Chapter 25 #2
The field had been cleared. The wounded tended. The dead honored. The men had returned through the gates with their heads high, pride burning in their chests like a hearth-fire that no enemy could douse.
The keep was sound.
And still, something twisted in Maxwell’s chest as if the battle had only shifted fronts.
He noticed it first in the way Ariella moved.
Not the purposeful stride she had carried for weeks while he prepared. Not the quiet certainty she had shown in the kitchens and the halls.
This was different.
Her gaze did not meet his.
When he passed her in the corridor, she stepped aside too quickly, her shoulders angled away from him as if turning her body could turn away her thoughts.
He saw her once in the great hall, kneeling beside a wounded man, hands steady, voice calm. She looked like a woman born for command in crisis.
And yet when Maxwell entered, her head lifted for only a heartbeat, eyes flicking to him, then away again.
As if he were dangerous, and he knew he deserved it.
He had distanced himself until the space between them had become its own wall. He had told himself it was necessary, that he could not afford distraction, that a laird’s duty came before comfort.
But now that the enemy had been beaten back, now that the shouting had faded into murmurs, the emptiness in his chambers felt louder than any battle horn.
He watched her from across the hall while men moved around them carrying water, cloth, bowls of broth. The air smelled of blood and herbs.
Finley came to stand beside Maxwell, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Ye keep staring like ye want to burn a hole through her.”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “I am nae staring.”
Finley snorted. “Aye. And I am a priest.”
Maxwell did not answer.
Because Ariella had just turned, and Hunter was froze.
Hunter had his sword belt off, tunic stained, a shallow cut along his forearm that had been wrapped quickly. He looked worn out, but alive, and that alone was enough to loosen something in Maxwell’s chest.
Hunter stepped in close to Ariella. Too close.
He said something Maxwell couldn’t hear over the noise, and Ariella’s mouth moved in reply. A brief smile flickered, small and tired.
Then Hunter reached out and rested his hand over hers.
Would she have been happier if she had married Hunter?
The thought came unbidden, vicious in its honesty.
Hunter was charming when he wanted to be. Warm. Easy. The sort of man who would laugh with her in corridors and bring her sweets and make her feel wanted without all the weight Maxwell carried like armor.
Maxwell swallowed hard, forcing his expression to remain controlled, but the ache in his chest was undeniable.
Finley’s gaze flicked between Maxwell and the scene. He muttered, “Dae nae.”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Dae nae what?”
Finley’s voice was dry. “Dae nae look like ye want to murder yer own braither for being kind.”
Maxwell’s jaw flexed. “I daenae want to murder him.”
Finley lifted a brow. “Ye looked at Archer like that right before ye killed his father.”
Maxwell exhaled through his nose, harsh. “That was different.”
“Aye,” Finley said. “Ye wanted to kill Lyall for years. This is newer.”
Maxwell’s gaze stayed locked on Ariella.
She pulled her hand away slowly, as if she had only just realized the touch. She murmured something, then stepped back, creating distance.
Hunter’s face softened, confused. He tried again to speak to her.
Ariella shook her head and turned away.
Maxwell’s chest tightened.
It wasn’t just Hunter’s hand. It was her withdrawal. From all of them.
He forced himself to move.
“Hunter,” Maxwell called, voice clipped.
Hunter looked up at once, relief flashing in his eyes at being summoned to something concrete. “Aye?”
Maxwell strode toward them, boots striking stone. Ariella stiffened when she sensed him approaching.
Maxwell did not let himself slow.
He stopped beside Hunter. “Ye should have that cut properly cleaned.”
Hunter glanced at his arm. “It is nothin’.”
Maxwell’s gaze sharpened. “It is nae nothing. Ye’ll go to the healer.”
Hunter sighed. “Aye, braither.”
Ariella did not look up.
Maxwell’s throat tightened. “Ariella.”
Her head lifted a fraction. Her eyes met his for the briefest moment, then slid away again as if the contact burned.
“Aye?” she asked quietly.
The word was simple. But her tone carried distance. Guarded. Too careful.
Maxwell swallowed. “Are ye well?”
A pause.
“Aye,” she said. “I am fine.”
It was the same lie he had given her for weeks.
Hearing it from her felt like a blade turned back on him.
Maxwell forced his voice to remain even. “Ye’ve been working since dawn. Ye should rest.”
Her mouth tightened. “There are wounded men.”
“I have others to tend them,” Maxwell replied, then regretted it immediately because her eyes flashed up, sharp.
“Others,” she echoed softly. “Yes. Of course.”
Hunter glanced between them, brow furrowing.
Maxwell felt suddenly exposed, as if the whole hall could see what he had done, what he had broken.
He said, quieter, “Ye did well today.”
Ariella’s lashes lowered. “It was necessary.”
Her tone was polite.
Polite the way strangers were polite.
Maxwell’s stomach turned.
He wanted to reach for her, to pull her close, to demand she look at him the way she had in the dark, the way she had when she believed he wanted her.
But her body language said keep away.
And worse, he sensed fear in it.
That uncertainty gnawed at him more than any enemy.
Finley appeared behind Maxwell, voice low. “Let her breathe.”
Maxwell ignored him.
He watched Ariella turn away again, her hands clasping together as if to keep them still.
Hunter shifted, awkward. “I’ll go to the healer,” he said gently to Ariella, trying to mend what he didn’t understand. “Ye should rest too.”
Ariella nodded without looking at him. “Aye.”
Hunter left.
Ariella started to follow a servant with a bowl of water, avoiding Maxwell with practiced ease.
Maxwell’s chest tightened with something like desperation.
He had protected everything he cared about.
And now he felt the most fragile part of his life slipping away.
That night, when the keep finally quieted enough that the silence had teeth, Maxwell could not bear it any longer.
He washed the blood from his hands, changed his tunic, and walked the corridor toward Ariella’s chamber with steps that felt heavier than armor.
He lifted his hand to knock.
Then stopped.
He exhaled once, sharp, and knocked anyway.