“I wish I could believe that,” she whispered finally, her voice so soft it felt like it might disappear before it reached him.
He stepped toward her, his boots whispering against the stone, until there was hardly space for air between them. He could feel her breath now, quick and shallow, carrying the faint trace of lavender.
“Then let me help ye,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur, each word shaped from something raw and dangerous inside him.
Her gaze lifted to his, uncertain, searching. “Why?”
The question shouldn’t have cut so deep. He was her protector for the time being and that should have been reason enough. But the truth of it pressed harder than duty.
“Because ye’re blamin’ yerself fer somethin’ that is out of yer control,” he said quietly. “And because the thought o’ ye thinkin’ that way drives me mad.”
Her breath hitched. “Mad?”
His mouth twitched. “Aye.”
“Show me, then,” she whispered, the words trembling on her lips. “Show me how mad ye are.”
He didn’t plan to move closer, but his body betrayed him all the same. One step, then another, until he could see the faint tremor of her breath and the quick rise of her chest. The candlelight caught the sheen of her hair and the pale curve of her throat, and all he could think about was how close she was, how fragile she looked, how impossible it was not to reach for her.
She drew a slow breath, her back finding the edge of the table behind her, the wood pressing lightly into the folds of her gown. The air between them felt warm and unsteady, every breath tangled with the next.
“Aidan,” she whispered, her voice small, uncertain, and trembling.
“Ye’re a danger,” he said softly, his voice rough with everything he was trying not to feel.
Her brow furrowed. “Fer yer clan?”
He shook his head once, eyes fixed on hers. “Fer me sanity.”
Her hand moved up before he could stop it, resting against his chest. He felt the touch through the thin linen of his shirt, the heat of it sinking straight to his ribs. He should have stepped back. Instead, he covered her hand with his own.
His gaze fixed on her face, tracing the quick rise of her chest, the tremor that lingered on her lips as if she were daring him to closethe distance. The air felt heavy, charged, thick with everything he had tried to bury and could no longer fight.
When he finally moved, it was as if the decision had been taken from him. His hands found her face, his thumbs brushing her jaw with a tenderness that belied the hunger behind it.
Then his lips pressed hard against hers.
It was not gentle. All the restraint he had held for days broke in that single, desperate moment—the ache, the fear, the wanting he had refused to name. She gasped softly, the sound caught between shock and need, her fingers curling into his shirt as though she had to hold on to something solid to keep from falling. The taste of her burned through him until the rest of the world fell away.
Her mouth was soft beneath his, her breath quick and uneven, and when she leaned into him instead of pulling back, it undid whatever control he had left. He pressed her gently against the table, his body close enough that he could feel the shiver that ran through her, the edge of the wood catching at her hips.
The candlelight danced across her skin, gilding her throat and the hollow just below it. He kissed her again, slower now but deeper, until she made a sound that stole the air from his lungs. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the curve there in a touch that was both reverent and possessive. She trembled beneath it, her breath unsteady, and he felt her melt against him, every barrier between them dissolving in the heat that filled the space where reason should have been.
His breath brushed her neck before his lips did, slow and deliberate, tasting the faint salt of her skin, feeling the tremor that followed in her body. He moved lower, each kiss unhurried, tracing the hollow just beneath her collarbone, every breath a war between hunger and control.
Her hands tightened at his shoulders, her pulse a frantic rhythm beneath his mouth. He could hear his own heartbeat answering it, deep and uneven, the sound of a man about to forget who he was. For a moment he let himself linger there, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric, the world narrowing to the space between one breath and the next.
Then the thought came, cutting through the haze. She was not his to touch. Not his to want. Not his to lose.
He stilled, every muscle taut, his breath rough against her skin. Slowly, he drew back, his hands still braced on the table behind her as though he needed the solid weight of it to stop himself from reaching for her again.
He rested his forehead against hers, trying to breathe through the storm in his chest. “Christ, Catherine…”
Her hands slid down his chest, pausing at his heart, her voice barely audible. “Ye dinnae want tae stop.”
He closed his eyes. “That’s the problem.”
The silence that followed was thick with everything that could have been. He could still taste her, still feel the warmth of her pressed against him, and it took everything he had to step back.
