All she could see was him.
He stood close enough that the heat of him reached her through the chill. His hand still rested at her throat, his thumb brushing the faint cut Edwin had left there, and for the first time since the night had begun, she could breathe again. His face was streaked with mud and blood, his hair dark with rain, yet there was something steady in his eyes, a calm she had never seen before, carved out of all that rage and ruin.
Her voice broke when she spoke. “Ye came fer me.”
He gave a low, uneven breath, as if he didn’t trust himself to answer. Then, softer, “There was nay world I wouldnae reach ye.”
The words hit her harder than the war ever had. She felt them in her ribs, in the hollow beneath her throat, in the trembling of her knees. The breath she took after was a shudder.
When he finally moved, it was slow and careful, as though he feared she might vanish if he reached too quickly. His hand slid from her neck to her jaw, his thumb tracing the damp line of her cheek. The touch undid her.
“I thought ye were gone,” she whispered.
“Ye should ken by now, lass,” he said, voice rough. “It’ll take more than fire an’ steel tae keep me from ye.”
Something inside her broke open. All the fear, all the fury, all the love she had tried so hard to bury rose at once, and before she could stop herself, she reached for him. Her fingers tangled in the front of his soaked shirt, pulling him down to her.
When his mouth found hers, it shattered everything she’d been holding inside. There was nothing careful in it, nothing measured—only the force of all that fear and longing finally breaking free. His lips were warm now, tasting of salt and smoke, his breath uneven against her skin. The scrape of his beard burned her in the best way, raw and real, as if to remind her she was still alive.
She leaned into him with a small, desperate sound, her hands caught against his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heartbeat under her palms. The world around them was still burning, but it no longer mattered. He kissed her like a man who had come back from the edge of death to claim what he’d almost lost, and she kissed him back like someone who had been waiting her whole life to be found.
When they broke apart, her lips trembled against his. “I love ye,” she said, the words barely more than breath. “God help me, Aidan Cameron, I love ye.”
His eyes closed. For a heartbeat he didn’t speak, and she thought she’d said too much, but then he exhaled, and it was like the whole world shifted.
“I’ve loved ye since the first moment ye defied me,” he murmured. “Since ye looked me in the eye and called me cruel.”
A laugh caught in her throat, half a sob. “Ye were cruel.”
“Aye,” he said, leaning his forehead to hers. “But nae tae ye. Never tae ye.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, his hand cradling the back of her head, and for a moment nothing mattered, nothing existed but the heat of his breath and the steady, unyielding beat of his heart against hers.
Then a voice cut through the quiet. “Catherine?”
They broke apart.
Tòrr stood at the edge of the courtyard, sword still drawn, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. Behind him, Michael lingered, his face pale with exhaustion but his eyes sharp.
Catherine’s heart lurched. “Tòrr?—”
He lifted a hand. “I should’ve kent I’d find ye together.” His voice wasn’t angry so much as strained, the kind of tone a man uses when he’s trying not to say more than he should. He looked at Aidan, his jaw set. “Ye risked her life. Her honor.”
Aidan met his gaze evenly. “And saved it.” He straightened, the soldier’s calm returning to his voice. “Ye’ve every right tae be angry,” he said to Tòrr. “But ken this—I’d die before I’d ever let harm come tae her.”
Michael stepped forward then, his tone cautious. “That may be true, Aidan, but she’s still our sister. We’ve seen how ye’ve treated women before. Dinnae think we’ll stand idle if?—”
“She’s nae like the others,” Aidan interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. “An’ I’m nae the man I was before her.”
Catherine’s chest tightened.
Tòrr’s eyes softened, just barely. “I can see that,” he admitted. “She brings out something different in ye—God knows what—but different all the same.” He turned to his sister, his expression gentler now. “Still, Catherine, ye ken how this looks. Ye’re unmarried. Ye cannae stay here without scandal. Ye’ll return wi’ us, at least until?—”
“Then let me marry her,” Aidan said. “Taenight.”
The words seemed to split the air itself.
The sounds of men shouting orders, of swords being sheathed, of the last crackle of fire in the distance—all of it dimmed until there was nothing but the echo of his voice in her chest.
