herbal scent filled my nose; it was as potent as wine. “Jordan,” he murmured.

“What’s wrong?” Xander asked.

“I’m just so tired.”

He smoothed my hair back from my face before bending to pick up the shopping bags. “Okay, baby. Then close your eyes.”

Close your eyes.

I hadn’t meant to do it, but my exhaustion was a lead weight dragging me down into the dark. When I opened my eyes again, the restaurant was gone.

Everything was gone.

I was standing at a dock like in a nightmare, the air thick with the smell of sea salt. There was a booth at a distance with a big maple leaf on the front of it selling candy to children. TOUR P.E.I. was written in big, bold letters on a sign with a picture of a little Victorian girl.

Wild-eyed, I looked around, stumbling a little in my haste as a pair of sunglasses I didn’t remember putting on slid down my nose.

“What,” I began, the word sliding from my tongue like ice. “Where⁠—”

A man in a suit was opening the door to a black car. “Welcome to Canada, miss.”

“Oh god,” I whispered, rubbing my temple.

“Relax, Jordan.” That too familiar voice came from slightly behind me, and a second later, I felt a hand on my arm. I stiffened when his body bumped against mine. “You’re safe now. No one can get to you here.” It sounded like a promise, but it could have been a threat.

Chapter

Eighteen

XANDER

The measly items Jordan bought from the store were scattered around the room. Stepping over the shopping bags, I carried an unconscious Jordan into my—no, our—bedroom, piquing my housekeeper’s curiosity about the Sleeping Beauty in my arms. After all, it was my first time bringing a woman to Ilion.

The Canadian province of Nova Scotia had only a handful of major cities. When Halifax, the capital of the province, put together an NHL team, I jumped at the opportunity to move. I was particularly taken by the nearby nautical town, Lunenburg, which had both old-town and modern charms. The picturesque town reminded me of Jordan—bright, blue, charming. I jumped at the opportunity when an estate named Ilion was announced for sale in the heart of the city.