Chapter 23 #2
“We’re finishin’ this meal without bloodshed.” Her voice left no room for argument. Steel wrapped in silk. “Both of ye matter tae me. So, act like it matters that I’m askin’. Please.”
Finnian looked ready to fight, but something in her face—the steel she’d inherited from him, perhaps, or maybe just exhaustion—made him sink back into his chair. Slowly. Jaw locked. Fists clenched on the table.
Erik remained standing longer, gaze locked on hers. Something passed between them in that look—understanding, maybe. Respect. Then he gave a single sharp nod and sat.
Claricia collapsed into her own chair, pulse hammering like a war drum. Her hands were shaking. Across the table, Erik’s eyes held what looked like grudging respect.
The rest of the meal passed in silence thick as winter fog. No one spoke. Knives scraped plates. Cups were refilled. The fire crackled. Each sound seemed too loud in the oppressive quiet.
When her father finally excused himself—exhaustion, he claimed, though Claricia doubted that was all—she walked him to his chamber. The corridor felt longer than usual. Colder.
At his door, he pulled her into an embrace that squeezed the breath from her lungs. “I love ye, lass. Never forget that. Whatever happens, whatever ye choose—I love ye.”
The words felt too much like goodbye. Like he was preparing for her to slip away from him forever.
She accepted his kiss on her forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of him one more time. “I love ye too, Faither. We’ll talk come mornin’. When heads are clearer, aye?”
Relief flooded her veins as she made her way back to her chamber.
Erik was already there when she entered, standing by the window like a dark sentinel carved from shadow and moonlight.
“So.” She closed the door behind her with a soft click. “Ye heard the whole conversation earlier, I take it?”
He turned from the window, and firelight caught the harsh planes of his face. “Some of it.”
The silence stretched. His expression was unreadable—that blank mask he wore when sorting through problems. When deciding what to do with threats.
Perfect. He probably thinks I’m conspirin’ with them.
“And?” She kept her voice steady, but her heart was hammering. “Dae ye think I’m lyin’ about wantin’ tae stay?”
“Should I be?”
“That’s nae an answer—”
“Claricia.” He crossed to her in three strides. Close enough she had to tilt her head back. “If I thought ye were workin’ against me, ye’d be in the North Wing, keepin’ company with chains and pointy things while I sort truth from deception.”
The bluntness should have stung. Instead, it steadied something inside her.
“Then what’s that look fer?”
“What look?”
“Ye look like ye’re expectin’ me tae pull a blade on ye.”
His mouth twitched. “Because I’ve spent fifteen years expectin’ betrayal.” He reached up slowly, fingers brushing her cheek. “But hearin’ ye defend me tae the one person whose opinion matters most tae ye...” His voice dropped. “That showed me somethin’ else, little bird.”
Her breath caught. “Did it?”
“Aye.” His expression went soft around the edges. “I’m nae angry, lass. I’m grateful. Yer faither cares enough fer ye that he’d risk the king’s wrath tae get ye out if he thought ye were in danger. That’s… that’s a good thing.”
She blinked. “It is?”
“At the end of the day, he and I want the same thing—tae keep ye safe.” His thumb traced her jaw.
Relief flooded through her. “He mentioned Duncan offered tae help.”
Erik went very still. “Did he now.” His voice dropped to that dangerous quiet that meant violence was being carefully leashed. “And what exactly did this former betrothed of yers suggest?”
“Erik—”
“Because from where I’m standin’, little bird, the man who’s been tryin’ tae abduct ye fer weeks suddenly offerin’ his aid sounds less like charity and more like a wolf beggin’ fer permission tae guard the lambs durin’ birthin’ season.
” His jaw tightened. “Please tell me Finnian had the good sense tae refuse.”
“He seemed… open tae the idea.” She watched Erik’s hands curl into fists. “Faither thinks Duncan wants tae—”
Erik’s laugh was short and bitter. “MacRae’s beggin’ fer a swim in the loch with stones tied tae his ankles.”
