I remain awake, watching her face in the dying firelight, trying to understand the strange possessiveness that goesbeyond physical desire, beyond political strategy. I've taken many women to my bed over the years. I've even considered a few of them beautiful. But none have affected me like this slip of a girl with her defiance and her reluctant passion.
None have made me want to protect as well as possess.
The realization is disturbing enough that I almost release her, almost retreat to my own side of the bed. But something keeps my arm locked around her waist, my body curled protectively around hers.
She is mine now. Not just by conquest or by marriage, but by something deeper that I don't yet understand.
And heaven help anyone who tries to take her from me.
five
. . .
Fiona
I waketo the weight of his arm across my waist, heavy as an iron chain. Sunlight filters through the narrow windows, illuminating the chamber I once considered mine but which now feels like foreign territory. My body aches in places I never knew could ache, the soreness between my thighs a constant reminder of what happened last night. What I allowed to happen. What I eventually participated in, God help me. I turn my head carefully to look at the man beside me—this warrior king who claimed my kingdom, my body, and threatens to claim something far more dangerous: my slowly changing perception of him. In sleep, Lachlan Drummond looks different. The hard lines of his face are softened, the perpetual tension in his jaw relaxed. The scar across his left eyebrow stands out silver against his tanned skin. I have a sudden, disturbing impulse to trace it with my finger. I curl my hands into fists instead.
How can I lie here, studying the face of the man who destroyed everything I've ever known? The man who took melast night with such devastating thoroughness that I can still feel him inside me? Worse, the man who drew reactions from my body I never imagined possible, who made me cry out and cling to him as if he were salvation rather than damnation?
I should hate him completely. Instead, I find myself... curious. About the scar. About the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. About the slight twitch of his fingers against my hip as he dreams.
I ease away from him carefully, trying not to wake him. My thighs stick together when I move, a humiliating reminder of what transpired between us. I need to clean myself, to wash away the evidence of my surrender. But as I attempt to slide from beneath his arm, his grip tightens instinctively.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.
"To bathe," I say stiffly. "Unless you'd prefer I remain filthy."
One eye opens, then the other. The blue of his irises is startling in the morning light—clear and sharp as highland lakes. "Filthy?" A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his features from harsh to almost handsome. "Is that how you see what happened between us?"
"What would you call it?"
His hand slides up from my waist to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture unexpectedly gentle. "Necessary. Inevitable." His smile deepens. "Pleasurable, eventually."
Heat floods my face. I want to deny it, to tell him I found no pleasure in his touch. But the lie would be too transparent after the way I responded to him. The way I cried out his name. The way I finally admitted I was his.
"Let me up," I say instead, ignoring his comment entirely.
To my surprise, he does, rolling onto his back with a languid stretch that draws my eye to the play of muscles across his chestand abdomen. The furs slide dangerously low on his hips, and I avert my gaze before I can see more.
"The bathing chamber is through there," he says, nodding toward a small door I hadn't noticed before. "I had it prepared for you last night while we were at the feast."
The thoughtfulness of this gesture catches me off guard. I'd expected to be treated as a prisoner, not accommodated as a wife. "Thank you," I say automatically, then frown at my own politeness.
"You're welcome, Princess." There's amusement in his voice, as if he can read my confusion and finds it entertaining.
I slide from the bed, acutely aware of my nakedness. I don't look back to see if he's watching me, but I can feel his gaze on my skin like a physical touch. I hurry to the bathing chamber, relieved to find it warm and steam-filled, a copper tub already filled with hot water.
I sink into the water with a hiss, my body protesting the heat against tender flesh. But the warmth is soothing, and I find myself relaxing despite my intention to remain vigilant.
The door opens, and Lachlan fills the frame, now wearing loose trousers but still bare-chested. "Do you need assistance?"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with that same amused expression. "You have a remarkable ability to infuse a single word with loathing."
"I've had practice since you arrived."
He laughs, the sound unexpected and almost... normal. As if we were any husband and wife trading barbs in the morning light, rather than conqueror and conquered.
