Chapter 20 #2
Harald didn't move. He felt the blood turn to lead in his veins. Of all the nights. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, as if the king’s shadow were a rope tightening around his throat.
Harald’s gaze stayed fixed on the guard, but his mind was in the next room, imagining the look on Enya’s face when she heard the news.
“They’re demanding an audience,” the guard gasped. “Right now.”
Harald’s jaw creaked. “They’ll wait.”
The guard hesitated. He looked like he wanted to bolt. “They say they’ve come fer the union, me laird. There are rumors o’ unrest.”
“The rumors have fast legs,” Harald spat. He took a slow, burning breath. He forced his rage into a cold, sharp blade. “Fine. Bring them up. But there will be nay formal Council. They will speak tae me here, wi’ Lady Enya present.”
The guard straightened. “Aye, me jarl.”
As the man left, Harald stayed in the doorway. He looked at the shadows on the wall. The night had already bled Enya dry. He wouldn't let the king’s men take the rest of her.
He turned and went to her, his steps heavy.
Enya looked up as he approached. Even now, exhausted and battered by the night, she forced her spine to straighten.
But the firelight carved out the hollows beneath her eyes and turned her skin to translucent porcelain. She was still drowned in his heavy wool cloak. The garment was vast on her, making her look agonizingly small, like a bird caught in a winter storm.
He crossed the room in three strides, stopping so close his knees brushed hers. He wanted to reach out and check for a pulse, just to be sure she was still here.
“The king’s men are here,” he rasped, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat. “They arrived wi’ nay warning.”
She tilted her chin up, her eyes searching his face in a way that made his heart ache.
“Well,” she huffed, a spark of that sharp fire flickering behind the fatigue. “The night should finish the way it started, aye? In a crowded mess o’ uninvited guests. I suppose someone gave them the news?”
“I dinnae ken.” His mouth twisted into a snarl he tried to hold back for her sake. “Vultures always find the scent o’ blood.” Henry and the other men had left shortly after their last discussion, but now they were back. Would he ever rid himself of them?
He looked down at her, and the sheer force of what he felt nearly buckled his knees. She was hanging on by a thread, yet she still had enough defiance in her tongue to mock the king's timing.
He had never seen anyone so beautiful, or so terrifyingly brave. He wanted the world to leave them in peace, to hold her, but instead, he remained standing, his body a wall of muscle and heat between her and the door.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. It was the gentlest he had ever been. Then, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead.
“We’ll face them taegether,” he whispered into her skin.
Her breath caught. She nodded.
The door groaned on its hinges—Henry stepped across the threshold, the polished leather of his boots clicking sharply against the stone. He bowed, but it was a shallow thing, stiff with arrogance.
"Me jarl," he intoned.
Harald stood, his hand white-knuckled on the back of Enya’s bench.
"Ye’ve arrived unannounced," he said, his voice dropping low.
"We were concerned," Henry replied. His gaze slid downward, landing on Enya, tracing the mess of her hair and the paleness of her skin.
His eyes lingered there and Harald felt a red tide of fury rise in his throat. He wanted to reach across the space and tear the man's eyes from his head for daring to look at her ruin.
"There are always whispers," he snapped, the words cutting through the air like a whip. "Speak what ye came tae say."
The envoy hesitated, unsettled by the raw violence simmering just beneath Harald’s skin. “The wedding. After the... disturbance... taenight, His Majesty will need reassurance. He needs tae ken the alliance stands.”
Harald didn't look at the envoy. He turned his head slowly, fixing his gaze on Enya. He wanted her to see the truth in him. He wanted her to know that she wasn't a piece on a board to him. Not anymore.
“She will nae be married unless she wishes it,” Harald declared.
The words struck the room like a broadaxe buried deep in oak, their finality.
Harald watched the color drain from Enya’s face. He was tossing away the crown’s favor, his lands, and his neck, all to give her the one thing she’d never had: a choice.
Her hand, clutching his cloak, began to tremble. He saw the flicker of disbelief in her gaze, a silent question that cut deeper than any blade. She looked back at Henry, then back at him, her eyes searching his.
He didn't care about the treaty. He didn't care about the king. He only cared about the way her fingers suddenly tightened around his hand, an anchor in the storm around them.
“The treaty has been signed, the pact cannae be broken,” Henry exclaimed.
Harald didn't blink. He just watched Enya, his heart thundering against his ribs, waiting to see if she would take the door he had just kicked open for her.
“Nay alliance is worth her sufferin’,” he said. Every word was a blade. “Nay crown commands me in me own halls. Her safety outweighs yer timelines. Dae I make meself clear?”
He felt Enya shift. She stood up slowly, like she was gathering the pieces of her soul.
He held his breath.
“I choose the marriage,” she said. “It proceeds tomorrow. As planned.”
Harald felt a jolt of pure, terrifying electricity surge through him, making the hair on his arms stand up. His heart suddenly kicked against his ribs with a fierce, aching pride. She was iron. She was a wildfire he had no hope of containing.
He was falling for her so hard it made his head spin. It was a vulnerability more dangerous than any blade he’d ever faced.
Henry looked at her, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. He searched for a rebuttal, found none, and finally inclined his head.
“Then the matter is settled,” the envoy muttered, his voice tight with swallowed pride.
The doors shut with a heavy, final thud as he left. The room seemed to exhale, the shadows receding as the suffocating presence of the Crown vanished.
Harald turned to her fully. His chest felt so tight he could barely draw air. The silence between them was thick, charged with the weight of what had just been traded.
“Enya...” he began, his voice cracking. He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek before he pulled it back, terrified of his own emotions. “Ye didnae have tae dae that.”
“I ken,” she said. She stepped into his space, forcing him to look down at her. The fragility was gone, replaced by a terrifyingly beautiful clarity. Her mismatched eyes burned into his. “I wanted tae, Harald. I choose ye.”
The raw honesty in her words stripped him bare. He felt raw and exposed in the firelight.
Harald stood frozen, the silence of the room ringing in his ears. He nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement. He didn't trust his voice; the surge of affection he felt for her was a physical ache in his throat.
“Well,” she whispered, her voice trembling but her wit still razor-sharp. “If I’m tae be a bride tomorrow, I’d best get me beauty sleep. I look a fright, and I’ll nae have the kingdom saying the Hawk married a ghost.”
A startled, husky laugh broke from Harald’s chest.
“Ye’ll nae be sleeping alone taenight, Enya,” Harald said, his voice dropping into a low, unshakable rumble. He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her. I’ll nae be letting ye out o’ me sight after this.”
“Is that a command, me laird?” she asked, a touch of fire flickering in her gaze.
“Aye,” he rasped. “It’s the only one I’ll nae let ye break.”
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He swept her up into his arms.
She instinctively looped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder. He carried her up the stairs to his chamber, his heart a heavy drum against his ribs.
Harald set her down on the bed as if she were made of spun glass, watching her sink into the furs.
He didn't hesitate. He climbed in beside her, kicking off his boots but keeping his blade within reach.
He stayed on his side at first, an offering of safety rather than an intrusion, until she moved.
She inched back through the dark, seeking his heat, until her spine settled firmly against his chest.
Harald wrapped his arm around her, pulling her flush against him.
He felt her shudder—one long, jagged breath that finally let the terror out—before she melted into his strength.
He tucked his chin over her head, his eyes fixed on the door, his body a living fortress.
If the world wanted her, they would have to tear her out of his very marrow.
Outside it was dark. But inside, she was safe. And if the world wanted her, they would have to go through him first.