Chapter 16
Amara had worn a path in the stone as she trudged back and forth across her chambers in front of the hearth. One end of the rug to the other.
Her freshly washed bare feet padded against the cold floor as if she might pace herself into understanding, and her night gown whispered against her ankles. But the longer she moved, the less she felt in control of anything at all.
Finn O’Donnell has returned.
Rhys had left her in the study the night before in a whirlwind. One minute he was holding her like she was his salvation. The next, he was leaving, but asking her to stay.
It wasn’t until about an hour into waiting did she truly realize how soiled her three-day worn dress was and the state of her hair. So, she journeyed back to her chambers and bathed and changed.
But the moment her hands were idle again, her thoughts resumed their spiral.
In sending Finn back, had me faither sent for me after all? Did he truly want me back? Would Rhys return me like a parcel left too long in the wrong place? Would he ask me to stay?
She didn’t know what to hope for. Her father had been so quick to trade her away like cattle, but she still couldn’t decide if she truthfully wished that he had changed his mind. Nor could she make up her mind about hoping Rhys might hold onto her not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
What would that mean if he did?
The thoughts made her stomach churn.
She turned at the end of the rug, then turned again. Her fingers had twisted and untwisted the same loose curl for what felt like hours. She picked at the skin around her nail. Rubbed her arms. Hugged herself. Paced again.
The quiet of the keep beyond her chamber door was suffocating. It was just before dawn, but the silence had a way of slipping into the room through the cracks and wrapping around her ribs, pulling tighter by the hour.
It had been hours since she’d seen anyone. The light outside shifted long ago, the sky growing lighter by the minute. At some point Nina had slipped in quietly, refreshed the basin, left a new day gown, and gone without a word.
Amara didn’t stop her.
She hadn’t eaten since the luncheon tray that Rhys had brought up the day before. She had no idea what time it was now. Her stomach had long since stopped complaining, as if her body had resigned itself to not knowing what came next.
Her fingertips skimmed the edge of the hearth. Cold ash. No fresh fire had been lit.
She sighed.
What was the point?
Every version of her future felt blurry. Unsteady.
Returning to her father meant going back to the man who had abandoned her, trader her like coin, and left her to rot in the hands of his enemies.
Could I forgive that? Should I?
And yet staying in the O’Donnell keep was no simpler.
She was not one of them. She’d been mocked, threatened, insulted by even the lowliest of their clansmen.
Held at arms’ length. And Rhys had her head spinning so wildly in the haze of confusion that she no longer knew if she was drawn to him or simply desperate for any tether in this unfamiliar world.
It would be quite a precarious situation… being unwed and staying with Laird O’Donnell… I wouldnae have a single suitor for the rest of me life who would believe nothin’ happened here….
But something did happen.
The thought of their shared kisses looped like a prayer, or a curse.
Eventually, the weight of exhaustion overtook the storm in her head. She sat on the edge of the bed, arms limp in her lap, the fabric of her nightgown brushing the top of her knees.
She closed her eyes for just a moment.
The fire burned low. The bedside candle flickered and sputtered out.
And Amara, heavy with thoughts and questions too tangled to solve, drifted into sleep without meaning to, and unaware of the footsteps echoing down the corridor.
The soft creak of the door hadn’t stirred her. It was the sound of wood being placed on the fire that had.
Amara’s lashes fluttered open, disoriented, her limbs heavy from sleep. The fire growing now, a warm ember glow against the stone. For a moment, she wasn’t sure where she was until the scent of lavender on the bedding grounded her.
Then she saw him.
Rhys.
Tall and broad in the firelight, his shoulders casting long shadows along the wall. He froze with one hand around a poker, the other reaching for one more log of wood, as though caught in the act of something far more nefarious.
“Forgive me,” he said softly. “I dinnae mean to wake ye.”
She rubbed her eyes and sat up slowly, drawing the blanket around her shoulders. “It’s fine… I must’ve drifted off.”
Rhys finished placing the wood on the fire, set the poker down, and then patted the bark from his hands on his pants. “I figured ye might be asleep by now anyway. It’s been hours.”
“Ye look tired.” Her voice was hoarse, thick with sleep. “Is he… Finn… is Finn all right?”
He nodded once. “Aye. Battered, but he’ll heal. Took three stitches to his brow and a nasty gash to the ribs and his arm, but he’s already trying to charm the town healer who came to help.”
Amara gave a soft smile. “Sounds like he’ll be back on the saddle in no time.”
Rhys stepped forward, and she noticed then that he had brought a small tray. He picked it up from the hearth-side table, and balanced with surprising grace for a man his size.
“I thought ye might be hungry,” he said, setting it down on the small table near the hearth. “Nina said ye havenae eaten since the tray I brought up yesterday. Figured I’d chance me luck at gettin’ ye to eat again with another.”
Amara’s stomach twisted. Whether from guilt or hunger, she didn’t know.
She didn’t move toward the tray.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead.
Rhys’s brow creased. “For what?”
“For what me faither did. For sending ye home with a prisoner instead of yer cousin. For abandoning me so publicly. For… for puttin’ ye in this position.”
He took a breath, as if steadying himself. “Ye shouldnae be the one to apologize for his sins, lass.”
“But I’m the only one here who can.”
His mouth opened, then closed again. He glanced down at the fire, its light flickering up his face.
Amara pulled the blanket tighter around her and stared at the tray. She recognized the golden crust of a beef pasty, a wedge of soft cheese, and a bit of fresh berry tart.
Was he learning me favorites? Daenae be daft, girl.
Her chest tightened.
She lifted her eyes to him. “Did… did me faither ask for me? When Finn returned? Did he say?”
Rhys’s jaw ticked. He didn’t answer right away.
“Nay,” he finally said. “Finn escaped on his own. He wasnae released.”
