Chapter Twenty-Nine
She inhaled, then exhaled. Each breath came slower than the last, dragging through her chest as though the air itself had thickened. The sharp sting at her side had dulled into something heavier and with it came a strange, floating quiet she did not trust.
Claire blinked against it and forced her eyes open. She must stay awake and alert.
The forest stretched above her, dark branches clawing at the night sky while the wind whispered through the leaves. The smell of pine and damp earth filled her lungs, grounding her in something real.
“Stay with me.” Lachlan’s voice cut through the haze.
“I am,” she murmured, though the words came softer than she intended. The comfort of his presence kept her grounded.
He was kneeling beside her, one hand pressed firmly against her side, the other bracing her shoulder. His focus did not waver—not when she shifted, not when her breath hitched, not even when the distant sound of pursuit echoed faintly through the trees.
“The bleeding seems to have stopped,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“That sounds hopeful.”
“’Tis no’ hope,” he replied. “’Tis fact.”
Claire almost smiled. Her fingers found his wrist, curling weakly against the strength of it. “You are very certain of things,” she said.
“Aye.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
The conviction in his voice settled something inside her. Not the pain or fear, but the drifting. The sense she might slip away if she stopped paying attention.
She tightened her grip. “Good,” she said. “Then do not let me fall asleep.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “Ye’re no’ dying.”
“I did not say I was,” she answered. “But I would rather not test the possibility.”
A flicker of something—anger, fear, passed through his expression.
“Ye’ll stay awake,” he said. “Because I say so.”
Claire huffed a faint breath. “Ah. Command, then.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Their eyes held. The war fell away and there was only him. Only the weight of his hand, steady and unyielding at her side. Only the quiet between them, stretched thin with everything unspoken.
“I am glad you came,” she said. The truth slipped free before she could shape it. Before she could guard it.
Lachlan stilled. His hand did not move. But something in him shifted. “I was always coming,” he said.
“I know.”
The words were soft.
Certain.
And something in his gaze deepened—darkened—not with anger this time, but with something far more difficult to name. The space between them seemed to close without either of them moving.
“Claire—”
A sound broke through the forest.
Branches cracked.
Voices echoed.
Lachlan’s focus snapped away, his body shifting instantly, every line of him tightening with renewed purpose.
“They’ve picked up the trail,” he said.
Claire pushed herself up slightly, ignoring the sharp protest from her side.
“Then we should not be here.”
“Nay.”
He slid an arm behind her back, lifting her carefully. He pulled her fully against him, rising in one smooth motion, her weight supported entirely by his strength.
“I can walk,” she protested weakly.
“Aye,” he said. “But ye willna.”
She should have argued and insisted, instead she leaned into him long enough to feel the steady rhythm of his breath, the solid warmth of him anchoring her against the cold. Then he moved and pulled her with him.
The forest closed around them as he carried her deeper into shadow, away from the path, away from the sound of pursuit. His steps were sure despite the uneven ground, his body adjusting instinctively to hers, keeping her steady even as the terrain shifted beneath them.
Claire’s head rested briefly against his shoulder.
“You are not leaving me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lachlan’s grip tightened. “Nay.”
The word came without hesitation. Without doubt.
Something in her chest eased, not because of the pain, but the fear within her heart. A deeper fear she was afraid to name. Fear of being left behind and she might not matter enough to be chosen.
“Lachlan,” she said softly.
“Aye.”
“If I slow you down—”
“Ye donna.” The answer came immediate and sharp.
She lifted her head slightly, meeting his gaze. “You might have to choose,” she said.
His jaw tightened. “I already did.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Claire did not ask what he meant, she knew. She felt it in the way he held her.
Not out of duty. Not out of obligation.
He would not let her go.
The forest thickened ahead, the land dipping into a narrow hollow where the trees grew close and the ground softened with moss.
Lachlan slowed. “Here,” he said.
He lowered her carefully, easing her down against the base of a tree where the roots curved outward like a natural shelter. The space was hidden from the main path, shadowed enough to conceal them if the pursuit passed too quickly.
He crouched in front of her, checking the bandage again.
His fingers brushed her skin, his touch light and careful.
Claire’s breath caught again. “You are very close,” she said.
“Aye.”
“You do not seem inclined to move.”
“Nay.” A faint smile touched her lips despite everything.
“That is . . . inconvenient.”
“For whom?”
“For me.”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“Why?”
Claire hesitated for a heartbeat. “Because I do not wish you to move either.”
The fragile words hung between them.
Lachlan went still. Not the stillness of battle.
The forest quieted around them, the distant sounds of pursuit fading—either moving past or circling wider.
The time seemed to hold. Lachlan’s hand rose—slowly, deliberately—and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.
His fingers lingered, tracing the line of her cheek with a care that did not belong to war.
Claire’s breath hitched.
He saw it. Every barrier between them seemed too thin to nothing.
“You should not look at me like that,” she whispered.
“And how is that?”
“Like I matter more than I should.”
His gaze did not waver. “Ye matter more than anything.”
Claire’s heart swelled, the truth of it struck deep. “Lachlan—”
He leaned closer. A moment suspended between what had been and what might be. Their breaths mingled. Their foreheads nearly touched. And just as the distance vanished—
A shout echoed through the trees.
The moment shattered.
Lachlan pulled back instantly, his body shifting between her and the sound, sword already in hand.
“Stay here,” he said, his voice once more edged with command.
Claire swallowed, the echo of what had almost happened still burning through her. “I am not going anywhere,” she said.
And as Lachlan stepped into the shadows to meet whatever came next—Claire pressed her hand to her side, to the wound, to the place where pain and something far more cutting now lived side by side.
Because the battle was not over.
Not outside.
Not between them.
And she no longer knew which frightened her more.