Chapter 10
Garrion POV
Sometimes my men behave like children. I had been enjoying the feel of Cora in my arms, the way she trembled at my touch, half fear, half something else I cannot yet name.
I made her a promise, one I intend to keep: I will not take her virtue here.
I will wait until we reach my home, my bed.
No woman has ever lain in it. I never wanted to before, the fear of fathering a bastard child kept me away.
But with her, the thought is different. Dangerous. Consuming.
Mika leads me to the lockup, his expression tight with concern. Inside, two of my men sit bruised and bloodied, their pride more wounded than their bodies.
“Seriously?” I growl, my voice echoing off the stone walls.
They glance toward the next cell, where three strangers sit smirking behind iron bars. “They insulted our Lady,” my men say in unison, their voices thick with defiance.
The words strike me like a blade. Our Lady. The possessive burns in my chest, though I know they mean it as respect. Still, the thought of anyone speaking ill of her stirs a fury I struggle to contain.
I turn to Mika, my patience gone. “Pay the guard. Get them a room at the inn. And do not disturb me again.” My voice is sharp, final. “Anyone who steps out of line again will be put on border patrol for the entire winter.”
The threat hangs heavy in the air. My men pale, understanding the punishment well enough. Border patrol is cold, brutal, and thankless.
Without another word, I snap my cloak around my shoulders and walk out, leaving the stench of the lockup behind. My thoughts return to Cora, her trembling in my arms, her defiance, her fire.
I walk back to the inn, my stride quick, driven by a restless need. The fight with my men was a distraction, nothing more. What I want, what I crave, is more time alone with her. The thought of her waiting in that room gnaws at me, sharp and insistent.
I unlock the door quietly, stepping inside. The candle on the table is nearly burned down, its flame weak, casting long shadows across the room. My eyes find her instantly, curled up in the bed, her breathing soft and even. She looks fragile, almost innocent, and yet I know better.
I undress, my clothes falling silently to the floor, and slip into the bed beside her. The warmth of her body draws me like a flame. I reach for her waist, intending only to pull her closer, to feel her against me. My hand meets bare skin. She is naked beneath the sheets.
Gods help me, but I cannot resist. I drag her to my chest, desperate to feel her warmth, to claim even this small closeness.
But before I realize what’s happening, she moves. In a flash, she is on top of me, her dagger pressed hard against my throat. Her breathing is ragged, wild, like an animal cornered and desperate to defend itself. Her eyes blaze with fear and fury, and for a heartbeat I wonder if she will strike.
Then recognition dawns. Her gaze softens, the blade trembles, and she exhales my name. “Garrion…” Her voice is breathless, shaken. “You scared me.”
The dagger lowers, her hand falling away, but the echo of her fear lingers in the air between us.
I sit up slowly, careful not to startle her further. My hand closes around the dagger, firm but gentle, and I take it from her trembling grip. I place it on the bed beside us, the steel glinting faintly in the dying candlelight.
Then I shift closer, closing the space between us. Her body brushes against mine, her breasts pressing lightly against my bare chest. The contact is electric, a shock that runs through me, but I force myself to keep my movements measured.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice low, roughened by more than guilt.
She nods, her breathing still ragged, uneven, as though her body has not yet caught up with the realization that she is safe. The rise and fall of her chest against mine is frantic, wild, and I feel every tremor of it.
Her hands rest on my shoulders, hesitant at first, then begin to move upward.
I feel the slow trail of her fingers along my neck, the gentle pressure as they reach my jaw.
Her touch is soft, almost reverent, playing against the stubble that has grown in the days of travel.
There has been no time to shave, no time for vanity, yet under her fingertips it feels as though even my imperfections are seen and accepted.
Her blue eyes lock onto mine, unflinching, searching. Her lips part slightly, as though words hover there but refuse to form. The silence between us is heavy, charged, more powerful than any declaration.
Her fingertips graze the edge of my mask, lingering there. My breath catches. This mask has been my shield, my barrier, the wall between myself and the world.
Cora POV
"Please don't" is all he says, and I don't press. He will show me when he is ready.
He closes the gap between us, and his mouth claims mine.
It is nothing like the kiss at the wedding, no ceremony, no restraint.
This is a real kiss, fierce and consuming, filled with fire and need.
His lips move against mine with urgency, and I melt into his embrace, my body betraying me, yielding to the hunger that radiates from him.
His hands are strong, unrelenting yet careful, guiding me down onto the bed.
The world narrows to the heat of his touch, the weight of his body, the way his breath mingles with mine.
He told me he would not take my virtue tonight, that he would wait, but right now I want him to.
