Chapter 6 #2
"That depends entirely on you." I offer my arm again, making it clear the conversation is temporarily over. "Now, shall we join your father? Or would you prefer I send him my regrets while I question you further in private?"
For a moment, I think she might choose defiance. Instead, she places her hand back on my arm, her touch so light it barely registers. "My father," she says stiffly.
Dinner is a strained affair, with Edgar MacLeod watching me interact with his daughter through eyes heavy with resignation and poorly concealed resentment.
I allow them time to speak privately afterward, though I post guards outside the door—a precaution that earns me a glare from Fiona but no verbal protest.
I use the time to review the border reports Callum mentioned earlier, forcing myself to focus on matters of state rather than my increasingly complex feelings for my wife.
The southern movement bears watching—a minor lord with outsized ambitions, perhaps, testing how secure my hold is on my newly expanded territories.
Later, in our chambers, I lay out the gifts I've brought for Fiona—a necklace of sapphires and diamonds, hair combs inlaid with pearls, slippers made from the softest leather, embroidered with silver thread.
When she enters, her expression guarded after our earlier confrontation, I gesture to the items spread across the bed.
"For you," I say simply.
She approaches cautiously, as if the gifts might bite. Her fingers hover over the necklace, not quite touching. "Why?" she asks, looking up at me with genuine confusion. "Why shower me with gifts when you know I'm still your enemy?"
The question cuts deeper than she knows. I step closer, close enough to smell the floral scent of her hair, to see the tiny flecks of gold in her green eyes. "Because you're mine," I tell her, the only truth I'm certain of anymore. "And what's mine deserves the best."
"Possession isn't the same as affection," she says quietly.
"Isn't it?" My hand captures hers, bringing it to my lips. "What would you call this need I have to see you adorned in the finest things? This rage I feel when other men look at you? This hunger that's never satisfied, no matter how many times I take you to bed?"
Her breath catches, her pupils dilating slightly. "Obsession," she whispers. "Not love."
"And what would you know of love, Princess? You who have never known a man's touch before mine?" My thumb caresses her wrist, feeling her pulse jump beneath the delicate skin. "Perhaps obsession is love for men like me."
She pulls her hand away, but not before I feel the slight tremor that passes through it. "Men like you don't love. They conquer."
"Is there a difference?" I smile, though there's no humor in it. "Try on the necklace. I want to see it on you."
For a moment, I think she'll refuse—another small act of rebellion in our ongoing war. Instead, she turns, lifting her hair to expose the nape of her neck. "Help me."
The gesture of submission, however minor, sends a surge of satisfaction through me. I take the necklace and fasten it around her throat, allowing my fingers to linger against her skin. The sapphires glow against her pale flesh, matching the blue of her gown.
"Beautiful," I murmur, turning her to face the polished metal mirror mounted on the wall. "See how it suits you?"
She stares at our reflection—her small frame dwarfed by my height and breadth behind her, the jewels glittering at her throat like a band of stars. For a heartbeat, I see something in her eyes beyond the usual resignation or defiance. Something like yearning, quickly suppressed.
"Thank you," she says, her voice formal, controlled. "They're lovely gifts."
"But they don't buy your loyalty, do they?" I rest my hands on her shoulders, feeling the tension that never fully leaves her in my presence. "What will it take, Fiona? What must I give you to make you truly mine?"
"Freedom," she answers without hesitation.
The word hangs between us, impossible and absolute. I grip her shoulders tighter, fighting the urge to spin her around, to force her to look at me. "You are a queen now. You have more freedom than most women could dream of."
"A gilded cage is still a cage." She meets my eyes in the mirror, her gaze steady despite the slight tremor in her voice. "No matter how beautiful you make it."
Before I can respond, a sharp knock comes at the door. I release her with reluctance, moving to answer it.
Callum stands outside, his expression grim. "Forgive the interruption, my lord, but there's been an incident."
