Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Ye ken ye’re starin’ at yer porridge like it personally insulted yer ancestors.”
Erik glanced up from the bowl he’d been absently stirring for the past several minutes. Aksel stood across the table wearing the expression of someone who’d been watching a man lose his mind and found it thoroughly entertaining.
“I’m nae starin’.”
“Ye’ve been movin’ the same spoonful in circles fer long enough that I’m startin’ tae wonder if ye’re somehow tryin’ tae divine the future in there.” His friend dropped into the chair opposite with zero ceremony. “Either eat it or admit defeat tae breakfast.”
Erik set down the spoon with more force than necessary.
The Great Hall hummed with morning activity around them––servants clearing platters from earlier risers, a pair of guards arguing about patrol routes near the hearth, Liv moving through with her usual quiet efficiency.
Normal. Everything was perfectly, devastatingly normal.
Except nothing felt normal.
She’s in me bed. Still sleepin’. Warm and soft and mine.
The thought sent heat pooling low in his gut despite the fact he’d left their chamber over an hour ago specifically to avoid waking her with the evidence of exactly how much he wanted her again.
After last night in the hot spring, after finally claiming her completely, after watching her come apart in his arms with his name on her lips—he’d barely slept.
Had spent half the dark hours simply watching her breathe, terrified it might all somehow vanish like smoke.
“Erik.” Aksel’s voice carried the particular patience of someone addressing a simpleton. “Ye look like a man who’s been struck by lightnin’ and isnae quite sure if he’s dead or dreamin’.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is that so?” His friend leaned back, arms crossed.
“Ye snuck out of yer own chamber like a thief, ye havenae touched yer food, and ye’ve been wearin’ an expression that makes me think ye’re either plannin’ a murder or composin’ poetry.
And we both ken ye’re nae a man fer pretty words. So, go on then, out with it.”
Erik met his gaze with what he hoped passed for composure. “I’m thinkin’.”
“About?”
About the way she looked comin’ out of that water. About the sounds she made when I was inside her. About the fact that somewhere between wantin’ tae strangle her and wantin’ tae kiss her, I fell in love with me damned wife.
“Her faither,” Erik said instead, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “The man’s got tae be feelin’ the strain.”
Aksel’s expression shifted to something more serious. “Aye, I imagine he is. Watchin’ his daughter wed the man he blames fer his son’s death… nae exactly a comfortable position tae find yerself in. Especially nae when she looks so happy about it.”
“Which is why—” Erik straightened, the decision crystallizing with sudden clarity. “We’re havin’ a feast. Taenight.”
“A feast.” Aksel repeated the words like testing them for hidden meaning.
“Aye. In honor of Finnian’s arrival. A proper welcome, full ceremony.” Erik pushed away from the table, energy suddenly flooding through him. “Get everyone. Tell them we’re celebratin’. Music, food, everythin’ done right.”
Understanding dawned across his friend’s features. “Ye’re daein’ this fer her.”
“I’m welcomin’ her faither,” Erik corrected, but even as he said it, he knew Aksel saw straight through him. “’Tis… diplomatic.”
“’Tis a romantic gesture wrapped in diplomatic frills, ye mean.” Aksel’s mouth curved. “Next ye’ll be writin’ sonnets.”
“Careful, or I’ll have ye organizin’ the wine selection.”
“I take it back. Ye’re ruthless as ever.” His friend stood, but something shifted in his expression—warmth breaking through the usual mockery. “She’s good fer ye, braither. I havenae seen ye like this in… well, ever.”
The observation settled over Erik like armor he hadn’t known he was missing. As if Claricia was some sort of tonic rather than a Highland lass who’d invaded his keep, challenged his authority, and somehow carved herself a permanent place in his chest where his heart used to be.
“Just shush, will ye, ye useless mutt,” Erik muttered, but there was no heat in it.
“Consider it done.” Aksel paused at the threshold, glancing back with that knowing look Erik was learning to dread. “Ye should probably tell yer wife about yer grand plan before sooner rather than later. Women tend tae appreciate warnin’ when they’re the center of attention.”
