No, this had felt like terror at finding her in danger.
What are ye hidin’, Erik Thorsen? And why daes it scare ye so much that I might discover it?
Whatever secrets the North Wing held, whatever threats lurked in the shadows of this castle—Erik wasn’t trying to keep her out to exert control.
He was trying to keep her safe.
And tomorrow, she would become his wife.
Claricia pressed a hand to her lips, still able to feel the ghost of his almost-kiss. Her pulse raced. Her skin felt too hot, too tight.
Tomorrow everything would change. But tonight, locked safely in her chambers with her heart still pounding and her lips still tingling from what hadn’t quite happened—Claricia finally understood.
She wasn’t afraid of Erik Thorsen. She was afraid of how much shewantedhim.
And that terrified her far more than any secret locked away in the North Wing ever could.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“If ye dinnae hold still, I swear by all that’s holy—or unholy, dependin’ on who ye ask—Iwillstab ye with this pin.”
Claricia froze mid-fidget, shooting Liv a glare through the polished bronze mirror. “Ye wouldnae dare.”
“Try me.” Liv’s pale eyes glinted with something between affection and exasperation as she adjusted another fold of crimson wool. “I’ve lived with Erik since I was six years old. I’ve learned patience from a man who has absolutely none. So aye, cousin-tae-be, I wouldabsolutelydare.”
The wedding gown was finer than anything Claricia had worn in her life—deep red wool bordered with Norse knotwork in silver thread, fitted so precisely she could barely draw a full breath. Which seemed oddly appropriate, given she hadn’t managed a proper breath since waking that morning with the realization that she was marrying the Wolf of Skye that day.
Logan would be so proud. His sister, weddin’ his murderer.
“There.” Liv stepped back, critically assessing her work. “Ye look…” She paused, and something softened in her expression. “Ye look like someone who could survive Erik Thorsen. Maybe even match him.”
“I look like one of his bloody banners,” Claricia muttered, tugging at the unfamiliar fabric.
She stared at her reflection in the polished bronze mirror, hardly recognizing the woman staring back. Her chestnut hair was braided intricately with leather strips and small silver beads that caught the morning light streaming through the chamber windows.
To change the subject, because her heart was fluttering, she pointed to the tapestry that hung on the wall in from of her. “Is there anythin’ in this entire castle that isnae decorated with that damned wolf? The walls, the shields, the dishes… I’m half expectin’ tae find wolf knotwork embroidered on the privy cloths.”
Liv’s laugh was unexpected and genuine. “I’ll have tae check the privy fer ye. Though knowin’ Erik, he probably has considered it.”
Despite everything, Claricia’s lips twitched. “Compensatin’ fer somethin’, is he?”
“Aye, well. When ye’ve fought as hard as Erik has fer respect, fer this castle, fer his people tae be seen as more than savages…. ye tend tae plant yer banner deep and often.”
Liv moved to stand beside her, both their reflections caught in the bronze. The younger woman was lovely in her own gown of pale blue, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. Liv’s smile was slight but warm as she picked up a small vial from the dressing table, uncorking it.
“Here. Rosewater. Fer yer wrists and throat. ‘Tis tradition.”
“Norse or Highland?”
“Both, actually.” Liv daubed the scented oil on Claricia’s pulse points with practiced efficiency, the floral scent rising between them. “Some traditions transcend old feuds. Marriage is one of them.”
“How comfortin’.”
Liv gathered her supplies, then paused at the door, something softer crossing her features. “Fer what it’s worth, Claricia… I’m glad it’s ye. This place needs someone like ye…heneeds someone like ye. He needs everyone tae ken what is his. And after today...” She met Claricia’s eyes in the mirror. “Ye’ll be his too.”
The words should have sparked outrage. Should have had Claricia spitting fire about ownership and force and the injustice of being bartered like livestock.
Instead, heat coiled low in her belly—dangerous, treacherous heat that made her thighs press together beneath all that crimson wool.
