11. A Thousand Nights Without Her #2
Because beneath the anticipation, beneath the ache to see her again, there’s something else—something darker.
Guilt flickers through me, sharp and unwelcome. I shouldn’t feel this way. Not about her. Not when she’s always been Callan’s little sister… and one of my greatest friends, in every way that’s meant to matter.
But no amount of reason or restraint has loosened her hold on me. Not time. Not distance. Not blood that was never truly shared.
I take a breath, long and steady, trying to brace myself, not just for the moment I’ll see her again, but for whatever stirs inside of me when I do.
I realise, as I watch her from a distance, that the moment I dreaded isn’t dreadful at all. There’s a strange sort of peace in seeing her again.
No other woman could ever hope to compare to the allure that she possesses. She’s become the measure I never meant to make, the standard by which all others fall short. It’s not fair to them—and it’s not her fault—but it’s the truth.
Her absence carved something into me, a hollow space that no one else has filled. But even in that emptiness, I grew. The ache of missing her shaped me, forced me to become a man worthy of more.
She’ll likely never know that. Never see the way her memory has steadied me, how the thought of her lit a path when everything else went dark.
But I know. And somehow, that’s enough .
As I draw closer, I can see a great tension in her shoulders, the heaviness that weighs her down. I want to say something, but the moment feels too delicate to break with words. Instead, I step up behind her and gently place my hands over her eyes.
She gasps, which slowly turns into a chuckle that I can feel hum through my body. “Cal… or Casey?” She quiets as she runs a hand over my calloused knuckles. “Three seconds and I’ll know, so enjoy the mystery while you can.” She laughs, light and teasing, and a smile tugs at my lips.
I let my voice slip into the quiet between us. “Miss me, Little Doe?”
She stills, her whole body freezing as though the world has paused around her. I watch eagerly as she turns, her movements laced with disbelief and awe. Her gaze lifts, and for a heartbeat I can see so much there—surprise, relief, and a light that banishes the shadows that are haunting her.
We stand here, eyes locked, her expression vulnerable and beautiful. In this instant, I want to tell her everything—that she’d been in my thoughts, in my heart, that every moment leading me to this cliff had felt like a race against time just to be here, just to be with her.
Then, in a rush, she launches herself at me with reckless abandon, crashing into me with such force that I stumble backward, nearly toppling to the ground.
In my arms, she feels like pure fire, igniting every nerve ending in my body.
I hug her tightly, the instinct to hold her anchors me in place.
Selfishly, I choose to take this moment for myself—if only for a moment, I can be hers, and she can be mine.
The intoxicating scent of her skin—primrose and something wild, like the moors in springtime—saturates every breath I take, the fragrance stirs something deep within me, awaking desires I want to keep buried.
Three years without this fragrance, three years of wondering if I’d ever breathe it in again, sharpen every second she’s in my arms, heightening everything until it’s almost unbearable.
Our bodies intertwine tightly as she presses herself against me in such an intimate manner that I can sense every flawless contour of her figure melding harmoniously with mine, creating a fiery passion that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me.
I can’t help but to imagine what the softness of her velvety skin would feel like beneath my fingertips, the delicate heat pressed directly against me. I can picture her skin yielding to my touch, smooth and supple, as if made to fit perfectly with mine .
My mind runs wild as I accept the fact that this far exceeds any touch experienced before. I find myself grateful for the layers separating us, shielding my aching arousal provoked by how flush she is against me.
Her arms wind around my neck in a tender, unrelenting embrace—each gentle squeeze is a tether that binds me to this fleeting moment. And though I hold her now, I know well the sorrow that will come when the embrace is but a memory, a whisper of warmth lost to the cold.
“Your heart is hammering,” she says.
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “Aye, well, you nearly knocked me flat—gave me a wee start, you did.”
She leans back enough to look up at me, so close that her warm breath is dancing languidly against my skin.
She’s searching my face as her teeth graze her lower lip—just a whisper of pressure at first, then a slow, thoughtful bite.
She holds it there long enough that the soft swell of her lip deepens into a flush.
The sight sends a fresh bolt of heat through me.
My fingers itch to tangle in her hair, to tilt her head back, and claim that perfect mouth.
