Chapter Eight The Night Between Decisions #2
Ronan’s gaze held his, then flicked away. “You speak as if you care.”
Liam did not answer. Any answer would be used against him by Ronan, by the camp, and by the part of Liam that still believed attachment was a weakness enemies could exploit.
Ronan turned away. “Go,” he said. “Before I say something my sister will pay for.”
Liam left, the threat and the warning following him like shadow.
Night deepened. The camp quieted. Sentries remained alert, and the river rushed on, indifferent.
Liam meant to sleep. He needed to. His shoulders ached with fatigue, and his mind felt like a stone that had been grinding against other stones for days.
As he neared the command tent, soft footsteps sounded behind him. He turned.
Anya stood there with her hood up, cloak drawn tight, face half shadow. She looked as if she had made a decision and feared it.
“Are you unwell?” Liam asked.
“No.” Her voice was steady, but her hands were clasped too tightly. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”
Alone was dangerous in a camp full of Kincaids. Yet the night offered a narrow window, and the river’s constant sound could cover small words.
Liam glanced around. The nearest tents were dark. The sentries faced outward. A small lean-to near the river path held spare tack and sacks. It was not comfort, but it was privacy.
He nodded toward it without speaking. Anya followed.
The lean-to smelled of damp straw and leather. Starlight seeped through gaps in the boards, outlining her face in pale stripes. Liam closed the flap and turned.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
Anya removed her hood, shaking loose damp hair. “I cannot sleep,” she said. “I keep thinking of dawn.”
“So do I,” Liam admitted.
“At dawn you will answer Eamon,” she said, voice low. “Whatever answer you give, something changes. You escalate, or you endure, or you surprise him again. But you choose.”
“Aye.”
Anya drew a slow breath. “I have lived my whole life believing love costs compromise,” she said. “That to love a powerful man is to become smaller so he can remain large. I promised myself I would never do that.”
Liam’s pulse thudded once, hard. “Anya…”
She lifted a hand, stopping him. “Let me finish. I came here to bargain for my clan’s survival. I expected to be tolerated at best. I did not expect to be understood. I did not expect to be seen.”
Liam swallowed. He remembered her eyes after his confession, the way she had looked at him with comprehension instead of pity. It had struck him harder than any insult.
Anya stepped closer. “When you held my hand,” she whispered, “I felt safe for the first time in weeks. And it frightened me. Because safety can be taken.”
Liam’s voice came rough. “I cannot promise you safety.”
“I know,” she said. “That is why I am here. If I am taken tomorrow, if I am made a hostage, if my clan accepts a deal that abandons you, I do not want my last memory of this to be words I did not say.”
The thought hit Liam like a cold blade. He pictured Gavin under pressure. He pictured men choosing the many over the one, calling it duty. He understood how quickly a person became a piece on a board.
Anya’s eyes glimmered. “I do not want to vanish into duty,” she said. “Not now that I know what it is to be your equal.”
“You are my equal,” Liam said, and the certainty in his voice surprised even him. “More than many men who call themselves leaders.”
Anya’s breath caught. She reached out and touched his forearm through his cloak, tentative. The contact was light, but it sent a current through him.
Liam covered her hand with his. “If we do this,” he said, voice low, “there is no pretending after.”
“I am tired of pretending,” Anya whispered.
Restraint cracked, not into recklessness, but into truth. Liam lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to her knuckles, a brief kiss that was reverent, like a vow made quietly.
Anya’s fingers curled. “Stop wasting time,” she murmured.
Liam cupped her face with both hands. He had held swords with more ease than this, because steel did not look back at him with trust. Anya did.
He kissed her, slow at first, giving her time to pull away if she chose. She did not. She rose into him, hands sliding up to his shoulders, gripping as if she needed to anchor herself.
The kiss deepened, and the world outside the lean-to dulled. Camp, gate, dawn, all of it fell back until there was only heat and breath and the fierce awareness that he could not protect her from everything, but he could honor her choice.
Anya broke the kiss, breath unsteady. “Liam.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “Tell me to stop,” he said, because he needed her consent as solidly as any oath.
Anya’s hands slid to his jaw, holding him there. “Do not stop.”
Liam moved with care, guiding her to the stacked sacks to make space. It was not a bed, but it was shelter. He unfastened her cloak, paused, and met her eyes.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And I need you to believe me.”
“I do.”
He eased her cloak aside. Beneath it, her dress was simple and practical, and yet the sight of her made his chest ache with a tenderness he did not know how to hold. Anya’s fingers moved to the clasp of his cloak. She unfastened it slowly, as if learning him.
When his cloak fell away, the cold bit at his skin. Liam shifted closer, letting her warm him with her hands instead. She pressed her palm to his chest and breathed as if memorizing the shape of him.
“You carry everything here,” she murmured.
“I have had to.”