Chapter 16 #2
She carefully reached toward the bandage near his temple, though her fingers stayed hovering over it.
“Does it still hurt?”
Archer watched her quietly as her fingers brushed near the edge of the wound.
“Nae as much.”
She gazed into his dark eyes, the irises lit up by the fire in the hearth. He was lying, she could tell. The wound was severe and so was the damage behind it, though Acher wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not even to her.
Perhaps not even to himself.
And yet, he was exhausted. The attack had tired him out more than he wanted anyone to know.
River softened instinctively when she noticed just how tired he looked, just how haggard in the soft light of the fire.
In the morning, he could hide it, especially when he was surrounded by people, but here, in the dark, in a private room, he gave up on trying to appear indestructible.
Archer leaned back slightly in the chair with a sigh “I remembered somethin',” he said after a long silence.
River’s hand stilled over the wound. “What?”
“Fragments.” His gaze drifted toward the fire. “From when I was younger.”
River stayed quiet, letting him continue at his own pace, though she itched to know more.
Had he only remembered his childhood? Had he remembered anything about their marriage, about the way he was treating her before?
Nothing seemed to have changed now, so she doubted it, but that pang of fear sent her heart racing.
“There were other attempts before this one,” Archer said flatly.
“I daenae have many memories. Just...pieces.” His jaw tightened slightly in thinly concealed anger, and River didn’t know whether he was angry at whoever had attacked him or at himself for not being able to remember more. “Enough to ken this isnae new.”
Something heavy coiled in her stomach as she listened to Archer’s memories—the few he had regained. She could imagine him as a child in these halls, living in fear after an attack. She could imagine him wondering why anyone would try to harm him.
“A bairn shouldnae have to survive things like that,” she said, her mind drifting back to Arya and Colby. They, too, had survived too much, and though they had lived through it, like Archer, it had ruined something vital deep within them.
A humorless smile touched his mouth. “A future Laird should probably expect it.”
River hated how casually he said it, as though violence had become so normal to him he no longer knew how monstrous it truly was.
“Ye were just a laddie,” she said softly.
Archer shrugged, though the movement lacked conviction. “I survived.”
“That doesnae make it acceptable.”
His gaze returned to hers then, and for one brief moment, River saw something foreign in his expression. It wasn’t quite fear; it was a deep, all-encompassing weariness, as though he had spent his entire life waiting for the next blade to appear.
River reached for his hand again without thinking. “Ye're nae alone anymore,” she said quietly.
The words seemed to catch him off guard. Archer looked down at their joined hands for several seconds before speaking again.
“When the attack happened,” he said softly, “me first thought wasnae even about the knife.”
River frowned slightly. “What was it?”
“Ye.”
The single word settled heavily between them, like a stone dropped into a deep lake. River’s breath caught traitorously in her chest, and Archer’s expression turned lighter then, almost teasing again, though something shattered remained underneath it.
“I remember thinkin’,” he said, “that it would be deeply irritatin’ to die before gettin’ ye into my bed willingly.”
River stared at him blankly for a few moments, thinking that she surely must have misheard him, but then she decided that no, that was precisely what he had said.
“There’s the Archer I ken,” she grumbled. His response, a low laugh , ent warmth curling through her stomach.
“Me greatest regret,” he said quietly, “would have been never claimin’ ye.”
It was clearly simply him flirting with her in an attempt to distract her from the matter at hand, but it clearly worked. River’s breath caught once more and she stared at Archer in silence, her lips slightly parted as if she was already expecting to be kissed.
Archer’s fingers tilted her chin upward gently.
“Ye’re thinking too much again.”
River swallowed in a dry throat. “Ye’re one to talk about thinkin’ too much.”
“Do I think too much, ye reckon?”
“Och aye,” said River. “Or at least ye used to.”
Archer’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth and River felt the exact moment her breathing changed. They were so close that she could feel every sigh, every twitch in his muscles, and it drove her mad with need.
And then Archer kissed her, slowly this time. His hand slid into her hair as though he already knew exactly how she would melt under his touch. River kissed him back instinctively, one hand gripping the front of his tunic as hours of tension finally unraveled between them.
The kiss quickly deepened into something warmer and hungrier.
Archer rose from the chair without breaking it, pulling her up with him, and River’s back met the edge of the table moments later, his mouth moving against hers with devastating patience that quickly destroyed what little coherent thought she had left.
Every touch was igniting something new within her.
Her fingers brushed the side of Archer’s face carefully, avoiding the healing wound, and he made a quiet sound against her mouth at the gesture—something softer than desire alone, as though her tenderness affected him more than he had thought possible.
He must’t have known much tenderness in his life, River thought.
And in that moment, she vowed to herself she would always be tender with him.