The ache bloomed hot behind her ribs.
“Right.” She looked down again, blinking fast.
“I was goin' to tell ye earlier, right after I found out,” he added. “But I got caught up.”
She nodded, but the tears still gathered.
“I see.”
Her throat burned. She swallowed hard and pressed her fingers into the blanket in her lap.
He shifted. “Amara…”
“Will ye send me back?”
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Rhys went still. She watched the tension ripple through him, subtle but unmistakable.
“I daenae…” He looked at her then, really looked at her, as if weighing her in his mind. “I daenae ken what yer faither will want next. But that’s nae what I’m thinkin’ about.”
“Then what are ye thinkin’ about?”
His answer was quiet.
“I’m thinkin’ that ye’ve had naught a single say in any of this. And that maybe ye should, since it’s yer life.”
The tears she’d been holding back broke loose.
Rhys didn’t move toward her. He didn’t try to hush her or wipe them away. He simply let them fall.
She breathed in shaky. “Ye mean… a choice?”
“I do.”
Her hand came up to her mouth, but it couldn’t stop the small sob that slipped past her lips.
Rhys stepped closer, just enough for his warmth to reach her.
“I willnae keep ye here like a bird in a cage,” he said. “Nor will I send ye back to a man who tossed ye aside like scrap, either, unless that’s what ye wish.”
Her eyes locked on his, and for a long moment, neither of them breathed.
Then she whispered, “Thank ye.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, or uncomfortable.
It felt like the first true pause she’d had in days.
Then she asked quietly, “I cannae make that decision right now, Rhys. Might I… stay another week? Just to give me time to consider… all of the factors.”
Rhys’s expression shifted, and something in his eyes softened as his posture relaxed.
“Aye,” he said. “Stay as long as ye like.”
The words still echoed in her chest.
Aye. Stay as long as ye like.
She had only asked for a week. A small, safe window to figure out what she wanted, now that she was finally allowed to want something. But the way he said it, and the way he looked at her… it shook something loose inside her.
She rose slowly from the bed, still wrapped in the blanket, and stepped toward him.
“Rhys,” she said softly, voice trembling. “Why are ye bein' so kind to me now?”
He watched her with unreadable eyes. “Because I should’ve been kind to ye from the start.”
Her heart twisted.
They were close now. Just a single step was between them.
“Ye are more than a pawn in any game, Amara,” he added. “More than a name or a burden or a bargain. I see ye now. And I wish I’d seen ye sooner.”
Her breath hitched. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
So she reached for him.
Rhys met her halfway.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was all of their pent-up fury and longing and need crashing into a single, breathless moment. Their mouths moved with bruising desperation, her fingers fisting in the front of his tunic, his hands gripping her hips as if afraid she might vanish.
Her blanket slipped to the floor. Neither of them noticed.
His tongue brushed hers, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. It made her knees weak. She gasped, tilting her chin up and giving him more of her.
Rhys broke the kiss first, but only to press his lips to the side of her neck, then lower, dragging heat along her collarbone.
“Rhys,” she moaned.
“Shh,” he murmured. “Let me… please ye.”
His voice was like gravel and smoke. Every syllable made her shiver. She had no idea what that meant, but she knew for sure that she didn’t want him to stop.
He pressed her backwards until the backs of her knees met the edge of her bed, and as she sat, Rhys dropped to his knees before her.
Amara sucked in a breath at the sight of this man on his knees in front of her.
His hands slid slowly up her thighs, his palms warm and reverent. He pushed her nightgown up inch by inch, eyes locked to hers the whole time, waiting for her to stop him.
She didn’t…. wouldn’t.
When the soft fabric bunched around her hips, Rhys placed one of her feet along his shoulder, and then the other before he leaned forward and kissed the inside of her knee.
Her whole body lit up.
She reached behind her, steadying herself on the edge of the bed as he nudged her legs farther apart, dragging his mouth and tongue higher with every kiss. Her skin trembled under his touch.
When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, she thought she might burst from the anticipation alone.
And then the heat of his mouth encircled her. Soft. Hot. Devouring.
Amara cried out, head falling back, one hand clutching the blanket beneath her and the other flying to his hair.
“God,” she gasped. “Oh… God.”
Rhys didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His tongue moved with exquisite purpose. First in slow teasing circles, then a sudden flick, then deep, rhythmic strokes that left her gasping his name again and again.
Her hips bucked once, but he held her steady. One broad hand crawled up her torso and cupped her breasts, the pad of this thumb gently caressing her nipple while the other hand braced her hip.
She felt like she was coming apart.
He was worshiping her. Trapping her in his crips as if he wanted nothing else in the world than to taste her until she broke apart in his hands.
And she did.
It hit her like lightning to the spine. It was sharp, it was impossible, and it burned through her until she was trembling. Her whole body tightening around him as if she’d break apart if he let go.
She cried out and clutched the coverlet so hard she thought she might have ripped it, and he only held her tighter and kept going until she collapsed against him, panting, half-limp in his arms.
Only then did he rise to his feet, lifting her easily into his arms and settling her on the bed. Her nightgown was still bunched at her waist, her legs bare, her cheeks flushed.
Rhys brushed the hair from her face, and she opened her eyes, still breathless.
He didn’t say anything. He only looked at her like she was something rare, something powerful, something impossible to figure out.
She reached for him again, fingertips grazing the stubble on his jaw, the curve of his neck.
But Rhys only pulled the blankets up around her shoulders. “Rest,” he murmured. “We’ll talk later.”
Amara’s heart thudded in her chest. She wanted to ask what he meant. What would come next. If he regretted it. If he didn’t. But the warmth of his arms around her, and the heaviness of her limbs stole the words from her mouth.
So, she let her head fall against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and let sleep consume her.