Chapter 7 #2
The study fell into a quieter sort of tension then, the kind that hummed just under the surface. Lydia could feel him behind her—not close enough to touch but close enough to feel his presence, steady and unyielding.
It was strange, seeing Kieran like this. The man who had stood next to her at the altar had been so serious, cold and stone-faced, and now that he was laughing, even a little, it was as though he was an entirely different man.
A man who, despite herself, she couldn’t help but want to meet.
Still, it was easier to be mad at him than admit something like that, even to herself.
“Daenae ever do that again,” she warned him, her mouth a thin, tight line.
“I told ye,” said Kieran, “ye had a choice.”
“Och aye,” scoffed Lydia, taking a few steps towards Kieran as she pointed an accusatory finger at him.
“I had a choice, aye? I had a choice when everyone signed off on this marriage without me knowledge. I had a choice when the papers were already signed before anyone even informed me of any of this!”
Kieran froze then. His entire body seemed to come to a sudden and complete halt, as though her words had hit him like a wall. For a moment, he frowned. Then, his expression morphed into one of barely contained rage, his cheeks flooding with color.
“I dinnae ken,” he said finally, voice low and rough.
Lydia blinked, startled by the shift in tone. “Dinnae ken what?”
“That ye hadnae been given a choice,” he said, the words drawn out slowly, deliberately. “I was told ye agreed to the marriage. That ye understood the arrangement.”
Lydia’s chest tightened, the truth like a blade to the gut. The honesty in his voice, that hint of something like regret pricked at her defenses. For a heartbeat, she saw the man under the title of the Laird; the one who had lost, who had suffered, who carried more weight than one man ever should.
But she couldn’t afford to soften. Not now.
“Well, now ye ken,” she said, lifting her chin. “So ye can fix it.”
His brows drew together. “Fix it?”
“An annulment,” she said, her tone calm but her pulse wild.
This was her chance; if she could convince Kieran that this was all a mistake, if she could make him see reason and release her from this foolish agreement, then she could go back home to her sister and live out the rest of her life in peace.
“Surely ye, with all yer power, can arrange that. I never agreed to this, Me Laird. Ye were deceived, just as I was.”
Kieran studied her for a long moment, his silence making her breath catch. When he finally spoke, it was quiet—too quiet.
“Nay.”
Her stomach dropped. It was not what she had expected to hear—some pushback, perhaps, was expected, but she hadn’t thought he would outright refuse like this without even hearing her out first.
“Nay?”
Kieran stepped toward her, slow and deliberate, until the shadows from the fire framed him like something half-tamed, half-feral. “Ye’re mine now,” he said, his voice deepening, smooth like honey. “And I never let go of what’s mine.”
Lydia’s lips parted—to protest, to scold, to demand an explanation—but she never got the chance.
Because Kieran closed the distance in a single stride and kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was wild, claiming, a surge of heat and hunger that stole her breath before she could think to resist. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair, drawing her closer until the world narrowed to the feel of his mouth against hers.
For one dizzying moment, she was frozen—shocked, outraged, confused. And then she was gone.
Her hands, which had started to push him away, softened against his chest. She felt the steady, thunderous beat of his heart under her palms, and something inside her tore open, something that she hadn’t even known existed.
The kiss deepened, his breath mingling with hers, rough and uneven.
Kieran tasted of whisky and danger, of heat and strength and something she wanted desperately not to want.
But her body betrayed her entirely, pressing closer, her lips parting beneath his.
She didn’t know if it was anger or desire that burned hotter in her chest, only that she couldn’t stop.
When Kieran finally tore himself away, it was as if the room itself exhaled. He stepped back, breathing hard, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them.
Once she didn’t have his arms around her anymore, Lydia staggered a half-step, one hand clutching the edge of the desk for balance.
Her lips tingled; her thoughts were thrown into chaos, and the more she tried to pull herself together, the more agitated she became, as though the mere act of calming herself down had the exact opposite effect of the one intended.
“What was that?” she demanded though her voice came out softer than she intended.
Kieran’s jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth, his breath still uneven. “That,” he said, “was a mistake.”
Lydia’s heart twisted, not with hurt but with confusion. “A mistake?”
He didn’t answer. His gaze flicked to her mouth then away, as though looking at her too long would undo whatever restraint he had left.
“I shouldnae have done it,” he muttered. “Ye’re dangerous.”
Lydia’s brow furrowed. “I’m dangerous?” she repeated incredulously. “Ye’re the one who just—”
He cut her off with a raised hand. “Aye, I ken what I did. And I’ll nae do it again.”
Something in her chest deflated though she wasn’t sure why. She should be relieved, but instead, she felt strangely hollow.
Kieran promptly turned away, pacing once before the hearth, his shoulders tight. “There’s a killer in these lands, Lydia. Someone who’s already taken three wives from me. I’ll nae let a fourth die.”