Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Again!”
Erik’s blade sang against Aksel’s in the wash of the late morning light, the ring of steel sharp enough to wake the dead. Sweat carved rivers down his spine despite the bitter wind rolling off the Atlantic, salt-sharp and cold.
Better the bite of steel than the ache she left me with.
He’d not seen Claricia since he had left her in their chamber, her body warm and soft against his.
Aksel’s next strike came whistling toward his head with the kind of cheerful violence that came from years of friendship. Erik blocked, but his injured shoulder chose that exact moment to remind him of its existence—a sharp twinge that cost him half a heartbeat’s focus.
Cold steel kissed his throat.
“Dead,” Aksel announced, satisfaction rich in his voice.
The training yard went still as a held breath. Two dozen warriors stopped mid-swing to watch, and Erik could practically hear them weighing whether marriage had indeed stolen the Wolf’s teeth.
Erik lowered his blade and turned to face his men, meeting each pair of eyes with the kind of calm that came from having nothing left to prove.
“A moment’s wanderin’ thought in battle, and ye’re bleedin’ out in the mud while yer enemy takes yer boots.
Dinnae matter what distracted ye—a woman’s smile, yesterday’s insult, or the smell of breakfast.” He smiled. “Dead is dead, lads. Remember that.”
They returned to their drills, and Erik moved to the water barrel, plunging his head beneath the surface. The cold bit deliciously, washing away sweat and cooling him down. When he came up for air, his friend stood waiting with a cloth.
“Ye had somethin’ tae report?” Erik asked, recognizing the set of Aksel’s shoulders—business, not philosophy.
“Aye. The supply shipment from the mainland arrived at dawn.” Aksel’s tone was all practicality now. “Everything fer taenight’s feast is accounted fer—the extra ale barrels, the spices, the wine. Even managed tae get fresh oysters packed in ice from the coast.”
“The quality?”
“Better than I expected, given the short notice. Yer wife’s got the kitchen running like a military campaign. Even old Mhari admits the lass kens what she’s daein’,” Aksel’s expression held grudging approval.
Erik felt something warm settle in his chest. “And the hall preparations?”
“Complete. Tables arranged, rushes laid fresh, the good tapestries hung. Claricia’s been workin’ since the morning alongside the servants—nae orderin’ from above like some ladies would.” Aksel paused meaningfully. “The folk are talkin’, Erik. Sayin’ she’s earned her place here.”
“She has.”
“Aye, she has.” Aksel studied him for a moment. “The guards are positioned fer tonight, weapons checked, though I dinnae expect trouble with Finnian under our roof. Everything’s ready.”
“Good.” Erik dried his face roughly. “And the prisoner from the last raid? Any progress?”
“Still silent as a stone. But he’s alive, if ye want another go at him before the feast.”
“Later. After I’ve seen Claricia.” The admission came without thought, and Aksel’s knowing look made Erik scowl. “Shut it.”
“Didnae say a word.”
“Ye didnae have tae.”
They walked toward the keep in companionable silence, boots crunching through frost-stiffened grass. The sun was higher, burning off the morning mist that clung to Skye’s cliffs like lovers reluctant to part. It was a clear day—perfect fer that night’s gathering.
Movement in the bushes near the eastern wall snagged Erik’s attention like a fishhook in flesh. His hand shot to his sword hilt on pure instinct. Beside him, Aksel had already shifted into that deceptive stillness that came before violence.
“What is it?” Aksel murmured.
Erik scanned the undergrowth, every sense sharp and singing. Then a figure emerged from the scrub—tall, gray-haired, moving with the careful deliberation of a man who very much didn’t want to be noticed.
“That’s Finnian,” Erik said slowly.
They watched as Claricia’s father moved along the wall, fingers trailing over ancient stone, eyes scanning mortar joints with the focused attention of a man studying a problem.
He paused every few feet to examine the masonry, occasionally pressing his palm flat against the rock as if testing for weaknesses.
“What in Thor’s name—” Aksel began.
“The hidden exit.” Erik’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He’d shown Claricia that passage days ago, made her memorize the way out in case of danger. Had she told her father? Was Finnian memorizing the castle’s weaknesses, mapping escape routes?
“Could be innocent,” Aksel offered, though his tone suggested he believed that about as much as he believed in fairy folk and happy endings. “Perhaps he’s just curious about the architecture.”
“Aye.” Erik forced himself to remain still, to watch rather than confront.
