“Then we keep her alive.” Aksel’s voice held the same grim determination Erik felt. “Lock her in her chambers if we have tae. Post guards. Limit who has access.”
Erik thought of Claricia’s face when he’d grabbed her in the corridor. The fear beneath her fury. The way she’d flinched from his touch.
“She already thinks I’m a monster.” The admission tasted bitter. “This willnae help.”
“Better she think ye a monster and live than think ye a hero and die.” Aksel moved toward the door. “I’ll set the guards. Ye should get some rest. Tomorrow’s the weddin’, aye?”
The weddin’.
The night when he’d be expected to claim his bride in truth, to consummate the marriage that would bind them irrevocably. The thought sent heat flooding through him, followed swiftly by frustration. How was he supposed to protect her when every instinct screamed at him to pull her close, to taste her skin, to learn every sound she made when?—
“Erik?”
He blinked, realizing Aksel was watching him with something too close to amusement. “What?”
“Ye’ve got it bad, friend.”
“I’ve got naethin’.” But the denial sounded weak even to his own ears. “She’s tae be me wife. ‘Tis duty, naethin’ more.”
“Aye.” Aksel’s grin was knowing. “Keep tellin’ yerself that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Claricia paced her chambers like a caged animal, fury and confusion warring in her chest. The nerve of him. The absolutegall. Grabbing her from the shadows, hauling her through the castle like a sack of grain, ordering her about as if she had no will of her own.
And yet there’d been something beneath his anger. Something that looked almost like fear.
The wedding was tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d stand before witnesses and bind herself to the Wolf of Skye. To the man who’d killed her brother. To the savage who grabbed her from dark corridors and made her heart race with equal parts terror and… something she refused to name.
A knock at the door made her jump.
“Who is it?”
“Open the door, Claricia.” Erik’s voice came through the door, rough and low.
She should refuse. Should tell him to go away and take his commands with him. Instead, she found herself crossing the room, turning the lock, pulling the door open.
He stood in the corridor, torchlight playing across his features. He’d changed his tunic, she noticed. And his hands were damp, as if he’d just washed them.
“What dae ye want?” She kept her voice cold, proud.
“Tae apologize.” The words came grudgingly, but they came. “I shouldnae have grabbed ye like that. Shouldnae have… frightened ye.”
Claricia blinked.
An apology? From Erik Thorsen?
She hadn’t thought him capable of it.
“Ye didnae frighten me,” she lied.
“Aye, I did.” He stepped closer, and she was suddenly aware of how small the doorway felt with his body filling it. “I saw it in yer eyes. And I’m… sorry. Fer that.”
The apology should have mollified her. Should have made her feel vindicated, victorious. Instead, it only confused her further. “Why?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. “Why are ye so angry about the North Wing? What are ye hidin’ there?”
His expression shuttered immediately. “That’s nae yer concern.”
“I’m tae be yer wife tomorrow.” She threw his own words back at him. “Doasnae that make everythin’ here me concern?”
