Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“If ye dinnae hold still, I swear by all that’s holy—or unholy, dependin’ on who ye ask—I will stab ye with this pin.”
Claricia froze mid-fidget, shooting Liv a glare through the polished bronze mirror. “Ye wouldnae dare.”
“Try me.” Liv’s pale eyes glinted with something between affection and exasperation as she adjusted another fold of crimson wool. “I’ve lived with Erik since I was six years old. I’ve learned patience from a man who has absolutely none. So aye, cousin-tae-be, I would absolutely dare.”
The wedding gown was finer than anything Claricia had worn in her life—deep red wool bordered with Norse knotwork in silver thread, fitted so precisely she could barely draw a full breath.
Which seemed oddly appropriate, given she hadn’t managed a proper breath since waking that morning with the realization that she was marrying the Wolf of Skye that day.
Logan would be so proud. His sister, weddin’ his murderer.
“There.” Liv stepped back, critically assessing her work. “Ye look…” She paused, and something softened in her expression. “Ye look like someone who could survive Erik Thorsen. Maybe even match him.”
“I look like one of his bloody banners,” Claricia muttered, tugging at the unfamiliar fabric.
She stared at her reflection in the polished bronze mirror, hardly recognizing the woman staring back. Her chestnut hair was braided intricately with leather strips and small silver beads that caught the morning light streaming through the chamber windows.
To change the subject, because her heart was fluttering, she pointed to the tapestry that hung on the wall in from of her.
“Is there anythin’ in this entire castle that isnae decorated with that damned wolf?
The walls, the shields, the dishes… I’m half expectin’ tae find wolf knotwork embroidered on the privy cloths. ”
Liv’s laugh was unexpected and genuine. “I’ll have tae check the privy fer ye. Though knowin’ Erik, he probably has considered it.”
Despite everything, Claricia’s lips twitched. “Compensatin’ fer somethin’, is he?”
“Aye, well. When ye’ve fought as hard as Erik has fer respect, fer this castle, fer his people tae be seen as more than savages…. ye tend tae plant yer banner deep and often.”
Liv moved to stand beside her, both their reflections caught in the bronze. The younger woman was lovely in her own gown of pale blue, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. Liv’s smile was slight but warm as she picked up a small vial from the dressing table, uncorking it.
“Here. Rosewater. Fer yer wrists and throat. ‘Tis tradition.”
“Norse or Highland?”
“Both, actually.” Liv daubed the scented oil on Claricia’s pulse points with practiced efficiency, the floral scent rising between them. “Some traditions transcend old feuds. Marriage is one of them.”
“How comfortin’.”
Liv gathered her supplies, then paused at the door, something softer crossing her features.
“Fer what it’s worth, Claricia… I’m glad it’s ye.
This place needs someone like ye… he needs someone like ye.
He needs everyone tae ken what is his. And after today.
..” She met Claricia’s eyes in the mirror. “Ye’ll be his too.”
The words should have sparked outrage. Should have had Claricia spitting fire about ownership and force and the injustice of being bartered like livestock.
Instead, heat coiled low in her belly—dangerous, treacherous heat that made her thighs press together beneath all that crimson wool.
What’s wrong with me? Logan’s barely cold in his grave and I’m...
A sharp knock interrupted that spiral into guilt and confusion.
Liv opened it with a knowing look that made Claricia want to throttle her, stepped aside, then left.
Erik Thorsen filled the doorway. He’d dressed for the ceremony in dark leather and wool, his tunic embroidered with silver thread that matched her gown.
His blonde hair was pulled back with a leather cord, revealing the sharp angles of his face and those grey-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her.
A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow, another along his jaw.
He looked every inch the Wolf they called him.
Behind him lurked a pinch-faced man in English court dress, all rigid posture and bureaucratic self-importance.
“Lady Claricia.” Erik’s voice was pitched low, formal—but underneath ran something that made her pulse kick against her throat.
His gaze moved over her once: the silver beads in her hair, the curve where crimson wool met bare collarbone, the way the fitted bodice shaped her.
She felt that look like fingers trailing fire across her skin. “May we enter?”
She lifted her chin, refusing to let him see how that look had affected her. “I wasnae aware I had a choice.”
“Ye always have a choice.” Something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Approval? “Though some choices have more consequences than others.”
Liv slipped past them both, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounded final.
The English courtier cleared his throat with pronounced irritation, clearly displeased at being made to wait.
“My lady, I am Lord Pemberton, royal envoy of His Majesty King Alexander II. I have been sent to witness your marriage to Jarl Erik Thorsen and ensure the terms of the Lairds’ Pact are… properly fulfilled.”
Claricia’s spine stiffened. “Aye, well, ye can witness the ceremony.”
“The Crown requires proof of consummation, me lady.”
Heat flooded Claricia’s cheeks. “Proof? What manner of—” Her eyes flitted between Erik’s carefully neutral expression and the envoy’s satisfied smirk.
“The bedsheet, me lady.” Pemberton’s tone suggested he was explaining something obvious to a particularly slow child. “Stained with proof of your maidenhead. Tae be presented tae me on the morrow.”
Blood. He wants tae see blood.
She understood that much, at least. The rest—the precise mechanics of how one arrived at bloodied sheets—remained distressingly vague. Kitchen gossip and overheard fragments weren’t exactly comprehensive education.
“That’s barbaric!” The outrage was real, even if it masked rising panic.
“That’s tradition,” Pemberton corrected, clearly relishing her discomfort. “Royal decree, in fact. Surely ye were explained the… particulars of consummation—”
Each word came sharp as a blade. “Highland lairds dinnae typically sit their daughters down fer detailed discussions of what happens on weddin’ nights.” She shifted her weight sharply. “And I’ll nae have some… Sassenach pokin’ his beak intae me marriage bed!”
