Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Ye keep lookin’ at it like it’s goin’ tae swallow ye whole.”
Claricia tore her gaze from the grey-green water lapping against the rocky shore, her hands tightening on the reins until leather bit into her palms. The path back to the castle skirted dangerously close to the sea, and every part of her wanted to urge her mare inland, away from that hungry expanse that had almost claimed her life.
“I’m nae lookin’ at anythin’.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
Erik rode beside her on his massive grey stallion, close enough that his leg occasionally brushed hers when the horses moved together. Close enough that she could feel his gaze on her face, reading every tell she thought she’d hidden.
His voice carried no judgment, just that blunt observation he wielded like a weapon. “Ye’ve gone pale as milk.”
Heat crept up her neck despite the chill. “I’m fine.”
“Aye. And I’m the King of Norway.”
Behind them, Aksel and the four guards maintained their distance—close enough to respond to danger, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. The sun sat low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of amber and blood, and the wind off the water carried the sharp bite of salt and seaweed.
“Would ye like tae learn?”
Claricia’s head snapped toward him. “Learn what?”
“Tae swim.” Erik’s expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes suggested this wasn’t a casual offer. “The water’s cold now but come spring… I could teach ye. If ye wanted.”
The thought alone made her stomach clench. “Why would I want that?”
“Because fear’s a cage, little bird.” His hand gestured toward the endless grey expanse. “And ye dinnae strike me as someone who likes bein’ caged.”
He’s right. Curse him, but he’s right.
“I’ll think about it,” she said finally, the words feeling like both a promise and a surrender.
Erik’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. “That’s all I—”
He went still. Completely, utterly still in a way that made every hair on Claricia’s body stand on end. His hand moved to his sword hilt with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the rocky outcropping ahead where the path narrowed between stone and sea.
“Erik?”
“Quiet.” The word came out barely a whisper. Then, louder, pitched to carry to Aksel behind them: “Defensive positions. Now.”
The world exploded into violence.
Men erupted from behind the rocks like demons materializing from smoke—six, seven, maybe more, their faces covered, weapons already drawn and gleaming in the dying light.
They moved with the coordination of trained fighters, not desperate bandits, and Claricia’s mare screamed and reared as steel sang free of scabbards all around her.
“Claricia! Stay behind me!” Erik’s roar cut through the chaos as his stallion wheeled, putting himself between her and the attackers.
But her mare had other ideas. The animal bolted sideways, hooves scrabbling for purchase on loose stones, and Claricia felt herself sliding, the reins torn from her grip as gravity and terror conspired against her.
She hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs, tasted copper and dirt, saw boots rushing toward her through a haze of dust and shock.
They’re coming fer me.
“Touch her and die!”
Erik’s voice carried the kind of cold fury that made grown men reconsider their life choices. Claricia rolled onto her side just in time to see him vault from his saddle with terrifying grace, his sword already moving, already singing its deadly song.
The first attacker never saw the blow coming. Erik’s blade opened his throat in a spray of crimson that looked black in the fading light. The man dropped without a sound, and Erik was already pivoting, already moving toward the next threat with the fluid efficiency of a predator born to hunt.
He’s magnificent. He’s terrifying. He’s—
Hands grabbed her arms, yanked her upward, and Claricia screamed. She twisted, clawed at the face above her, felt her nails rake across flesh and heard a satisfying curse.
“Feisty wee bitch, arenae ye?” The man’s breath reeked of stale ale and rotting teeth. “MacRae wants ye alive, but he didnae say undamaged—”
Steel flashed. The man’s words ended in a wet gurgle as Aksel’s blade punched through his spine from behind. The warrior yanked his sword free and the attacker crumpled, revealing Aksel’s blood-splattered face twisted in grim satisfaction.
“Lady Thorsen.” He offered his hand, calm as if they were at a feast instead of a battlefield. “We should move ye tae safety.”
But there was no safety. The narrow path had become a killing ground—Erik and his men outnumbered but fighting with the kind of brutal efficiency that came from years of surviving exactly that kind of ambush.
Steel clashed against steel, men shouted and screamed, and blood painted the rocks in patterns that would have been beautiful if they weren’t so horrifying.
Claricia watched Erik fight, and something fundamental shifted in her chest.
He moved like water given deadly purpose—fluid, inevitable, unstoppable.
His blade seemed to know where his enemies would be before they did, cutting through defenses with surgical precision.
But it wasn’t the skill that stole her breath.
It was the way he kept positioning himself between her and danger.
The way every strike, every pivot, every brutal kill served one purpose: keeping her alive.
This is what it means tae be his.
The thought struck her with the force of a blade—sharp, undeniable, terrifying in its clarity.
Not his possession, not his property, but his in the way that mattered.
His to protect. His to defend. His to kill for without hesitation or question.
She’d spent days pushing against the cage of marriage, fighting the title of wife like it was chains around her wrists.
But watching him now—watching him bleed for her, watching him move like death incarnate to keep her breathing—she fully understood something she’d been too proud to see.
He wasn’t caging her. He was shielding her. And that made all the difference.
He’s protectin’ me… Even now. Even in the middle of this nightmare, he’s thinkin’ of me.
An attacker broke through the line, rushing straight for her with wild eyes and desperate purpose. Claricia scrambled backward, her hands finding a rock roughly the size of her fist. The man raised his sword—
Erik crashed into him like divine retribution made flesh. They went down in a tangle of limbs and fury, rolling across blood-slick stones. Erik came up on top, his blade already moving, already ending the threat with mechanical efficiency that should have terrified her.
