Chapter 19 #2
She swallowed, her throat suddenly raw. Images flickered through her mind unbidden. Harald’s steady gaze. The way he smiled when her wit cut too close. The careful restraint in his hands when he stood near her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him without a single improper touch.
“And what exactly is it ye think ye’re daeing now?” she asked. “Taking me where? Locking me away until ye’re finished using me?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m removing a liability.”
She tasted salt on her lips and realized, distantly, that she was crying.
Before she could speak again, before she could tear herself apart further trying to make him understand, the night exploded into sound.
Steel rang, a sharp, silver shriek that sliced through the howling wind. A shout followed, and the yard erupted. Torches swung in frantic arcs as Finley’s men scrambled, their formation shattered by a sudden, surging confusion.
“Enya!”
The voice anchored her. She would have known it in the depths of her worst nightmare—a rough, low-timbered roar that made the world steady beneath her feet.
Her heart lurched so violently it felt like it might burst.
Harald burst into the torchlight like a force of nature, a god of iron and storm.
His men fanned out behind him with the silent, lethal efficiency of a wolf pack, but Enya only had eyes for him.
His sword was already unsheathed, the steel gleaming like ice, and his cloak snapped behind him in the gale.
He took in the scene—the gravel, the torches, her brother—in a single, sweeping heartbeat.
Then, his gaze found her and everything else ceased to exist.
She saw the fury that scorched across his features, a dark, protective fire that turned his eyes to molten gold. She saw his shoulders square, his knuckles turning white as he readjusted his grip on the hilt of his blade.
“Get away from her,” Harald said. It was an ultimatum delivered by a man who was finished with words.
Finley reacted with the desperate speed of a cornered cur.
He shoved Enya backward, his arm snapping around her throat in a chokehold that cut off her air.
She was dragged hard against his chest, the smell of his wet wool suffocating her, but it was the sensation beneath her jaw that froze her blood.
Cold, thin steel kissed her skin—a blade pressed just beneath her chin.
“Stay back,” Finley barked, his voice cracking with a frantic edge. “Or she dies here.”
Harald didn't even flinch. The yard seemed to hold its breath as he advanced, one heavy, deliberate step at a time. His eyes never left Enya’s. He wasn't looking at the blade at her throat; he was looking into her soul, steadying her, demanding she stay with him.
The world narrowed until there was nothing but his eyes.
Enya felt a strange, shimmering stillness settle over her, a quiet that defied the blade biting into the soft skin of her throat. She couldn't tear her gaze away from Harald.
He was a mountain of iron and absolute certainty.
The terror that had paralyzed her moments before began to dissolve, replaced by a relief so profound it made her light-headed.
He had come. He hadn't hesitated, hadn't questioned, hadn't stayed behind the safety of his walls. She realized then that she wasn't afraid of the death Finley threatened—she was only afraid of a life where she didn't get to see that look in Harald's eyes every day.
She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, her body going supple against Finley’s arm, not out of surrender to her brother, but out of a total, soul-deep trust in the man walking toward her.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked, his voice low and steady despite the violence coiled in every line of him.
She shook her head once, barely daring to breathe.
“Let her go,” Harald said again. This time there was no room for defiance, his voice carrying across the yard with a calm that promised consequence.
Finley’s mouth twisted into a thin line. “This daesnae concern ye.”
Harald stopped an arm’s length away. “Everything about her concerns me.”
“Move aside,” Finley warned, his grip tightening at her throat.
Harald’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was a slow, agonizing curve of his lips, a baring of teeth.
Enya felt her stomach clench with a visceral, dizzying heat. She had never seen that side of him—the raw, unfiltered power of the Hawk. It was terrifying, yes, but beneath the fear, she felt a soaring, jagged pride. This was the man who claimed her.
Steel flashed.
Sound tore the night open as Harald moved, faster than her eyes could follow, his sword striking Finley’s blade aside in a brutal arc.
Sparks burst between them, the scream of metal jolting through her bones.
Finley swore, staggering back as his grip broke, the sudden absence of pressure leaving her dizzy.
Her legs nearly gave way as she pitched forward, the world tilting violently.
Harald was there at once.
He caught her without looking, his arm locking around her with solid strength, anchoring her against him.
One arm wrapped around her shoulders, hauling her against him with fierce, unthinking force.
Her face pressed into his chest, the solid reality of him slamming into her senses all at once and she felt his heart, pounding hard and fast beneath her cheek.
She clutched his tunic, fingers curling desperately into the fabric.