Erik made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Pemberton’s face went an interesting shade of purple. “Whether you approve or not, my lady, the king demands—”
“Whether we like it or nae, the king demands proof.” Erik’s voice cut through her rising panic, though his jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly.
“But I—” She stopped, fury warring with humiliation.
Erik studied her face for a long moment, and something shifted in his expression.
“Lord Pemberton.” His voice had gone cold again, dismissive. “Please wait outside.”
“My laird, I must protest—”
“Now.” The single word cracked like a whip, and Pemberton scurried from the room with an indignant huff, the door clicking shut with pointed force.
Claricia became acutely aware that she was alone with Erik Thorsen. That his eyes were still on her. That the chamber suddenly felt far too warm despite the autumn chill leaking through the window shutters.
She could smell him from there—leather and steel and something woodsy that made her want to step closer even as every shred of sense screamed at her to maintain distance.
“Ye understand what he wants.” Erik’s tone was carefully neutral. Still not a question, but not quite a statement either.
“Of course, I understand.” The lie came quick, automatic. “I’m nae some empty-headed lass who kens naethin’ of—” She waved her hand vaguely, heat crawling up her neck. “Of marital duties and such.”
His eyes narrowed. Just slightly. Reading her the way she’d seen him read his warriors during training—assessing, cataloging, finding every weakness with the efficiency of a man who’d survived by knowing exactly what his opponents could and couldn’t do.
“Good,” he said. He moved closer—close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. “Then ye’ll have nay trouble with taenight.”
Nae true, but I’m nae lettin’ ye see that, ye big brute!
“None whatsoever.” Her voice came out steady despite her heart’s wild percussion against her ribs. “I’m… prepared. Fer what’s… required.”
Something shifted in his expression. “Are ye?”
He reached up slowly—giving her time to pull away, though they both knew she wouldn’t—and his fingers caught her chin. Tilted her face toward the light, and the simple touch sent lightning crackling down her spine.
“Tell me then.” His voice had dropped lower, intimate in a way that made her stomach flip.
Och fer the love of…
“I… well, everyone kens what happens.” The words came out too fast.
“Dae they.” His thumb traced her jaw, slow and deliberate. “Then ye shouldnae have any concerns about… fulfillin’ the king’s requirements.”
Heat flooded her face, her throat, spreading through her chest until breathing felt like dragging fire into her lungs.
“Aye.” She lifted her chin. “I’m nae ignorant of what’s expected.”
He stared at her for another heartbeat. Then another. She watched something shift in those grey-blue eyes—understanding, perhaps. Or recognition of just how thoroughly unprepared she actually was.
But he didn’t call her on the lie.
Instead, his hand dropped from her face, and the loss of contact felt like cold water after standing too close to a fire.
“Ye look bonnie, by the way.” The compliment came quietly, almost carefully. “The red suits ye.”
The words landed in her chest, warm and unexpected and utterly devastating in their simplicity.
“And taenight…” He stepped back, putting proper distance between them even as his eyes stayed locked on hers. “I cannae wait fer taenight, wife.”
The promise in those words—the heat, the certainty—sent a shiver racing down her spine. Like she was something he wanted to devour. Slowly.
“Neither can I,” she managed, though her voice came out breathier than she’d intended.
Something dangerous flickered across his face. Hunger, barely leashed.
Then he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in her very bones.
Claricia stood frozen for a long moment, every nerve in her body singing with awareness, her skin too hot, her breath coming shallow and quick.
What is happenin’ tae me? What did I just agree tae?
She sank onto the bed’s edge, legs suddenly incapable of supporting her weight.
Her hands were trembling. Her whole body was trembling.
From fear, certainly—she had no idea what tonight would actually entail, and Erik clearly knew she was lying through her teeth about understanding.
But underneath the fear ran something else entirely.
Something hot and liquid and utterly treacherous.
I want him.
She wanted his hands on her again. Wanted his mouth. Wanted to understand what that look in his eyes meant, what he’d do when there were no walls between them, no clothes, no witnesses. Just the two of them and whatever happened in marriage beds that left blood on sheets.
I shouldnae want this. Shouldnae want him.
Logan’s face swam before her eyes—her brother, laughing as he’d taught her to ride, solemn as he’d promised to always protect her, cold and still in death after Erik Thorsen’s men had killed him on some distant shore.
“Forgive me, Logan,” she whispered to the empty chamber.
But even as guilt twisted knife-sharp beneath her breastbone, her body betrayed her. Heat pooled low in her belly. Her breasts felt heavy against the gown’s fitted bodice. Her skin felt sensitized, aching for touch—his touch.
She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks, trying to calm breathing that seemed determined to remain ragged.
Tonight. In a few hours, she’d marry Erik Thorsen before witnesses. And then—
Ye’re a MacKenzie, ye should be hatin’ this man, nae burnin’ fer him like some wanton—
A soft knock interrupted the thought.
“Claricia?” Liv’s voice came gentle through the door. “We’re ready fer ye.”
She stood on trembling legs, smoothing skirts that didn’t need smoothing, checking her reflection one final time. The woman staring back looked flushed and feverish, her eyes too bright, her lips slightly parted, as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
She looked like someone about to walk willingly into her enemy’s bed.
Because that’s exactly what I am.
“Comin’,” she called, proud when her voice came out steady.
She followed Liv from the chamber, walking toward a wedding she’d been forced into, toward a man who’d killed her brother, toward a marriage bed she didn’t understand but couldn’t stop imagining.
And the guilt warring with desire in her chest felt like it might tear her in two.