“I’ll tell her,” Erik said. “After she wakes.”
He found her an hour later in their chamber, standing by the window in one of her simpler gowns—deep green wool that brought out those impossible blue-green eyes.
Her hair fell loose down her back in waves that made his fingers itch to tangle in them, and when she turned at the sound of the door, her smile was soft. Unguarded.
Och, gods have mercy.
“I thought ye’d disappeared intae the mornin’ mist,” she said, moving toward him. “Was startin’ tae think I’d dreamed the whole night.”
Erik caught her by the waist, pulling her close enough to feel her warmth. “If ye dreamed it, then we had the same dream.”
She laughed—the sound light and genuine and doing absolutely devastating things to his carefully maintained control.
He pressed his lips to her temple, breathing in the scent of her—herbs and honey and something uniquely Claricia. “How d’ye feel?”
A blush crept across her cheeks. “A wee bit sore, if I’m honest. But… good. Very good.”
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, and felt her tense slightly in his arms. “About yer faither.”
The shift was immediate—happiness dimming to wariness. “What about him?”
“He came all this way. Watched his daughter bein’ married tae a man he has every right tae hate.” Erik chose his words carefully, aware they were walking dangerous ground. “I thought... perhaps we should honor his arrival properly. A feast. Taenight.”
She pulled back far enough to study his face. “A feast fer me faither?”
“Aye.”
“Ye hate celebrations.”
“I tolerate them when necessary.”
“Erik.” Her voice went soft. “Ye’re daein’ this fer me, arenae ye?”
“Aye,” he admitted. “Yer faither should’ve been there when we were wed. So... this is me tryin’ tae make up fer what I couldnae control.”
She went very still. Then, without warning, she launched herself at him—arms wrapping around his neck as she kissed him with enough force to make him stumble backward. He caught her, hands splaying across her back as he kissed her back with everything he’d been holding in check since waking.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“Ye’re a good man, Erik Thorsen,” she whispered. “Even when ye’re pretendin’ tae be ruthless.”
Good. The word lodged somewhere in his chest. He’d been called many things—brutal, savage, cold—but never good. Not like she meant it.
“Dinnae spread that around,” he managed. “I have a reputation tae maintain.”
She laughed again, and the sound wrapped around him like warmth. “Yer secret’s safe with me, Wolf.”
They stood there for a long moment, just holding each other. Outside, Skye’s wind howled across the cliffs, carrying the salt-sharp scent of the sea. Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, Erik felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in fifteen years.
Peace.
“I have somethin’ fer ye,” Claricia said suddenly, pulling away with nervous energy that made him immediately suspicious. “Wait here.”
She disappeared to the other side of the chamber, returning with something wrapped in cloth. Her hands trembled slightly as she held it out, and Erik realized with shock that she was nervous.
“I… I made ye somethin’,” she said, the words tumbling out fast. “Well, painted. I’m nae very good at it, but I thought… ye should have it.”
Erik unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing a painting on wood—and the breath stopped in his lungs.
A wolf stared back at him. Not just any wolf, but one rendered with such attention to detail he could see individual strands in its fur, the intelligence in its pale eyes, the power coiled in its frame.
It stood on a cliff overlooking dark water, head raised as if scenting prey or danger or simply freedom.
Behind it, Skye’s distinctive jagged peaks cut against a storm-dark sky.
“I ken it’s nae perfect,” Claricia was saying, her words nervous and quick.
“The proportions are probably wrong, and the shadin’ could be better, but when I look at it, I think of ye.
The way ye are when ye’re fightin’, or when ye’re protectin’ yer people, or how ye looked last night in the water—like ye are wild and free and impossible tae tame. So I thought… ye might want it.”
Erik couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words past the thick lump that had settled in his throat.
He’d received gifts before—weapons from allies, tributes from defeated enemies, political gestures wrapped in expensive cloth.
But no one had ever given him something like that.
Something personal. Something that said I see you.
“Erik?” Her voice had gone small. “If ye dinnae like it, I can—”
“’Tis perfect,” he managed, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “Claricia, this is…”
The first gift I’ve ever received that meant somethin’. The first time anyone’s seen past the Wolf tae whatever’s underneath.
