“Come,” Erik said finally, breaking the moment. “I want tae show ye the rest before we head back.”
They remounted and rode on, the tension between them shifting into something more complex. Erik pointed out landmarks—the village where his people lived, the training grounds where his warriors practiced, the cliffs where Norse ships had first landed generations ago.
The sun was high overhead when they returned to the castle. Erik led her through corridors she hadn’t seen before, showing her the kitchens where the cook greeted her with warm curiosity, the armory where weapons gleamed in neat rows, the Great Hall where tapestries depicted battles long past.
“Ye can go anywhere in the keep,” he said as they climbed a narrow staircase. “Ask fer anythin’ ye need. The staff answer tae me, but they’ll answer tae ye as well once we’re wed.”
“Anywhere?” Claricia couldn’t help the skepticism in her voice.
“Aye.” Then his expression went cold, shuttered. “Except the North Wing.”
The abrupt shift made her pause. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s nae an answer?—”
“’Tis the only one ye’re gettin’.” His voice had gone hard, carrying that edge of command that probably made his warriors snap to attention. “The North Wing is mine, and mine alone. Understood?”
She should have agreed. Should have recognized the warning in his tone and backed down. Instead, she lifted her chin in defiance. “And if I test ye? What then?”
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “Then ye’ll learn exactly how unforgivin’ the Wolf can be.”
“Fine,” she said coldly. “I’ll stay out of yer precious North Wing.”
“Good.” But there was no triumph in his voice, only that same shuttered hardness. “Now, is there anythin’ ye need fer yer chambers? Books, perhaps? Sewin’ supplies?”
The abrupt shift back to civility threw her off balance. “I… ye dinnae have tae?—”
“I’m aware of what I dae and dinnae have tae dae.” He started walking again, forcing her to follow. “But ye’ll be livin’ here. Might as well make it bearable.”
Claricia’s mind raced. He was offering her something, however grudgingly. And if there was one thing her father had taught her, it was to never waste an opportunity.
She kept her voice carefully neutral. “I’d like books. Real books, nay just psalters and household accounts. Poetry, histories, tales from other lands. And paints—proper ones, nae children’s pigments. Canvas, too, or panels if ye have them. And fine paper fer drawin’, the kind that daesnae bleed when ye use ink.”
She’d asked for luxuries that would cost a small fortune, half-expecting him to refuse or laugh at her audacity.
Instead, Erik simply nodded. “Ye’ll have it within the week.”
“Just like that?”
He glanced at her, and that hint of amusement was back. “Did ye think I’d refuse?”
“I thought ye’d tell me I was bein’ difficult.”
“Yearebein’ difficult.” But there was no heat in the words. “Ye’re bein’ stubborn and proud and testin’ every boundary ye can find. But I’d rather have a wife who demands what she wants than one who suffers in silence.”
The casual use ofwifemade something flutter in her chest. Not quite acceptance, but something dangerously close to it.
Erik stopped at a small door she hadn’t noticed before, set into an alcove behind a tapestry. “This is a hidden exit. Leads down tae the lower passages and out tae the cliffs. If there’s ever danger—a fire, an attack, anythin’—ye use this path. Understood?”
“Why are ye showin’ me this?”
“Because I protect what’s mine.” He pushed the door open, revealing steep stone steps descending into darkness. “Remember it. Hope ye never need it.”
Claricia stared at the passageway, then back at him. That morning he’d been a brute who didn’t know how to knock. A savage who’d killed her brother. A warrior whose reputation was built on blood and ruthlessness. But he’d also shown her his lands with quiet pride. Acknowledged his role in Logan’s death without flinching. Agreed to give her books and paints without question. Shown her an escape route in case she ever needed to flee.
Who are ye really, Erik Thorsen?
