Chapter 12 #2
“And yet I was,” she shot back, her eyes flashing like steel. “And I will be again, wi’ everything that’s happenin’.”
“Ye’ll have guards,” he replied. “Ye’ll have me. Once we’re wed, ye’ll never walk unprotected.”
She laughed, short and incredulous, the sound carrying no humor at all. “Borrowed safety.”
His eyes narrowed, focus sharpening on her face. “What?”
“That’s what ye’re offering.” She didn’t raise her voice, but the words pressed hard against his ribs, making it difficult to draw a full breath.
She stayed where she was, so close he could feel the heat radiating from her body, her scent—clean skin and a hint of wild heather—filling his head until his thoughts began to slip.
“Protection that belongs tae someone else tae give and take. Men who stand between me and harm, while I remain the same woman who cannae dae a thing fer herself.”
“That is nae a failure.” The answer came fast, irritation slipping through despite his effort to keep it leashed.
“It is tae me.”
The simplicity of it stopped him.
Harald held her gaze, waiting for the turn, the hidden intent he had learned to anticipate in moments like that. It never came. There was only resolve there. Pride. A refusal to bend that felt uncomfortably familiar, as though he were looking at a mirror he hadn’t known existed.
“This is nae about proving something,” he said at last, the words slower now, chosen rather than struck.
“Nay.” She inclined her head a fraction, eyes never leaving his. “It’s about refusing tae be helpless, Harald.”
Something shifted then, a quiet tilt in the balance he had been holding too tightly.
He broke the line of her gaze, the intensity of it becoming too much to bear, and turned away. He crossed the room in two measured steps, his blood singing a high, frantic tune. He raked a hand through his hair, searching for solid ground in a world that had suddenly gone liquid.
“I cannae teach ye that,” he said, voice quieter now, the edge worn down to a dangerous rasp. “Ye’ve nay idea what ye’re asking.”
She watched him without moving, her stillness more challenging than any advance. “Then tell me.”
He stopped near the shelves, his back to her, the weight of her presence pressing between his shoulders. “Fighting teaches ye how tae expect pain,” he said. “How tae live wi’ it. How tae cause it wi’out hesitation. It hardens ye in ways that dinnae always soften again.”
“And ye think I’m soft?” she asked.
He turned back sharply. “I think ye’ve survived enough already.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then she drew a slow, deep breath, and something in her posture shifted. “I want tae choose fer meself,” she said. “Even if it frightens ye.”
The words struck deeper than he liked.
He saw the fire in her, the rigid strength, and he realized he was already lost. He didn’t just want to protect her; he wanted to possess that fire. He wanted to see what happened when that resolve was turned toward him.
The silence that followed was thick, charged with an electric tension that made the air feel like it might spark. She drew a slow, deep breath, her breasts straining against the fabric of her bodice, and something in Harald’s lower belly coiled tight and hot.
Harald studied her, his gaze dropping to her mouth for one treacherous second before snapping back to her eyes. The careful order of his life was in ruins.
“Fine.” The word cost him more than he let show. It was a surrender not just to her request, but to the fact that he was utterly, completely undone by her.
Her eyes widened, just a breath, surprise flickering before it sharpened into something intent and bright. She simply waited, as though she had known this was where he would land all along.
“We’ll train,” he went on, lifting a hand when she drew breath, cutting off whatever quick retort or triumph she might have offered. His voice had settled into something firm again. “Once. I’ll show ye enough tae understand what ye’re asking fer. And then we’ll see.”
She held his gaze for a beat, measuring him as carefully as he had measured her. Then she inclined her head, sharp and decisive. “Agreed.”
The lack of hesitation unsettled him more than argument would have.
“Come,” he said, already turning away.
He took the stairs two at a time, his boots striking the stone with a rhythmic violence that mirrored the frantic thudding of his heart.
He could feel her behind him. Her presence was a physical heat radiating against his spine, a magnetic pull that made every nerve ending on his back prickle with static. She didn't speak, and that silence was worse than any taunt; it was a heavy, expectant pressure that made the air feel thin.
They passed through the lower corridors and out of the keep, the air shifting as stone gave way to wind and open space.
The scent of damp earth and grass met them at once.
Harald set a steady pace across the grounds, boots striking packed soil, his path angled away from the main yard and its watchful eyes.
When the passage narrowed, he could hear the soft, frantic hitch in her lungs.
He could smell her—not just the heather and soap, but the scent of a woman whose blood was boiling.