Despite everything, her mouth twitched at his dry tone. “That’s a bit much.”
Erik started pacing like a caged predator, that restless energy making the air around him crackle. “That’s bein’ merciful, little bird. The alternative’s the blood eagle.”
Claricia blinked. “The what?”
“’Tis an ancient Norse tradition. Reserved fer the worst offences—betrayal, cowardice, crimes against kin.
” His expression had gone dark in a way that should have terrified her, but instead, it sent heat pooling low in her belly.
“Ye cut through the ribs from behind, crack them open tae spread them like wings. Then ye pull out the lungs through the openin’ while the man’s still breathin’. ”
“Erik—” her voice came out strangled.
“The condemned is expected tae stay silent through the entire thing, ye ken.” He continued, matter-of-factly as if discussing the weather.
“Nay screamin’, nay beggin’. If a single sound is uttered, entry is denied intae Valhalla—dyin’ a coward’s death, denied the afterlife.
So most try tae last as long as they can without cryin’ out. ”
“That’s…” she couldn’t find words, torn between horror and dark fascination at this rare glimpse into her husband’s culture. “That’s barbaric!”
“Aye.” He looked down at her, utterly unrepentant. “But ‘tis also justice. Nae a fate easily given. And Duncan MacRae has earned it twice over fer what he’s tried tae dae tae ye.”
“Ye cannae just blood eagle me previous fiancé because he’s bein’ a schemin’ bastard!”
“Watch me.” But something had shifted in his eyes when he looked at her—the lethal focus softening just slightly. “And he’s nae a schemin’ bastard, Claricia. He’s actively tryin’ tae steal ye. There’s a difference.”
“Och, aye. The one bein’ mildly annoyin’, the other apparently earns ye disembowelment.” She crossed her arms. “Seems a wee bit extreme, even fer the Wolf of Skye.”
His mouth twitched. “And here I thought I’d finally found a use fer all those ancient execution techniques Aksel keeps tellin’ me are ‘culturally outdated’.”
“Och, poor ye. Denied yer bloodshed by petty things like laws and diplomacy.”
“Ye jest, but ‘tis a genuine hardship.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “Dae ye ken how many creative solutions I come up with on a daily basis that Aksel vetoes on principle? ‘Tis stiflin’ tae a man’s natural instincts, ye ken.”
“Yer natural instincts are terrifyin’.”
“Aye. But they keep ye safe.” His hands came up to frame her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “Though I suppose I’ll have tae settle fer lockin’ yer faither in the North Wing until he comes tae his senses.”
“Erik Thorsen, ye are nae lockin’ up me faither!”
“Why nae? ‘Tis fer his own protection.” Erik’s voice had gone reasonable in that infuriating way that meant he genuinely believed his ridiculous suggestion made perfect sense. “What’s a few days in me dungeon? He’ll have plenty of time tae reflect on who he’s trustin’.”
“That’s kidnappin’, ye daft Viking!”
“’Tis protective custody, little bird.” Erik teased.
She felt the shift in him, from dark humor to genuine concern. “What will we dae, Erik?”
“We keep Finnian close.”
“Ye want me tae spy on me faither?”
“I want ye tae save him from his own blind spots, Claricia.” Erik’s eyes held hers, fierce and unflinching.
Her throat tightened. “Since when daes the Wolf of Skye care about Highland faithers?”
“Aye, well,” his mouth curved. “I’d rather have Finnian MacKenzie alive and hatin’ me than dead and makin’ ye weep.” Erik studied her face for a long moment, then seemed to come to some decision. “Will ye come with me somewhere. I reckon fer a moment, we need tae get away from all of this.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere I go when I need tae escape bein’ the Wolf.” He paused. “It’s gettin’ dark, but… will ye trust me? Even nae kennin’ where?”
She should have demanded details. Pressed for answers.
But looking at him—at that carefully hidden vulnerability—she found herself nodding, despite everything
“Aye.”
Relief flooded his features. “Get yer cloak. Ye’ll need it fer the journey.”