12. A Thorn among the Flowers
A Thorn among the Flowers
T he first light of dawn spills through the curtains, soft as breath, casting a warm glow across my room.
Lately, sleep has offered no rest. My dreams—sharp, vivid things—are filled with lengthening shadows, with whispers I can’t quite hear, with the feeling of running and never reaching safety. I wake with the weight of them, always a moment too late to grasp meaning.
But today, something anchors me. A familiar scent.
Turning my head, I find a small bundle of primrose resting on my bedside table, tied with twine, delicate as memory.
Their soft purple petals catch the morning light, and for a moment, I forget the dreams. I trace the edge of one bloom with my finger, and it feels like being touched by a version of myself I’d long put away.
It’s been years since I’ve last seen them placed here. Their absence has nearly faded from my memory.
As I lift the flowers gently, the scent of earth and morning dew rises, carrying me back to childhood mornings when I would wake to find them waiting for me.
Primrose has always been resilient, growing wild in the Highlands despite the rough soil and harsh winds.
Seeing them in bloom serves as a reminder that I, too, can endure much.
My mother used to leave them when she thought I needed quiet reassurance—a way to let me know I was loved and protected. We’ve never spoken about it, and maybe that’s why it means so much. A silent language, written in petals and placed gently in the dark.
I haven’t spoken to her since our fight, and maybe this is her way of reaching across the silence—offering a hand I’m not quite ready to take.
I ready myself and make my way down toward the stables. I’ve seen very little of Finn since he arrived two days ago, and there is a strange urgency in me to find him, to see him away from the hustle and bustle of everyone else.
As I near the stables, muffled voices and bursts of barely stifled giggles filter through.
Curious, I pick up my pace, stopping just at the edge of the fenced perimeter where I can see Dealla and Saoirse standing with their backs to me, shoulders pressed together as they stare out at where we let the troop roam freely.
“Will you look at him?” Dealla whispers. The awe in her tone is unmistakable. “I swear, the man looks like he stepped out of a dream.”
Saoirse nods, cheeks flushing as she mutters, “A dream I wouldn’t mind stayin’ in longer.”
Curious, I creep closer, my amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. I stop when I see what has them both in a trance.
Finn.
He’s shirtless, the early light gilding over his skin in gold.
His dark hair falls into his eyes as he brushes down his mare Aisling, every movement slow, deliberate.
His back is a sculpture in motion, muscles flexing under skin slick with the sheen of morning effort.
But it’s not just the strength that draws the eye—it’s the ease.
The quiet rhythm of the moment. The way Aisling leans into his touch, trusting, content .
But what catches my attention more than anything are the markings between his shoulders. Black ink swirls into an image, bold and striking, something almost primal in its beauty.
My eyes trace the curve of ink, following the shape of his spine, and the way his muscles shift and stretch under the design.
I catch myself staring, caught not just by the ink, but by the man beneath it.
For a moment too long, I forget myself entirely.
It takes effort to pull out of my daze to speak.
“Shameless, ladies.” Dealla and Saoirse startle, then dissolve into giggles.
Dealla barely spares me a glance before sighing again, utterly unrepentant. “You can’t blame us, Triona… I mean, by the gods, look at him.” She practically purrs the words.
I hadn’t even realised I was staring again until Finn looks up, his gaze locking onto mine. A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. He raises his voice to bridge the distance between us. “Didnae expect to see you up so early, Little Doe!”
“Aye, well, I came out to stretch my legs,” I reply smoothly. “And Shadow’s.”
Finn raises an eyebrow, that warming smile still tugging at his lips. “Ah, so ye’ve bullied poor Eamon into saddlin’ up Shadow for you, have you?”
I scoff. “Of course not. I kindly persuaded him. There’s a difference.”
He chuckles and returns to his task. Behind me, Dealla sighs audibly. “He’s going to ruin us all. Just look at him.”
“Settle yourselves,” I mutter under my breath. “You two look as if you’re about to faint dead away.”
They exchange amused glances, not the least bit abashed, and Saoirse smirks. “Ye’d be doin’ it too if ye weren’t tryin’ so hard to hide it.”
“Don’t you ladies have anywhere else you could be right now?” I ask, arching a brow.
They groan dramatically but slink off, casting one last look over their shoulders.