It didn’t.
“Erik! Behind ye!”
Aksel’s warning came just in time. Erik twisted, his blade catching the descending sword mid-swing, but the force of it drove him to one knee.
The attacker pressed his advantage, raining blows down with desperate strength, and Claricia watched red bloom across Erik’s shoulder where steel had found flesh.
She was moving before she thought, the rock still clutched in her hand, every instinct screaming to help him, to do something—
“Me lady, stay back!” One of the guards grabbed her arm, yanking her away from the fight just as Erik surged upward, his sword taking the attacker under the ribs with brutal efficiency.
The man dropped. Went still. And suddenly, it was over.
Six bodies lay scattered across the rocks. Erik stood in the center of it all, breathing hard, blood dripping from his sword and seeping through his shirt where a blade had found him.
“Claricia.” Her name came out rough, scraped raw. “Are ye hurt?”
“I’m fine. But ye’re—”
“Later.” He was already moving, already checking his men with that same careful efficiency he’d used to kill. “Aksel. Casualties?”
“Finn took a cut tae his leg. Deep, but he’ll live if we get him back quick.” Aksel wiped his blade clean on a dead man’s shirt, his expression grim. “The rest are scratches. We were lucky.”
“Nae luck. They were poorly trained.” Erik crouched beside one of the bodies, yanking the cloth from the man’s face. “Professional enough tae set an ambush, but nae skilled enough tae execute it properly.”
“Same as before?” Aksel joined him, studying the corpse with the detached interest of a man used to examining the dead.
“Aye. Nay clan colors.” Erik straightened, his jaw tight with frustration. “Someone’s feedin’ them information.”
“Me jarl.” One of the guards approached, leading Claricia’s mare by the reins. “The horses are spooked but unharmed. We should move before dark.”
Erik nodded, then turned to Claricia. His eyes swept over her—quick, thorough, checking for injuries she might not have noticed in the chaos. When he seemed satisfied she was whole, something in his expression softened marginally.
“Can ye ride?”
“Aye.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “But ye need—”
“I need ye safe.” He moved toward her, and she saw the way he favored his injured shoulder, the way his jaw tightened against pain he refused to acknowledge. “The wound can wait.”
“Lady Thorsen rides with me,” he announced to the group, already reaching for her. “Her mare’s too skittish after the attack.”
It was an excuse—they both knew it. Her mare had calmed considerably.
But Claricia didn’t argue. Not when his hands closed around her waist, lifting her onto his stallion with surprising gentleness despite the blood and violence still clinging to him.
Not when he swung up behind her, his chest solid and warm against her back, his arms bracketing her as he gathered the reins.
“Hold on, little bird,” he murmured against her hair, quiet enough that only she could hear. “I’ve got ye.”
And despite everything—despite the fear still thrumming through her veins, despite the bodies they were leaving behind, despite the treachery lurking somewhere in the shadows—she believed him.
The ride back passed in a blur of fading light and thundering hooves, but Claricia was aware of every point where Erik’s body touched hers.
His chest against her back, rising and falling with each breath.
His arms bracketing her, solid and sure despite the blood seeping through his sleeve.
The way his chin occasionally brushed the top of her head when the path grew rough and he leaned forward to keep her balanced.
She should have been thinking about the attack, about the men who’d tried to take her, about Duncan’s name falling from now dead lips.
Instead, all she could focus on was the steady thrum of Erik’s heartbeat against her spine—proof that he was alive, that they’d both survived, that his promise to keep her safe hadn’t been empty words.
They rode hard for the castle, arriving just as the last light bled from the sky. The moment they clattered through the gates, Erik was barking orders—sending men to search the bodies they’d brought back, posting extra guards on the walls, dispatching riders to scout the land.
Through it all, blood continued to seep through his shirt, darkening the fabric, dripping onto his saddle.
“Erik.” Claricia twisted in his arms as he dismounted, trying to see the wound properly. “Ye need the healer—”
“I need tae see tae me men first.” He set her on her feet with careful efficiency, already moving toward where they’d laid the injured guard on a makeshift stretcher. “Finn’s wound is deeper than mine.”
“But—”
He was already gone, kneeling beside the wounded warrior, checking the hasty field dressing with competent hands. Watching him work—watching him ignore his own pain to care for his people—made something twist painfully in Claricia’s chest.
This is who he is. A man who puts everyone else first. A man who bleeds for his people without complaint or expectation of thanks.
She’d grown up surrounded by men who demanded loyalty, who expected sacrifice from those beneath them while not always giving in return.
Her father. Duncan. Even the Highland chiefs who’d visited Kintail over the years—all of them leaders who ruled through fear or obligation or the accident of birth.
Erik was different. He didn’t demand loyalty.
He earned it with every action, every choice, every moment like that, where he put his people’s welfare above his own.
The warriors didn’t follow him because they had to.
They followed him because he’d proven, again and again, that he would bleed for them first.
Nay wonder they’d die fer him.
She waited. Watched him oversee the healer’s work on Finn, watched him personally check each of his other warriors for injuries, watched him coordinate the search efforts and defensive preparations with Aksel. Through it all, his shoulder bled, his movements grew stiffer, and his face went paler.
And through it all, he didn’t stop.