Every instinct screamed at him to march over there and demand answers, but something deeper—some animal cunning that had kept him alive through fifteen years of raids and betrayals—whispered that knowledge was worth more than satisfaction.
They continued toward the keep, though Erik cast one more glance over his shoulder. Finnian had moved further along the wall, still searching, still examining, completely absorbed in whatever scheme was takin’ root in his worried father’s mind.
What are ye lookin’ fer, old man?
“Where is she?” he asked without preamble.
Liv glanced up, and a smile bloomed across her face—the kind that made Erik immediately suspicious. “Who might ye be referrin’ tae, Cousin?”
“Dinnae play coy. It daesnae suit ye.”
“Och, I dinnae ken.” Liv’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I rather think coy suits me perfectly. Ye just dinnae like it because ye’re terrible at subtle yerself.”
“Liv.”
“She’s in the small library with her faither.” The teasing softened into something gentler. “They’ve been playin’ cards fer the past hour. Though from what I heard when I passed by, there’s been more arguin’ than playin’.”
Of course, there has.
Erik could imagine it perfectly—Finnian still trying to convince his daughter she wasn’t safe here, Claricia defending her choice with that fierce stubborn pride he’d come to admire and want and love in equal measure.
“Cousin.” Liv’s voice stopped him as he turned to go. When he looked back, her expression had gone serious, blue eyes soft with the kind of affection that still caught him off-guard sometimes. “Ye love her, dinnae ye?”
Erik opened his mouth to deny it, to deflect with some crude jest or dismiss the observation entirely. But this was Liv—the girl he’d raised, the one person in this world who’d earned the right to see past his defenses.
“Aye,” he said simply. “I dae.”
Liv’s face lit up like Skye’s cliffs at sunrise, joy radiating from her so brightly it hurt to look at. “Och, Erik—that’s wonderful! Daes she ken?”
“Nae yet.”
“Why in the name of all that’s holy nae?”
“Because I’m still figurin’ out how tae say it without soundin’ like a lovesick eejit?
” Erik ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself for the uncertainty.
He’d led men intae battle without flinching, had made life-or-death decisions with calm detachment, but the thought of telling Claricia he loved her made his palms sweat.
“Erik.” Liv stepped forward and took his hand, squeezing firmly and her expression turned fierce. “Dinnae waste time worryin’ about soundin’ foolish. Just tell her.”
“And if she daesnae feel the same?”
“Have ye gone blind as well as daft?” Liv shook her head, exasperated. “That woman is just as far gone fer ye as ye are fer her. She just hasnae admitted it tae herself yet.”
Erik wanted to believe that. Wanted to think the softness in Claricia’s eyes when she looked at him meant more than desire or grudging respect.
Wanted to believe that somewhere between being hauled over his shoulder like a sack of grain and learning to float in a hidden spring, she’d fallen just as hopelessly as he had.
“Thank ye,” Erik said quietly, pulling Liv into a brief embrace. “Fer everythin’. Fer acceptin’ her. Fer helpin’ her find her place here. Fer puttin’ up with me all these years.”
“Ye’re family,” Liv said simply, her voice thick. “And she makes ye happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted fer ye.”
When she pulled back, her eyes were suspiciously bright. Erik pretended not to notice, and she pretended his own eyes weren’t equally affected.
“Now go,” Liv said, shooing him toward the library like he was a wayward child. “Before I start cryin’ and ruin me reputation of bein’ fearsome.”
Erik headed down the corridor, his heart beating faster with each step. Voices drifted from the partially open library door—Claricia’s sharp with frustration, Finnian’s low and worried.
“—Why can ye nae see ye’re in danger? Yer maither would have wanted better fer ye than this.”
Erik’s hand stilled on the door frame. He should walk away. Should give them privacy for this particular battle. But his feet had apparently decided to mutiny, rooting him to the spot like one of Skye’s ancient oaks.
Claricia’s voice dropped, went softer but somehow fiercer. “Maither would have wanted me alive and safe. And I am both.” A pause, heavy with things unsaid. “And I refuse tae apologize fer that!”
“Claricia, please listen tae reason—”
“I need some air.” The chair scraped against stone as she stood up abruptly.
Erik barely had time to step away from the door before it swung open. Claricia emerged like a small storm—face flushed with anger and unshed tears, hands clenched at her sides, blue-green eyes blazing with frustration. She nearly collided with his chest before she saw him.
