The meeting continues, strategies debated, reports analyzed. But part of me remains distracted, aware of Fiona somewhere in the castle, training with Callum, learning to defend herself. The thought both pleases and concerns me—pleased that she embraces this new skill, concerned that she might ever need to use it.
When we finally adjourn, I make my way toward the small training yard I'd designated for Fiona's lessons, eager to see her progress. As I approach, I hear voices—Callum's measured instructions, Fiona's questions, the occasional clash of practice blades.
I round the corner just in time to see one of the younger guards lunge at Fiona, his practice sword aimed at her midsection. She parries clumsily, stumbling backward, nearly losing her footing. The guard presses his advantage, forcing her further back, until she's against the wall with nowhere to retreat.
Something in me snaps.
Before I fully register my own movement, I've crossed the yard, seized the guard by the throat, and slammed him against the stone wall where Fiona was pinned moments before. My dagger is at his throat, drawn without conscious thought.
"What do you think you're doing?" I snarl, barely recognizing my own voice.
The guard's eyes bulge with fear, his face rapidly purpling as my grip restricts his air. "T-training, my lord," he chokes out. "Callum s-said?—"
"Lachlan!" Fiona's hand grips my arm, trying to pull me back. "Stop! He wasn't hurting me. It's just practice."
I don't release him immediately, the protective rage still coursing through my veins like fire. "He had you cornered," I growl. "He was too aggressive."
"That was the point," Callum says, approaching cautiously. "She needs to learn what a real attack feels like, my lord. I was watching carefully."
Slowly, reason penetrates the haze of fury. I loosen my grip on the guard's throat, allowing him to slide down the wall, gasping for air. My dagger disappears back into its sheath, though my body remains tense, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
"Lachlan," Fiona says again, her voice gentler now. "Look at me."
I turn to her, still vibrating with protective instinct. Her face is flushed from exertion, a few strands of golden hair escapedfrom her braid, her practice sword held confidently in her hand despite her earlier stumble.
"I'm fine," she tells me, reaching up to touch my face. "I need to learn this. Real enemies won't go easy on me."
The thought of real enemies threatening her nearly sends me into another rage, but I force myself to breathe deeply, to regain control. "No one threatens what's mine," I say, my voice still rough with emotion. "No one."
Fiona's expression softens, something like tenderness replacing her initial alarm. "I know," she says simply. "But I want to be strong for you. With you."
The words penetrate my protective haze, reminding me of what I'd told her this morning—that I want her strong, capable, a true partner rather than merely a possession. Shame curls in my gut at my loss of control, at the fear I saw in my own guard's eyes.
"Continue," I manage to say, stepping back, though everything in me rails against the idea of watching her face even pretend danger. "But you," I add, pointing at the guard who's still rubbing his throat, "remember who she is. If you bruise her, I'll remove the hand that did it."
"Yes, my lord," he croaks, wisely keeping his distance.
I move to the edge of the yard, forcing myself to watch as the training resumes. Callum shoots me a concerned look but says nothing, returning to his instruction with admirable focus.
As I observe Fiona learning, adapting, improving with each exchange, I'm struck by the depth of my reaction, by the instinctive rage that overcame me at the mere suggestion of threat to her. I've always been possessive, always protected what's mine. But this was different—more visceral, more consuming.
It scares me, this power she has over me. This ability to make me lose control with nothing more than the hint of danger to her person.
But as I watch her face light up when she successfully blocks a sequence of attacks, as I see the pride in her stance when Callum praises her quick learning, I realize I wouldn't change it. Wouldn't go back to the man I was before her—cold, calculating, untouched by anything resembling true feeling.
She has changed me, irrevocably. Made me vulnerable in ways I never thought possible.
And God help me, I wouldn't have it any other way.
nine
. . .
Fiona
I usedto pray for his death. In those first days after the conquest, I would lie beside Lachlan in the dark, his arm thrown possessively across my waist, and imagine a hundred ways he might die. An assassin's blade between his ribs. Poison in his wine cup. A fall from his horse during a hunt. I constructed elaborate fantasies of freedom purchased with his blood. Now, three weeks later, the thought of anything happening to him sends panic clawing up my throat. The change terrifies me. How does hate transform into something so different, so consuming? I watch him sleeping beside me, his face softened in repose, the scar across his eyebrow silver in the moonlight, and I wonder: Is this love? This ache in my chest when he smiles at me, this heat in my blood when he touches me, this fear that grips me when I think of losing him? If it is, then I'm lost. For how can I love the man who conquered my kingdom, who took everything from me by force? And yet... and yet.
He stirs beside me, his arm tightening instinctively around my waist, drawing me closer to his warmth. Even in sleep, he seems unwilling to let me go. Once, I resented the possession in his touch. Now, I find myself leaning into it, craving the security of his embrace.