He set the painting carefully on the table, then pulled her against him—hard enough she made a small, surprised sound. His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her face up as he kissed her with everything he couldn’t say.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Thank ye,” he said simply.
“Ye really like it?”
“I love it.” The truth tasted strange on his tongue. “It’s the first gift I’ve ever received from a woman.”
She blinked. “What? Never?”
“Never.”
“Well…” A smile tugged at her mouth, that mischievous spark he loved igniting in her eyes. “Have ye at least received a gift from a man?”
The question startled a laugh from him—genuine and unexpected. “Aye, actually. But only one that meant somethin’.”
“Only one? What was it?”
Erik looked at her—this woman who’d been thrust into his life by a king’s decree, who’d fought him and challenged him and somehow made him want things he’d stopped dreaming of years ago. His wife. His gift.
“Ye,” he said simply. “The king gave me ye, Claricia.”
Understanding dawned across her features. Then she laughed—bright and clear and absolutely devastating in its joy. “Ye’re comparin’ me tae a trinket?”
“Nay. I’m sayin’ ye’re the only gift that ever mattered.” He kissed her again, softer this time. He traced her cheekbone with his thumb. “Ye make me want tae be more than just the Wolf, little bird. Ye make me want tae be the man ye see when ye look at me.”
She kissed him then—and something shifted. What started soft turned hungry, desperate, as if they were both trying to prove the words they’d just spoken. Her hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer, and Erik growled low in his throat as he backed her toward the stone wall.
“Ach!” Her spine met cold granite with a soft gasp that he swallowed. His hands found her waist, then slid lower, gripping her hips as he pressed against her—letting her feel exactly what her kiss was doing to him.
“Erik,” she breathed against his mouth, and the sound of his name on her lips like that made something primal surge through him.
“Let me thank ye fer yer gift,” he murmured against her throat, feeling her pulse flutter beneath his lips. “Will ye let me?”
Her breath hitched. “Here? Now?”
“Aye.” He nipped at her collarbone. “Unless ye want me tae stop?”
“Dinnae ye dare.”
Erik dropped to his knees before her, and the shocked gasp that escaped her throat sent a spike of desire straight through him. His hands slid beneath her skirts, finding the soft skin of her thighs, warm and trembling beneath his touch.
“Erik, what are ye—och…”
“Put yer leg over me shoulder, little bird,” he said, his voice gone rough. He held her weight against the wall, and felt her fingers tangle in his hair for balance. “Hold on tae me.”
Then he pushed her skirts up and Claricia shivered as his hot breath ghosted across her most intimate flesh.
A sharp knock at the door made them both freeze.
“Me jarl?” One of the guards’ voices came through the heavy wood. “Aksel needs ye in the Great Hall immediately. ‘Tis about the ale supply fer the feast.”
Erik closed his eyes, pressing his forehead briefly against Claricia’s trembling thigh.
Of all the bloody times the gods could have chosen...
“Erik,” Claricia whispered, her voice shaking. “Ye have tae—”
“I ken.” He eased her legs down carefully, steadying her when her knees threatened to buckle.
“Me jarl?” The guard knocked again, more insistently.
“A moment!” Erik called back, his voice rougher than he’d intended.
He looked up at Claricia, taking in her flushed cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips, the dazed desire in her eyes.
“Taenight,” he promised, adjusting her skirts with gentle hands.
“The next time I managed tae get ye all tae meself, ye’ll get the rest, wife. ”
She made a sound between a whimper and a laugh, but her eyes were sparkling with mischief even as she tried to catch her breath. “Go. Before they send the entire guard tae fetch ye.”
Erik pressed one last kiss to her forehead, then forced himself to step away and cross to the door. He paused with his hand on the latch, glancing back at her—flushed and beautiful and thoroughly ravished-looking against the wall.
Erik opened the door to find the guard looking studiously at the ceiling, and couldn’t quite suppress his grin as he strode toward the Great Hall—already counting the hours until the feast ended and he could have his wife to himself again.