Her emerald eyes are wide, shimmering with emotion she isn’t attempting to mask. A single tear falls from her eye, and without thinking, I move my hand to her cheek, brushing it away gently with the pad of my thumb. The touch is so natural—so instinctive for me.
Triona lets out a soft, nervous chuckle, wiping the corner of her eye. “Gods, I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice catching in her throat as she tries to pull away. “I didn’t mean for you to—”
“Stop.” My hands find her waist, gentle but unyielding—an anchor against the pull of her retreat. “Never apologise for that. Not with me.”
She swallows hard, and I track the movement.
Without a word, she steps closer. Her arms slip around my waist, slow but sure, and she rests her head against my chest. I feel the soft hitch of her breath, the faint tremble in her shoulders as she lets herself cry—she lets me see the most vulnerable version of herself.
My hands stay firm on her hips, holding her as if she might vanish with the wind. This simple closeness, the weight of her against me, her warmth seeping through every layer—it undoes me.
It’s not enough. And yet somehow, it’s everything.
“I was just... so surprised. So happy to see you. It... caught me off guard.”
“It’s all right,” I murmur, rough-voiced and aching.
“It was hard,” she says, quieter now. “Not hearing from you. I didn’t realise how much I’d come to depend on you being around… until you weren’t.”
The words hit like a blow I saw coming and still didn’t brace for. I should’ve written more—something, anything—but every time I began to write, it felt impossible. How could I endure longing for the place, the people that were home without unravelling completely?
“I’m sorry, Triona,” I say, voice low, with nothing but compassion clear.
She looks up at me, her brow furrowed, and she pulls away from my embrace in order to wrap her arms around herself.
“Why didn’t you? You got my letters, right?”
There isn’t anger in her voice, just a quiet hurt. The kind that twists the knife even deeper. Her anger is something I knew I deserved, but the hurt is a harder burden to bear.
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I try to find the right words.
“It was... hard to write home when I missed it so much. I thought if I tried to put it all into words, I’d never stop thinkin’ about how much I wanted to be back.
I never intended to hurt anyone. But I missed this… I missed you .”
Her lips part slightly, as if she doesn’t know what to say. After a beat, she nods slowly and reaches for my hand. Her thumb brushes over my knuckles in a soft, reassuring gesture.
“Say no more. I should have considered that,” she breathes, her eyes softening. “I was here with family, and you were there alone. I missed you too, Finn. You have the kindest heart… and I’m so grateful to know it.”
She pauses, her gaze steady. “To call you a friend is an honour,” she finishes quietly.
Friend . The reminder I need at the moment. The reminder I needn’t ignore.
I let out a quiet chuckle, rolling my eyes in mock exasperation as I try to shake off the ache sitting too close to my ribs. “Oh, I wasna alone. Not by a long shot.”
“How do you mean?”
I give her a sly grin, leaning in slightly. “They stuck me with a particularly obnoxious bugger. Bran Mumford.”
“Mumford?” Triona echoes, eyes narrowing as recognition ignites. “Is his father’s name Alexander? The American?”
“Alex. Aye… it is. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting his father yet. ”
I chuckle and nod as I cross my arms. “If Bran’s anything to go by, let’s just say subtlety isn’t exactly in their blood. Bran can be... crass, to put it lightly. I used to wonder if all Americans were alike in that way, but I truly believe he’s one of a kind.”
Triona laughs, eyes dancing with amusement. “Poor, long-suffering you. Enduring all that confidence and charm—how did you manage?”
“Ye’ve no idea,” I say, smirking. “He’ll stride into rooms as if he were born to command them. Every time he opens his mouth, I stare and wonder how a man can be so bold and not even blink.”
She snorts, clearly enjoying herself, and I can’t help but grin.
But then the humour softens, giving way to something quieter. “He nearly drove me mad,” I admit, the smirk fading. “But… I’ll never say it to his face, not unless he’s dyin’ or something… but havin’ him around helped. A lot. There were moments I might’ve lost my head if it weren’t for him.”
“Well, if he’s anything like his da, I can only imagine the whirlwind,” she says with a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Da says Alex can turn a tumble through a rainstorm into an adventure—talks nonsense half the time, but somehow makes you feel you’re part of something bigger just by being there.”
My grin widens. “Aye, that sounds right. Bran’s cut from the same cloth. Half the time it felt as if he was leadin’ us into some kind of chaos just for the thrill.”