Behind them, chaos erupted. Harald’s men surged forward, blades flashing in torchlight as Finley’s companions scattered, some fighting, some fleeing outright. Shouts filled the yard. The clash of steel rang sharp and brutal.
Harald did not let her go.
He turned slightly, positioning himself as an unbreakable wall of iron between her and the chaos of the yard.
She was tucked against his side, shielded by his body, and every time a blade clashed or a body hit the gravel too close to them, his arm tightened around her waist—a silent, fierce possessiveness that told the world she was his and he would kill any man who breathed too loudly in her direction.
She could feel the tension vibrating through his chest, a coiled, lethal energy that wanted to hunt held in check only by the fact that he refused to leave her side for even a second.
Finley broke away from the skirmish, sprinting toward the trees. Harald’s gaze followed him, cold and assessing.
“Harald,” she whispered, her voice frantic. “He’s—”
“I ken,” he said, his jaw set so tight the words were a low growl. “He’s gone.”
The night had swallowed her brother whole.
Silence crept back in slowly, punctured only by ragged breathing and the low curses of men tending wounds. Harald stood there for a moment longer, his arm still locked around her, before finally lowering his sword.
Only then, with the danger truly gone, did the shock finally catch up to her.
A violent tremor ripped through Enya’s body, sudden and uncontrollable, rattling her teeth. The adrenaline that had kept her standing evaporated, leaving her hollow. Her knees buckled, her strength draining into the gravel.
Harald caught her before she could even fall. He swept her off the ground in one fluid motion, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a child and pulling her tight against the massive, steady heat of his chest.
She gasped, her hands bunching into the fabric of his cloak, clinging to him like a lifeline.
She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke, cold air, and him.
The safety of his arms was so overwhelming that the tears she had been holding back finally broke.
She didn't just cry; she shuddered against him, her body seeking the sanctuary of his strength as the crushing weight of the betrayal and the rescue crashed down on her all at once.
He didn't speak. He just tucked his chin against the top of her head, his large hand splaying across her back, holding her together while she fell apart.
“I’m here,” he murmured, the words vibrating through his chest and into her very bones. His voice was a rough, broken rasp against her hair. “I’ve got ye, Enya. I’ve got ye.”
The words were the final blow to her defenses.
A sob tore free of her—an ugly, unrestrained wail of pure agony that shook her entire frame. It was the sound of a decade of loneliness finally shattering.
She clawed at his cloak, her fingers cramping as she tried to pull him even closer, desperate for the solid, grounding heat of him. She needed the proof of his heartbeat against her ear to convince herself she wasn't still being dragged through the dirt.
The pain was a physical weight, a raw, bleeding hole where her trust in Finley had once lived.
He held her without a moment’s hesitation. One of his massive hands cradled the back of her head, shielding her from the prying eyes of the world, while the other remained a jagged, firm anchor at her waist.
She lost all sense of time. The night air bit at her skin, but she only felt the furnace of his embrace. Every time she tried to catch her breath, the memory of that blade—of her brother’s cold, calculating eyes—sent a fresh wave of tremors through her.
Eventually, the violent storm inside her began to ebb, leaving her hollow and exhausted, though the ache in her chest remained sharp enough to make every inhale a struggle.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words coming out hoarse and ruined. She couldn't even look at him, her forehead resting against his collarbone. “I should have... I should have told ye. I should have seen it comin'. I was so blind, Harald. So foolishly blind.”
Harald didn't answer with words. He simply pulled back just enough to force her to look at him.
His hands, calloused and scarred from a lifetime of war, framed her face with a delicacy that felt like a miracle.
His thumbs brushed the sensitive skin beneath her eyes, catching the salt-stains and wiping away the evidence of her shame with a tenderness that made her heart throb with a new kind of hurt—the hurt of being loved when she felt she deserved it least.
His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the hair at the nape of her neck with a fierce, possessive intent.
“Nay one touches ye again,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to press against hers, his voice a low vibration that shook her soul.
Enya looked at him then, her vision blurred by fresh, hot tears. She looked at the man who had risked war to save a woman the world called cursed. The dangerous, aching pull she had been fighting—the one she had tried to bury under duty and secrets—surged to the surface like a tidal wave.
It hurts. It hurts tae let him in.
Harald held her, his breath warm against her skin. “Come,” he said softly. “Let’s get ye inside.”
She let him lead her back toward the keep, her steps unsteady, her heart in tatters. As they crossed the threshold, she glanced back once into the darkness where her brother had vanished.