Every brush of his fingers, every press of his lips spreads through me like wildfire, igniting places I did not know could burn.
Then I feel it, slickness between my legs.
My heart stutters. Is it desire? Or something else?
A flicker of panic coils in my chest. Could it be my monthly bleed again?
But I only bled a few days ago. Confusion tangles with the heat coursing through me, leaving me trembling beneath him, torn between longing and dread.
He breaks the kiss abruptly, pulling back to sit upright. My breath catches as I realize I am completely exposed before him, nothing shielding me from his gaze. My heart pounds, heat and fear tangled together.
Without warning, he reaches for my dagger. The steel flashes in the candlelight as he drags the blade across his palm. I gasp, terror flooding me. “What are you doing?” The words tumble out, sharp and panicked.
Blood wells instantly, dark and vivid, dripping from his clenched fist. He lowers his hand deliberately, letting the drops fall between my legs, staining the sheets beneath us.
“I made you a promise,” he says, his voice steady, unyielding. “I will not take your virtue tonight. But there are expectations—expectations of us consummating this marriage. The innkeeper will tell your father we were here. He will tell him I took what was owed to me.”
His words strike me like a blade. My chest tightens, torn between horror and relief. He is keeping his vow yet bending it to meet the demands of duty. The blood is proof, a deception crafted to protect me while satisfying the eyes and ears that will pry into our union.
I stare at him, shaken, unable to find words. He has chosen a path between honor and necessity, one that spares me yet binds me tighter to him.
I rise from the bed, my movements quick but steady, and reach for the grey shirt I wear beneath my leather top.
With a sharp tug, I tear a strip from the fabric, the sound of ripping cloth loud in the quiet room.
My hands work swiftly, wrapping the makeshift bandage tightly around his palm to staunch the bleeding.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. Instead, he watches me. His eyes are fixed on my face, and the look he gives me is one I cannot name. Affection? Care? Lust? Love? Perhaps all of them at once, tangled together in a way that leaves me breathless.
The weight of his gaze presses against me more than his wound, more than the blood. It is as though he sees me, not just the woman forced into his bed, not just the daughter of a lord but me. And that realization unsettles me more than any blade ever could.
He lays down without a word, the weight of his presence filling the room.
With a single, steady motion, he pulls me against him, my body fitting into the curve of his chest as though it belongs there.
His voice is low, almost a rumble in the silence.
“Sleep. We are leaving before dawn, before any more of my men find trouble.”
The command is simple, but there is something softer beneath it, something that feels less like an order and more like care.
I wake beside Garrion, the room cloaked in darkness. The air is heavy, still, and it must be the middle of the night. His body presses against mine, radiating heat that makes my skin damp with sweat. I shift, trying to pull away, but his voice cuts through the silence.
“Where are you going?”
I freeze, startled. “You’re awake?” My words come out in confusion.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he replies, his tone low, edged with something I can’t quite name.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, guilt pricking at me.
“Don’t be,” he says, and before I can respond, his lips find mine. His mouth is hot, demanding, and the kiss consumes me. I can’t help the sound that escapes my throat, a soft moan against him, betraying the way my body responds despite my mind’s hesitation.
His hand slides down my back, slow and deliberate, until it halts. His fingers press against the faint ridges of old scars. My breath catches.
He pulls away abruptly, rising from the bed. The scrape of flint and the flare of flame break the darkness as he lights a candle. He brings it closer, the glow spilling across my bare back, illuminating the marks I have tried to forget.
“Who did this to you?” His voice is sharp, demanding, but beneath it lies something else, anger, perhaps even pain. His fingers trace the scars, reverent yet furious, as though each mark is an insult carved into him as well.
“Tell me, Cora,” he insists, his tone brooking no refusal.
I swallow hard, shame burning in my chest. “That was my punishment… for stealing food from the kitchen.” The words are quiet, but they hang heavy in the air, heavier than the candlelight, heavier than his touch.
“My father said that since I behaved like a thief, I would be punished like one.” The words leave my lips slowly, heavy with memory. “Three lashes” I continue, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound detached.
Garrion’s silence presses against me, urging me to go on.
“How old were you?” he asks at last, his voice low, careful, as though he already fears the answer.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Nearly ten,” I whisper.
The air shifts. His breath catches, sharp and audible, as though the truth has struck him like a blade. I dare not look at him, afraid of what I might see in his eyes, pity, anger, or worse, judgment.
Inside, the memory burns. The sting of the whip, the humiliation of being forced to endure it, the way my father’s voice rang with cold authority as though the punishment were justice rather than brutality. I had stolen bread, nothing more, but to him it was treason against his order.