Relief makes me dizzy—or is it fear of a different kind? The public claiming would have been humiliating, yes, but there's something more intimidating about facing him in private, with no witnesses to temper his behavior.
He leads me from the hall, his stride forcing me to hurry to keep pace. The corridors are eerily empty, the servants having been dismissed for the night. Our footsteps echo against the stone, marking the path to what will now be our shared chambers.
At the door, he stops. "You should thank me."
"For what? Doing the bare minimum of decent behavior?"
His laugh is unexpected, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. "Most conquerors wouldn't give you even that much consideration."
"Should I be grateful to be conquered by you specifically, then? How fortunate for me."
Instead of anger, my sarcasm draws another laugh from him. "You have fire, Princess. I like that." His hand comes up to touch my face, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "It will make breaking you all the more satisfying."
The words send a chill through me, but his touch—gentle despite his threat—awakens something else. Something hot and unfamiliar that pools low in my belly.
I step away, hating my body's betrayal. "You'll never break me."
"We'll see." He pushes the door open, gesturing for me to enter first. "After you, wife."
I step into the chamber that has been prepared for us—my old room, transformed with new furs on the bed, a fire blazing in the hearth, candles lighting every surface. It should be welcoming, romantic even. Instead, it feels like the most elegant of prisons.
Lachlan follows me in, closing the door behind him. The sound of the latch dropping into place is like a death knell.
I stand in the center of the room, paralyzed by the reality of what comes next. I've never been with a man before. Never even been kissed properly before today. And now this warrior king expects me to submit to him completely.
He moves toward me, and I force myself not to retreat. His hand rises again, this time finding the pins that hold my hair in place. One by one, he removes them, until my hair falls loose around my shoulders.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers combing through the strands. "Like spun gold."
Despite myself, heat rises to my face at the compliment. No one has ever looked at me the way he's looking at me now—like I'm something precious and rare, something to be devoured.
"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for. Mercy? Gentleness? For him to stop looking at me that way, making me feel things I don't want to feel?
His hand slides from my hair to cup my face. "I won't hurt you, Fiona."
It's not the reassurance I was hoping for. But as his thumb traces my lower lip, as his eyes darken with desire, I realize with horrifying clarity that part of me wants this. Wants him. The enemy. The conqueror. The man who destroyed everything I love.
My body is betraying me, responding to his proximity, his touch, with a shameful heat that makes me hate myself as much as I hate him.
"I despise you," I tell him, needing him to know that whatever happens between us physically, my heart remains my own.
He smiles, a predator confident in his hunt. "For now." His thumb presses harder against my lip. "But that will change. I promise you that."
And God help me, looking into his eyes, feeling the heat radiating from his body, I'm afraid he might be right.
four
. . .
Lachlan
She stands before me,hatred and fear warring in her eyes, and I've never wanted anything more in my life. The gold of her hair catches the firelight, turning it to living flame around her face. Her lips—still red from my earlier kiss—tremble slightly, though she tries to hide it. My wife. The word sits strange in my mind, foreign after years of taking what I need from women without promises or vows. But Fiona is different. She's not just a body to sate my lust. She's my claim to this kingdom, yes, but she's becoming something more with every defiant glance, every sharp word. Something I never expected to find. Something I never knew I wanted until it stood before me, wrapped in a white gown and fury.
"You're shaking," I observe, circling her slowly, taking in every detail of her appearance. The curve of her neck, the rise and fall of her chest with each quick breath, the way the gown clings to hips I'll soon be gripping.
"I'm cold," she lies, her chin lifting in that proud way that makes me want to devour her.
"No. You're afraid." I complete my circle, stopping in front of her again. "But not just of me. You're afraid of yourself too. Of what you might feel."