It took everything he had not to spin around, pin her against the cold stone, and find out if she tasted as defiant as she sounded.
At the end of the tunnel, he reached for the iron-banded door.
As he leaned past her to throw the bolt, his chest brushed her shoulder.
The contact was electric, a jolt that sizzled straight to his gut and made his vision swim.
For a second, he was trapped in her orbit, the faint warmth of her neck inches from his mouth.
He threw the door open with more force than necessary.
The room beyond was lit by high, narrow windows cut deep into the stone, the light falling in pale strips across a packed-earth floor. Wooden practice weapons lined one wall in careful order. This was where he came to think, to sharpen, to bleed in silence if need be.
He waited until she stepped inside, then shoved the door closed. The bolt slid home with a heavy, final clack that sounded like a trap snapping shut. “This is where I train sometimes,” he said, voice steadier than he felt.
Her gaze moved slowly around the room, taking in the weapons, the marks on the walls, the stripped simplicity of it. There was a quiet focus in her expression that made his chest ache.
“I can see the appeal. Nay crowd,” she whispered.
“Nay,” he agreed, his voice lowering.
He crossed to the weapon rack and reached for a wooden practice sword, its surface smoothed by countless grips. After a brief pause, he took a second and turned back to her, offering it hilt-first.
“This stays controlled.” His voice lowered, steadied. “Ye listen when I correct ye. And if I say stop—”
“I stop.” she finished, fingers closing around the wood.
“Aye.” The word left him quieter than before. “Exactly that.”
Her fingers closed around the wood, brushing his own. The contact lasted a heartbeat too long. His breath hitched, the skin of his hand searing where she touched him. He withdrew as if burned, his pulse roaring in his ears like the sea.
“Stance first.” He positioned himself opposite her, grounding his weight into the floor. “Feet shoulder-width. Knees soft.”
She mirrored him, but her body was a wire tuned too high, vibrating with tension.
“Ye’re holding tension,” he murmured, already stepping closer. “That’ll slow ye.”
He stepped into her space. He didn't mean to touch her, but his hand moved of its own accord, settling on her shoulder to pull it back.
The heat beneath her thin bodice flared against his palm, white-hot and staggering.
He let his hand linger for a second too long, feeling the delicate curve of her bone and the frantic thrum of her heart through her skin.
He yanked his hand away, his jaw clamped shut. “Grip’s too tight,” he rasped.
He reached for her hand, his palm sliding over hers, engulfing it. Her hand was so small, so deceptively fragile, and the contrast against his own scarred, massive grip made a wave of possessive heat crash over him.
Her breath brushed the sensitive skin of his wrist. It was a feather-light touch that felt like a brand.
“Power comes from balance,” he whispered, his voice failing him, turning into a velvet growl. “Nae force.”
He moved behind her. It was a mistake. The moment he stepped into her shadow, the scent of her hair overwhelmed him. He guided her grip, his chest inches from her back, his hand settling on her hip to shift her weight.
She leaned back, just a fraction. Her shoulders brushed his chest.
Harald went rigid. Every muscle in his body turned to stone. The contact was agonizing—the soft, feminine yield of her back against the hard planes of his torso. He could feel the heat of her, the way she fitted into him as if she were the missing piece of his own fractured soul.
The air in the room was gone. There was only the sound of his blood screaming in his veins and the unmistakable, heavy throb of his own desire pressing against his trousers.
She turned too quickly.
The space vanished. Her chest grazed his, her breasts a soft pressure against his ribs that made his head spin.
Her gaze lifted to his, her eyes wide, dark, and drowning in the same liquid fire that was consuming him.
Her lips parted, just a sliver, and the invitation was so loud it was a physical roar in the room.
He could feel himself stiffening, the ache between his legs becoming a sharp, demanding agony. He was a hair's breadth from losing everything—his honor, his control, his kingdom.
Harald stepped back abruptly, his boots skidding on the dirt.
“That’s enough fer today,” he choked out, the words jagged and desperate.
Confusion clouded her eyes, followed by a flash of hurt that cut him deeper than any blade. “Oh,” she said quietly, her voice small in the vast room.
He turned away before she could see the way his hands were shaking, before she could see the evidence of how thoroughly she had unmade him. His pulse was a riot, his skin felt like it was peeling off his bones.
Behind him, Enya stood in the center of a pale bar of light, the wooden sword hanging forgotten at her side, her silence the loudest thing he had ever heard.