"What kind of incident?" I ask, already reaching for the sword I'd set aside earlier.
"The stable boy your men were watching—he's gone. And he took a horse." Callum's eyes flick briefly to Fiona, who has moved to stand behind me. "The guards found this in his quarters."
He holds out a folded piece of parchment.
I take it, unfolding it to reveal a message written in a precise, feminine hand I recognize immediately.
My wife's handwriting, detailing a plan for her to slip away during a hunting expedition planned for the following day, with the stable boy serving as guide and accomplice.
The rage that surges through me is so intense that for a moment, I can't speak. I turn slowly to face Fiona, who has gone very still, her face a mask of carefully controlled fear.
"Leave us," I tell Callum, not taking my eyes from my wife.
"My lord—"
"Now."
He withdraws, closing the door behind him. The silence that falls between us is heavier than a winter snowfall.
"Explain," I say, my voice dangerously soft, holding out the parchment.
She lifts her chin, defiance replacing fear. "What's there to explain? I want to go home."
"This is your home now. I am your home." I crumple the parchment in my fist. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? That I'd let you slip through my fingers so easily?"
"I had to try." There's no apology in her voice, no regret. Just the same stubborn pride that made me want her in the first place.
I close the distance between us in two strides, towering over her. "The boy will be flogged for this. And then—"
"No!" She grabs my arm, her nails digging into my flesh through the fabric of my shirt. "Please. He's just a boy. I convinced him to help me. The fault is mine."
"Yes," I agree, covering her hand with mine, trapping it against my arm. "It is. Which means you'll be the one punished in his stead."
Fear flashes in her eyes, quickly masked. "What are you going to do? Beat me? Lock me away? Kill me?"
The last suggestion is so absurd that a harsh laugh escapes me. "Kill you? You think I'd destroy the very thing I fought to possess?" I tighten my grip on her hand. "No, Princess. Nothing so permanent."
I pull her roughly against me, one arm wrapping around her waist like an iron band.
"Your punishment will be much more... intimate.
" My free hand tangles in her hair, tilting her face up to mine.
"For the next week, you will not leave my sight.
You will eat when I eat, sleep when I sleep, bathe when I bathe.
You'll attend every council meeting, every training session, every judgment I pass.
You'll learn exactly what it means to be my queen, to rule at my side rather than plot against me. "
"And the stable boy?" she asks, her breath coming quick and shallow.
"Banished. If I ever see his face again, I'll have his head on a pike." It's a mercy I wouldn't have considered before her, a softening I can't afford but grant anyway. "Be grateful I don't chain you to my side permanently."
"You might as well," she says bitterly. "That's what this marriage is, isn't it? A chain binding me to you for life?"
"A chain you forged yourself, with this betrayal." I release her hair, my hand sliding to the necklace at her throat, fingers brushing the skin beneath it. "I've given you everything—status, comfort, pleasure. And still you try to run."
"Because none of that matters without choice," she whispers. "Without the freedom to decide my own fate."
Something in her words penetrates the haze of rage and betrayal. For a brief moment, I see myself through her eyes—not a husband but a jailer, not a protector but a tyrant. The perspective is uncomfortable, like a poorly fitted armor that chafes with every movement.
But I push the discomfort aside. I can't afford such doubts. Not when they might weaken my resolve.
"Your fate was decided the day I set eyes on you," I tell her, my voice low and final. "There is no turning back for either of us now."
I pull her toward the bed, toward the gifts she now sees for what they truly are—not tokens of affection but symbols of ownership. Yet as I look at her face, at the mixture of defiance and resignation in her eyes, I realize a truth I've been avoiding since the day of our marriage.
These gifts, this obsessive need to keep her close, to mark her as mine—they're not just about possession. They're about fear. Fear that despite all my power, all my conquests, I can't conquer the one thing I truly want: her heart.
But I will. Even if I have to break us both in the process.