Aidan dismounted first, landing hard on the sand, boots sinking into the damp ground. “Come,” he said, offering a hand to help her down.
Her fingers slipped into his. When her feet touched the ground, she didn’t let go right away, and neither did he. He led her toward the rocks that jutted nearest the waves. The wind tore at his plaid, the salt stung his lips. Every sense of the place pressed against him—the roar, the sting, the taste of old memory.
When they reached the edge, Catherine turned to him again. “Why bring me here? This far away?” she asked, voice steady but softer now, almost cautious.
He looked out over the dark water before answering. “Because I wanted ye tae see what made me.”
Her eyes flickered with confusion, but she said nothing. The wind lifted her hair, strands whipping across her face, and he had to fight the urge to reach out and smooth them back.
Aidan took a slow breath. “Me faither used tae bring me here afore I became laird. When I failed him. When I disappointed him. He’d beat me till I couldnae stand, then leave me here with the tide fer company. Sometimes fer a night, sometimes fer three. Said the sea would make a man o’ me if his hand couldnae.”
Catherine’s lips parted, horror breaking through her composure. “Aidan…”
He didn’t look at her yet. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon where the sea met the sky, a jagged, merciless line that had carved itself into his memory long ago.
“He’d ride away,” Aidan said quietly, “and I’d watch his horse vanish over the ridge, prayin’ he’d turn back. But he never did. I’d lie there, half-broken, with the salt in me wounds and the gulls cryin’ above me, waitin’ fer the tide tae decide if I was worth sparin’. Sometimes I thought it would be easier if it didnae.”
He let out a breath that trembled despite him. “He believed pain was a teacher. That a laird needed scars tae lead men. The cold would bite so deep I’d forget me own name. I used tae think the sea hated me as much as he did. But it wasn’t hate—it was a test.” He laughed, quiet and humorless. “Every time the tide came in, I learned how tae survive it. How tae swallow the pain, how tae breathe through it till mornin’. When I finally crawled home, he’d look at me like I’d failed again fer takin’ too long.”
Aidan’s throat tightened; the words scraped out raw. “He said a laird needed strength, that mercy was weakness. I believed him fer a long time. I built meself out o’ the same cruelty that near killed me, thinkin’ it was the only way tae be what he wanted.”
Her hand came to rest against his arm then, gentle but hesitant. He turned to her finally. There was no pity in her face. Only something deeper that saw through every wall he’d built.
“I didnae tell ye this fer sympathy,” he said, voice rough. “I tell ye because ye should ken what ye’re standin’ beside. I was shaped by that sea—its cold, its cruelty, its hunger. It never stops takin’. I’ve spent years makin’ sure I’d never be soft again, never weak enough tae feel.”
Catherine’s hand tightened slightly. “And now?”
He met her eyes fully. “Now ye make me feel everythin’.”
The words hung between them, heavy as the wind. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. The waves crashed harder below, as if echoing the sound that rose in his chest.
Aidan reached up. His touch lingered longer than it should have. “Ye see too much, Catherine. Things I’d buried long ago. And I dinnae ken if I can let ye keep lookin’.”
Her voice trembled, but her eyes didn’t waver. “Why tell me, then?”
“Because if I dinnae, I’ll go mad.” His thumb traced the edge of her jaw, rough skin against soft. “Because I need tae ken if ye can still look at me and nae see a monster. At times, when ye look at me, Catherine, I feel like that boy survived. I feel like he’s still there—cold, soaked through, waitin’ fer someone tae find him. Maybe that’s why I brought ye here. So ye’d ken the part o’ me the world was never meant tae see.”
The wind tore between them, dragging at his plaid, stealing the breath from his lungs, yet she didn’t look away. Her eyes searched his face as though she could see every memory he’d buried, every scar he’d never spoken of.
Aidan felt the ground tilt beneath him, the sea roaring in his ears. He’d said too much. Shown too much. The words still hung between them and now she knew. God help him, she knew.
He could see it happen—the moment she pieced him together, the brutal truth of what made him. The boy beaten into silence, the man who learned to wear cruelty like armor. If she pitied him now, if she looked at him with anything less than the fire he’d always seen there, he wasn’t sure he could bear it.
And in that fragile silence, standing on the edge of sea and sky, Aidan Cameron understood the cost of what he’d done. She knew him now. All of him.
And whether she stayed—or turned away—would change everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She couldn’t breathe. The sea roared below, a sound too vast for the space between them, and yet it filled her chest as if it belonged there. The wind whipped her hair across her face, but she didn’t move to brush it away. All she could see was him—the storm in his eyes, the tremor in his jaw, the man who had just laid bare the kind of pain most men buried forever.
He had given her the truth, all of it, and there was no taking it back.
She took a step closer. “There’s naething I would change about ye,” she said quietly, her voice steadier than she felt. “Nae one thing.”
He looked at her like he didn’t believe her, like he wanted to and couldn’t. The wind caught between them again, sharp and cold, but when she reached up to touch his face, he didn’t pull away. Her fingers traced the rough line of his cheek, the faint scar thatcurved near his temple. His skin was warm beneath her hand, and beneath that warmth she could feel the shudder in him.
Aidan’s breath caught, his lips parting just slightly. “Catherine…”
