What’s wrong with me? Logan’s barely cold in his grave and I’m...
A sharp knock interrupted that spiral into guilt and confusion.
Liv opened it with a knowing look that made Claricia want to throttle her, stepped aside, then left.
Erik Thorsen filled the doorway. He’d dressed for the ceremony in dark leather and wool, his tunic embroidered with silver thread that matched her gown. His blonde hair was pulled back with a leather cord, revealing the sharp angles of his face and those grey-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her. A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow, another along his jaw.
He looked every inch the Wolf they called him.
Behind him lurked a pinch-faced man in English court dress, all rigid posture and bureaucratic self-importance.
“Lady Claricia.” Erik’s voice was pitched low, formal—but underneath ran something that made her pulse kick against herthroat. His gaze moved over her once: the silver beads in her hair, the curve where crimson wool met bare collarbone, the way the fitted bodice shaped her. She felt that look like fingers trailing fire across her skin. “May we enter?”
She lifted her chin, refusing to let him see how that look had affected her. “I wasnae aware I had a choice.”
“Ye always have a choice.” Something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Approval? “Though some choices have more consequences than others.”
Liv slipped past them both, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounded final.
The English courtier cleared his throat with pronounced irritation, clearly displeased at being made to wait. “My lady, I am Lord Pemberton, royal envoy of His Majesty King Alexander II. I have been sent to witness your marriage to Jarl Erik Thorsen and ensure the terms of the Lairds’ Pact are… properly fulfilled.”
Claricia’s spine stiffened. “Aye, well, ye can witness the ceremony.”
“The Crown requiresproof of consummation, me lady.”
Heat flooded Claricia’s cheeks. “Proof? What manner of—” Her eyes flitted between Erik’s carefully neutral expression and the envoy’s satisfied smirk.
“Thebedsheet, me lady.” Pemberton’s tone suggested he was explaining something obvious to a particularly slow child. “Stained with proof of your maidenhead. Tae be presented tae me on the morrow.”
Blood. He wants tae see blood.
She understood that much, at least. The rest—the precise mechanics of how one arrived at bloodied sheets—remained distressingly vague. Kitchen gossip and overheard fragments weren’t exactly comprehensive education.
“That’s barbaric!” The outrage was real, even if it masked rising panic.
“That’s tradition,” Pemberton corrected, clearly relishing her discomfort. “Royal decree, in fact. Surely ye were explained the… particulars of consummation?—”
Each word came sharp as a blade. “Highland lairds dinnae typically sit their daughters down fer detailed discussions of what happens on weddin’ nights.” She shifted her weight sharply. “And I’ll nae have some… Sassenach pokin’ his beak intae me marriage bed!”
Erik made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Pemberton’s face went an interesting shade of purple. “Whether you approve or not, my lady, the king demands?—”
“Whether we like it or nae, the king demands proof.” Erik’s voice cut through her rising panic, though his jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly.
“But I—” She stopped, fury warring with humiliation.
Erik studied her face for a long moment, and something shifted in his expression.
“Lord Pemberton.” His voice had gone cold again, dismissive. “Please wait outside.”
“My laird, I must protest?—”
“Now.” The single word cracked like a whip, and Pemberton scurried from the room with an indignant huff, the door clicking shut with pointed force.
Claricia became acutely aware that she was alone with Erik Thorsen. That his eyes were still on her. That the chamber suddenly felt far too warm despite the autumn chill leaking through the window shutters.
She could smell him from there—leather and steel and something woodsy that made her want to step closer even as every shred of sense screamed at her to maintain distance.
