Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Enya had been awake since before the first bell. She lay paralyzed in the gray light while the keep shifted beneath her like a waking beast. The footsteps in the corridor were different that morning—heavier, jagged, and threaded with sharp purpose.
She stared at the stone ceiling until the shadows blurred into a single, crushing weight. She exhaled a breath that felt like breaking glass and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Whatever came that day would come whether she stood or hid, and she was tired of hiding.
Her stomach twisted into a knot of cold wire.
It wasn't just the wedding anymore; the pact was descending.
Two other lairds were arriving with their wives, bringing a fresh batch of watchful eyes and political blades.
The thought of more strangers whispering about the odd girl with the mismatched eyes made her throat tighten with a suffocating spark of nerves.
But beneath that fear, a deeper doubt was festering in her marrow. Her mind kept returning to the study—to the maps that weren't meant for invasion, but for safety. She had gone there to unmask a monster. She needed a reason to justify the betrayal that would buy her brother’s life.
Finley was waiting her logical voice whispered.
But the words felt hollow against the memory of Harald’s weary, bone-deep exhale.
Every instinct screamed at her to stop and sink into the warmth he offered.
But the ghost of her brother's face held her captive.
She was spiraling, caught in a freefall between a duty that felt like a crime and an affection that felt like a death sentence.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Amelia’s voice drifted through the wood, a low, steady sound that pulled Enya back from the edge of her thoughts. “Enya?”
Enya opened the door and Amelia slipped inside. She was a whirlwind of nervous energy, her eyes wide and her hands already reaching for the heavy velvet of Enya’s gown.
“The lairds of the pact will be here by midday,” Amelia said, her voice high and breathless. “Their wives, too. The yard is already crawling with their guards, Enya. There are banners I dinnae even recognize.”
Enya stood like a statue as Amelia began to fuss, her fingers brisk and grounding.
She pulled at Enya's sleeves, smoothed the bodice, and began to work on her hair with quick, jerky movements. Enya’s pulse skittered like a trapped bird.
Every time Amelia’s hand brushed her skin, it was the only thing keeping her from floating away into the cold gray of her own terror.
Amelia stopped, a comb halfway through a dark braid. She peered into the mirror, catching Enya’s eyes. “Are ye alright? Ye’re as pale as the morning mist.”
“I’m fine,” Enya said. The lie felt thin, like parchment stretched too tight.
Amelia huffed, a small, knowing sound. She didn't go back to the hair. Instead, she squeezed Enya’s shoulders, her grip a solid anchor. “I can tell ye’re afraid. Yer heart is beating so hard I can see it in yer throat.”
“It’s just… the eyes,” Enya whispered, her voice paper-thin. “The strangers. They’ll look at me and see a curse.”
“Let them look,” Amelia said fiercely. She went back to work, her fingers weaving the hair into a crown. “They’ll see a woman who stands taller than them all. Harald’s chosen ye, Enya. That’s all the shield ye need.”
The mention of his name was a knife to Enya’s heart. Harald, the man who was a shield for his people. The man she had spent the night trying to find a reason to ruin.
Amelia stepped back, patting a final braid into place. A small, proud smile lit her face. “There. Ye’ll be the most beautiful one there. Nay laird’s wife will be able tae hold a candle tae ye.”
Enya looked at her reflection—the dark hair, the pale skin, the mismatched eyes—and let out a bitter, jagged smile. It didn't reach her eyes. “A beautiful prize fer a man I’m meant tae destroy.”
Amelia’s smile faded. “Enya—”
“He’s nae going tae dae it,” Enya interrupted, the words tumbling out, raw and messy.
She turned to face her friend, her hands trembling.
“The maps, Amelia. The ledgers. We looked last night, but I stayed awake fer hours thinking about it. There are nay invasion plans. There are nay arrows pointed at our home. He lied. Or he’s wrong,” Enya said, a desperate heat rising in her chest. “Harald is building defenses. He’s pouring his soul intae keeping people safe, nae conquering them.
He has nay intention o’ attacking the Cameron lands. None.”
Amelia sat on the edge of the bed. “I told ye this might happen…”
“I dinnae ken what tae dae,” Enya whispered, the doubt finally breaking through. Her stomach was a knot of cold wire. “I’m supposed tae give Finley the key tae the gates, but he’s nae a monster, Amelia. He’s a protector. If I continue, I’m the villain. I’m the—”
A sharp, heavy knock thudded against the wood of the door.