Finn chuckles at their antics, shaking his head. As I near him, he turns toward me, wiping his hands on a cloth tucked into his waistband. There’s a brightness in his eyes as they meet mine.
I offer a smile—small, a little uncertain. He returns it with that familiar smirk, the one that always feels like an invitation.
“When did you get that?” I ask, gesturing toward his back.
“Not too long ago.”
“Did it hurt?” I ask, though I can imagine the answer .
His laugh rumbles low in his chest, and something about it loosens a knot inside me. “Aye, more than I thought it would. But some things are worth the pain.”
I take a small step closer. “Turn a bit?” I request, my voice softer than I mean for it to be.
He shifts, angling his body to give me a better view. My gaze traces the lines across his skin, following each curve and edge. It suits him—fierce, grounded, quietly defiant. Just like him.
“Why a stag?” I ask.
He turns to face me, his expression endearing to look at. “It’s a bit of home, something permanent I can take with me no matter where I go.”
I tilt my head, playful. “This home?”
He gives a tiny eye-roll, but the smile that follows betrays him. “Of course. This is the only true home I’ve ever known.”
The accuracy of those words settles into me as easily as a breath: he belongs here. With the Sinclairs. With me.
Having him home again feels right in a way I can’t quite explain. As if something that had been missing slipped quietly back into place.
“It’s quite lovely, Finn,” I murmur, and as he holds my gaze, I see the tiniest flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. A glimpse of the man beneath all that steady, unshakable strength. The one who carries so much, so silently.
His face gentles further, the movement overtaking his usual reserved mask. “I’m glad you came out, Triona. I actually have something for you.”
Surprise flickers through me, but before I can speak, he gestures toward the stables. We walk side by side, silence stretching between us, filled only with birdsong and the rustle of wind through the grass. My mind spins, but I hold on to the quiet, letting the anticipation bloom.
At the stables, he moves to a leather bag hanging from a post and pulls out a small cloth pouch—worn, but sturdy.
“Go on,” he encourages, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Open it.”
I loosen the ties and peer inside. Nestled in the soft fabric is a necklace unlike any I’ve ever seen.
As I remove it from the pouch, the pendant catches the light and gleams, its surface etched with intricate spirals and wavelike patterns.
The craftsmanship is delicate, unmistakably ancient.
It feels as if it carries history within it—belonging to another time entirely.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper as I hold it further up to the light. I tilt the pendant to watch the iridescence dance along its edges. Hues of blue shimmer across its surface—deep sapphire, pale glacier, the flicker of moonlit water. “Finn, I… I don’t know what to say.”
He shrugs, but I can see the quiet pride in his eyes. “It’s a birthday gift.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I know,” he says, his voice low. “But I wanted to.”
“Here,” he murmurs as he takes the necklace from my hand. “Turn around, and I’ll help you put it on.”
I lift my hair, and his hands move carefully, the chain brushing my collarbone. His fingers graze my skin—light, precise. The pendant settles against my chest, and for a moment, I feel… anchored. As if it’s always been meant to rest here.
I turn back to face him, feeling oddly exposed. “Thanks,” is all I can get out.
His expression softens into something shy. “Ye’re welcome, Triona. It… suits you.”
Caught up in the moment, I feel a sudden urge to close the distance between us. Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean in and wrap my arms around him.
He stiffens, surprised—but only for a second. Then he exhales and pulls me in, his arms folding around me with quiet sincerity. The burden of everything—of fear, of tension, of uncertainty—eases as I rest against him. For longer than is necessary, I let myself stay there in his arms.
Then he gently pulls back and nods toward the pasture.
“Come on,” he says. “Follow me to go grab Aisling before she eats her weight in clover.”
The mare lifts her head as we approach, ears flicking forward. She’s halfway through munching a patch of wildflowers, unbothered by our presence.
But just as I step forward to greet her, my boot catches on a rut in the ground—small, invisible, and perfectly placed to sabotage me.
I overcorrect when I try to catch myself, and I go down hard, landing flat on my back with a surprised yelp. The fall knocks the wind out of me for a second—but then the absurdity hits. I burst into laughter, clutching my stomach, helpless to stop .
Finn leans down, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Are you all right?” he asks, though the grin on his face tells me he is more entertained than concerned. “Ye’d think someone as attentive as you would be more mindful of yer surroundin’s.”