“Why daesnae she have a name?” she asked at last, trying to steady her voice.
Aidan hesitated, his eyes never leaving her. “Naething ever felt right,” he said. “I tried a dozen, maybe more. None suited her.”
Catherine smiled faintly. “She would accept naething less than the right one.”
He studied her for a moment, and something in his gaze shifted. “Aye,” he said again, slower this time, as if the thought had only just found him. Then, after a pause, “What would ye call her?”
Catherine tilted her head, considering. “I dinnae ken. I’m nae good at naming things.”
His eyes softened, the sharpness giving way to something quieter, something that felt dangerously close to tenderness. “Aye,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “Ye are.”
She looked up, startled by the certainty in his tone, and for a heartbeat neither of them moved. The air between them thickened, alive with the unspoken pull that had been building since their return. Slowly, Aidan stepped closer until she could see the green flecks in his dark eyes, the faint scar tracing from his temple down the strong line of his jaw.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, rough and low enough to make her pulse catch. “Whisper.”
Her brows drew together, a quiet confusion touching her face. “What?”
He didn’t look away. “That’s what she should be called.” His gaze lingered on her mouth, then lifted to meet her eyes again. “Whisper.”
The word came out soft, reverent, as though it were meant for her alone. It settled between them like a breath. Catherine glanced at the mare, who had lowered her head again, calm now, as though she too had accepted the name.
“It suits her,” Catherine said softly.
Aidan nodded once, his gaze still fixed on the mare, though his voice had softened. “Aye. It daes.” Then, after a long breath, quieter, “After the woman who managed tae tame her.”
Catherine’s heart stumbled. The words reached her before and it was like something inside her shifted. She looked up at him, and in that instant she knew they were no longer speaking of the horse at all. The world outside the stall fell away; there was only his voice, his eyes, the stillness that trembled with everything they hadn’t said.
“There was nay taming tae be done,” she said, her voice low, trembling at the edges.
His eyes met hers then, dark and unguarded, a storm held behind control. “Maybe nae,” he murmured. “Maybe she was never meant tae be broken.”
The air thickened, heavy with a kind of silence that said more than words ever could. Catherine’s breath caught, the heat rising in her throat, her pulse beating where his gaze rested on her. The nearness of him was a torment—his scent of leather and smoke, the faint rasp of his breath, the strength in him held so tightly in check. Every part of her wanted to close that small, aching distance, to reach for him before reason could stop her.
She turned away first, brushing her hand once more along Whisper’s neck. “Is this goodbye, then?”
Aidan drew a breath, slow and heavy. “Aye,” he said finally. “But it daesnae have tae be fer good. Just until things quiet down.”
Catherine swallowed, her voice almost breaking as she forced the words out. “And if they never dae?”
He didn’t answer at once. The question seemed to hang between them, fragile and dangerous, and she could see how it struck him in the way his jaw tightened, the muscle flickering there, the breath he took before he trusted himself to speak. When he did, his voice was softer than she had ever heard it.
“Then I suppose I’ll still come find ye.”
The words were simple, but they carried a weight that stole the air from her lungs. She turned to face him fully, needing to see his eyes when he said it, and the light filtering through the slats caught across his face, in gold and shadow. The world outside the stall blurred into silence. All she could hear was the slow rhythm of the mare’s breathing and the quiet pull of her own heart answering his.
“Aidan…”
He didn’t move for a moment, as though weighing the distance between them, and then, slowly, he reached out. His hand lifted hesitantly, as if afraid of what would happen if he touched her and afraid of what would happen if he didn’t. His fingers brushed her cheek, rough and warm, the callouses grazing her skin in a way that made her breath tremble.
The touch was nothing more than a whisper, but it broke something open in her. She felt her composure slip like silkbetween her fingers. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned into his palm before she could stop herself, breathing him in.
When she opened her eyes again, he was already watching her mouth, his gaze dark and desperate and full of the things he would never say aloud. The air between them burned.
“Aidan,” she whispered, her voice unsteady.
He stepped closer, close enough that her back brushed the edge of the stall, close enough that the air seemed to hum between them. She could feel the warmth of him, could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, could sense how tightly he was holding himself back.
For a heartbeat—one impossible, suspended heartbeat—she thought he might kiss her. The thought alone sent heat rushing through her, a wild, helpless ache that rooted her where she stood. He wanted to. She saw it, felt it in the tremor of his breath, in the way his thumb traced the edge of her jaw as though committing it to memory.