“Erik!” Her eyes went wide. “How long have ye been—”
“Long enough tae hear yer faither thinks I’ve bewitched ye intae some kind of madness.” He studied her face, seeing the turmoil there, the war between love for her father and the choice she’d made. “Are ye all right?”
“Me faither thinks I’ve lost me mind. That ye’ve somehow tricked me intae believin’ I’m safe when really I’m just a lamb bein’ fattened fer slaughter.”
“And what dae ye think?”
She looked up at him then, and something fierce and bright sparked in those eyes he’d come to know better than his own reflection. “I think me faither loves me so much it’s blinded him tae the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That ye’re nae the monster he needs ye tae be.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper.
Erik’s breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. “Come with me.”
The storage room was barely more than a closet—cramped with forgotten ledgers and the musty scent of old parchment.
A heavy wooden trunk sat beneath the single high window, probably holding linens or spare candles.
The door clicked shut, and suddenly the air between them felt thick enough to drown in.
Erik’s hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face up tae his. “Ye’re angry.”
“Aye.” The word came out rough. “Tired of explainin’ meself. Tired of everyone tellin’ me what I should feel.”
“I could help ye forget.” His thumb traced her lower lip with maddening slowness. “Make ye feel somethin’ better instead.”
Heat flooded through her. “Me faither is right there—”
“Then ye’ll have tae be very, very quiet.” His mouth curved into that wicked smile she’d come tae crave. “Can ye dae that fer me, little bird?”
Before she could answer, he kissed her—deep and claiming and achingly thorough. His tongue slid against hers, tasting of ale and dark promises, and she melted into him with a soft sound that he swallowed greedily.
“Shh.” He nipped at her lower lip. “Remember? Quiet.”
Her heart hammered as his hands found her waist. In one smooth motion, he lifted her onto the storage trunk, settling her at the perfect height. The wood was cool and solid beneath her, and suddenly his eyes were level with hers, burning with intent.
“Much better,” he murmured, stepping between her knees and spreading them wider with his hips. “Now I can properly finish what we started this morning.”
A tremor ran through her. “Erik—”
“Put yer hands behind ye,” he commanded softly. “Brace yerself on the trunk. And stay quiet fer me.”
She obeyed, leaning back slightly, and watched as he dropped to his knees before her. The sight of the Wolf of Skye kneeling between her thighs, hunger burning in those gray-blue eyes, stole every coherent thought from her head.
His hands slid up her calves with deliberate slowness, pushing her skirts higher. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this since left ye, little bird,” he said against the inside of her knee, his breath hot through the fabric. “About the taste of ye. Ach, about makin’ ye come apart with me mouth.”
A whimper tried to escape—she bit it back, trembling.
“Good lass.” He pushed her skirts up around her waist, baring her intimate flesh entirely, and the cool air against heated skin made her gasp.
His mouth found her pearl and lightning sparked behind her eyelids. She pressed one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the trunk hard enough to splinter wood.
“Ach, ye’re so sweet,” he whispered, easing the fabric aside. “So delicious.”
Then his tongue—hot and wicked and devastatingly skilled—traced a long, slow stroke along her folds that made thought impossible.
In the next room, she could hear her father shuffling cards, his occasional sigh, and it strangely only heightened every sensation until she was drowning in pleasure and desperate need, writhing against his mouth.
Erik worshipped her with patient thoroughness. Long strokes followed by quick flicks. Soft kisses alternating with gentle suction. He took her higher with each deliberate caress, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her steady as she trembled.
When he sealed his lips over her pearl and sucked while his tongue worked without mercy, she shattered with strangled moan.
Pleasure crashed through her in waves so intense she had to bite down on her own fist to muffle the cry that wanted to tear free.
Erik gentled immediately, drawing out every last tremor until she was boneless and gasping.
He rose slowly, settling between her knees, and cupped her face with both hands. His eyes were dark with want and something deeper—something that made her heart forget how to beat properly.
“I love ye,” he said quietly, fiercely, like the confession had been burning inside him too long. “I dinnae ken when it happened or how tae stop it, but I love ye, Claricia.”
Her lips parted, words forming—but footsteps sounded beyond the door.
“Claricia?” Her father’s voice, concerned. “Are ye all right in there, lass?”
Erik’s thumb traced her swollen lip, his gaze holding hers with silent promise. Then he was gone, slipping out through a hidden passageway while she straightened her skirts with trembling hands.
And she knew—with absolute, terrifying certainty—that she loved him too.