Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Sorcha cursed herself as she paced the room. She tried not to think, but it proved impossible.
The chamber seemed to have grown smaller with every passing moment. The fire had burned down to a low, glowing hush, and the lavender scattered around the room gave the air a softness that only heightened her nerves.
Even with Flora’s reassurances, she felt uneasy waiting for Rowan to arrive. The white shift, though modest, made it all worse. It was the intention of it that made her feel naked. She was meant to be seen. Meant to be touched.
This is ridiculous! I stood before me braither, taking me sister’s place. I rode in strange lands beside a man feared across the Highlands. I even faced death, for God’s sake! And yet…
Her nerves were drawn tight, the waiting almost undoing her.
She went still as she heard footsteps approaching. But they continued past her door and faded into silence. A strange mix of disappointment and relief flooded her chest.
I cannae even tell what I want.
Frustrated with herself, she almost began to pace again when another set of steps approached. Heavier. Slower.
They stopped at her door.
Her stomach flipped. Her mind started to race as panic surged through her.
Should I be lyin’ in bed, or should I remain standin’? What should I say?
But before she could make sense of her thoughts, the door opened. Her whole body went alert at once, every thought scattering as though startled into flight.
Rowan stepped inside, dressed in black riding leathers. The smell of smoke and cold wind followed him in, mixing with the lavender. The faint glow of the hearth caught the angles of his face, his scar prominent even in the dark.
He looked tired, rougher than when she had seen him earlier on the stairs. He looked less like a bridegroom and more like what the rumors said about him.
A Wolf.
He did not speak, his storm-grey eyes burning straight through her. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and her legs stiffened as if she were cornered in a hunt.
His eyes roamed over her face, slow and dangerous, sending a shiver through her. She became painfully aware of every inch of her bare throat, every strand of hair unbound from her head.
He approached her.
She inhaled sharply. Her body wanted to retreat, muscles tight as she held her ground.
His hand rose and hovered over her waist, as if of its own accord. But then he pulled away. Something changed in his expression; the heat of the moment shuttered behind something she could not discern.
“There are matters more urgent than beds tonight.” His voice was cold, as if he were talking to someone other than his wife. “We’ve enough time to make an heir.”
Sorcha did not expect the ache in her chest when he spoke. His words were not cruel, not really. But she could hear what they carried beneath them.
She swallowed the hurt, standing straight. “Or maybe ye wanted someone different?” She could not hide the tightness in her voice.
Something dangerous flickered in Rowan’s eyes. She almost took a step back, afraid that she had gone too far. But then it vanished, replaced with the hardened, stony expression she’d come to know well.
“I want many things,” he said coolly. “None are yer concern.”
Her jaw throbbed from clenching it, pushing down the tears of frustration that wanted to rise.
What was I expectin’? That he wanted me?
Embarrassment came sharp.
Sorcha wrapped her arms around herself, ashamed that she had prepared herself for tonight. Ashamed that she had allowed herself even the smallest spark of hope.
It had been there. She saw that now with painful clarity. Not hope for tenderness, not something so fanciful as affection, but at least some acknowledgment that this night belonged to them both.
“Then why come at all?”
He exhaled, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he were holding himself back. Then he turned and strode back to the door.
Seriously? Nothin’ to say? Nothin’ at all?
She almost called after him. Nearly demanded something she did not know what to name. But then he was gone, shutting the door with enough force that a pot of lavender toppled and shattered on the stone floor.
Her body trembled as she knelt on the floor and picked up the jagged pieces of the pot. The floor blurred as the tears she’d been holding back spilled down her cheeks in a flood she could not stop.
I didnae even want this marriage, so why? Why do I feel this way?
She threw the pieces she had gathered back on the floor and dropped her face into her hands, holding back a sob.
Of course, he wanted someone different. He came for Ailis, nae me, with me bruised knees and me sharp tongue.
Taking deep breaths, she tried to calm herself, wiping her tears with her hand. This was just her duty, after all. That was what this was meant to be. It always was just that.
So why did his rejection feel personal?
Because some foolish part of me wants him to choose me anyway.
She sat there for a moment longer, holding herself steady.
Finally calm, she picked up the pieces and carried them to the table with more care than they deserved. But the hurt remained. It settled deeper than wounded pride, somewhere she did not want to think about too deeply.
Whatever Rowan meant to do with her, one truth had already made itself known: he had looked at her like a man standing too near the edge of something he wanted and left her to feel like she was not enough.
Rowan stood on the other side of the door with his hand still wrapped around the latch.
He should have kept walking, having already said what needed to be said. There were stores to replenish, borders to secure. Yet he did not move.
His fist tightened. The image of Sorcha’s loose hair with the white linen skimming her curves haunted his mind.
She waited for me.
He heard the catch in her breath again when he stepped near. Saw again the way his hand had reached for her. One more inch, and he would have touched her. Another breath, and he might have done far more than that.
Then what?
He pushed away from the door, taking two steps down the corridor before stopping again.
A fool. That’s what I am.
He walked to nowhere in particular. He needed movement to distract him. But the same memory came back, his mind betraying him all the same. His first wife crying out until her voice broke. Blood on the sheets. Blood on the floor. Him standing uselessly beside her bed.
I couldnae save her.
His chest tightened.
I drove her to it. I put her there. An heir at the price of her life.
For years, he had kept that truth buried beneath duty, council demands, and war. But tonight, it had found its voice again when Sorcha presented herself to him.
The council had pushed him to marry, his daughter having no place in the rulings of men. The borders held for now, but borders moved constantly. Rivals watched. Every marriage bed in the Highlands carried politics with it.
That was why he had agreed to wed again. He had hoped to silence them, delay the inevitable. Yet one look at her, and his blood had turned faithless.
That was the truth of it.
Want.
He wanted Sorcha.
But if he lost control, it would lead where all marriages led—a child, risk, a grave.
He drew a slow breath, forcing his mind back to the matters that demanded it. The fires. His people. Wanting Sorcha was dangerous enough. Acting on it would lead somewhere he had sworn to never go again.
I willnae bury another wife.