Enya froze, the words dying in her throat. Her heart kicked against her ribs, hard enough to hurt.
She exchanged a jagged look with Amelia, the weight of their unspoken secret hanging like smoke between them. Amelia took a breath, smoothed her apron, and crossed the room to answer it.
Harald stood in the doorway.
He was already dressed for the yard. His cloak was heavy, clasped at his shoulder with dark iron, and the leather at his wrists looked worn and tough.
He paused at the threshold, and the room seemed to shrink.
His presence filled the space with a quiet, steady force that made the air feel suddenly thin and far too hot.
His gaze moved over Enya slowly. It was the look of a man hungry for what he was seeing. He took in the bare line of her throat, the way the velvet clung to the curve of her waist, and the frantic pulse jumping in the hollow of her neck.
His eyes lingered there, dark and heavy, as if he could feel the rhythm of her heart against his own skin.
Enya’s breath caught, trapped in her chest. A slow, honeyed heat pooled low in her belly, uncurling with a persistence that made her knees feel weak.
She felt seen. It was a look that promised a different kind of surrender.
The realization that she wanted to give it to him, that she wanted his large, calloused hands on her skin, landed like a blow to her chest.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Neither of them moved, but the air between them hummed, vibrating with the sudden, jagged need to close the distance.
“Ye’re ready,” he said.
His voice was a low, steady vibration that seemed to settle right in her marrow. Enya swallowed hard. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with the lingering heat of his gaze.
“I had help,” she replied. Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears, but she managed to tip her head toward Amelia.
Amelia’s cheeks colored a bright, nervous pink.
Harald’s mouth shifted. It was the faintest ghost of a smile that made Enya’s heart trip.
“The yard’s fillin’,” he said. For a fraction of a second, something unreadable crossed his face—a flash of pride, or perhaps a warning she wasn't ready to heed. Then he inclined his head. “Shall we?”
He extended his hand.
Enya hesitated for a heartbeat before laying her fingers in his palm. The contact sent a jolt through her, a spark of pure, visceral current that made her breath hitch. His skin was rough, calloused, and overwhelmingly warm.
They descended the stone stairs together. Harald set the pace, never once hurrying her. Amelia trailed a half-step behind, her presence a silent shadow.
Enya was acutely aware of the narrow space between their bodies. Even without touching her, she felt his heat like sun-warmed stone. It was a physical weight, unsettling her more than any show of force ever could have.
She kept her gaze fixed on the steps ahead, unable to look him in the eyes. Not now. Not after what she had found in his study. Every beat of her heart felt like a drum, echoing the word she couldn't escape.
Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
The lower yard had transformed overnight.
Men clustered near the gatehouse, voices overlapping in a low, confident murmur.
Horses stamped and snorted, their breath steaming in the cold air.
Banners she recognized from her brother’s maps fluttered against the walls, colors sharp against the grey stone.
The Pact had arrived.
Harald stopped near the gate, folding his hands behind his back. He stood beside her and it made her chest react before her mind could intervene, tightening and loosening in the same breath.
As they reached the final step of the great hall, the heavy oak doors groaned open. The courtyard was a sea of movement, but Harald didn’t lead her into it yet. He paused, drawing her close—so close she could feel the rough wool of his cloak against her arm.
He leaned down, his chest brushing her shoulder as he spoke. His breath was a slow, warm ghost against her ear, sending a shiver straight to her core that had nothing to do with the wind.
"The tall one with the blond hair tied back is Erik Thorsen," Harald murmured. His voice was a low, private vibration that seemed to travel through her skin rather than the air. "The Wolf o’ Skye. He’s stone on the outside, but he’d die fer his kin.
Beside him is Claricia. She’s become the heart o’ that island. "
Enya was acutely aware of him—the heat of his body acting as a shield against the biting cold, the scent of pine and old leather that had become far too familiar. She felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, a grounding rhythm that made her own frantic heart slow just to match it.
Enya watched a massive man with stone-gray eyes and tattoos peeking from his sleeves. He looked like he was carved from the very cliffs of his home, terrifying and immovable. But as soon as he saw Harald, the stone cracked. His grim face broke into a jagged, toothy grin.