I shouldnae want this. Shouldnae want him.
Logan’s face swam before her eyes—her brother, laughing as he’d taught her to ride, solemn as he’d promised to always protect her, cold and still in death after Erik Thorsen’s men had killed him on some distant shore.
“Forgive me, Logan,” she whispered to the empty chamber.
But even as guilt twisted knife-sharp beneath her breastbone, her body betrayed her. Heat pooled low in her belly. Her breasts felt heavy against the gown’s fitted bodice. Her skin felt sensitized, aching for touch—histouch.
She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks, trying to calm breathing that seemed determined to remain ragged.
Tonight. In a few hours, she’d marry Erik Thorsen before witnesses. And then?—
Ye’re a MacKenzie,ye should be hatin’ this man, nae burnin’ fer him like some wanton?—
A soft knock interrupted the thought.
“Claricia?” Liv’s voice came gentle through the door. “We’re ready fer ye.”
She stood on trembling legs, smoothing skirts that didn’t need smoothing, checking her reflection one final time. The woman staring back looked flushed and feverish, her eyes too bright, her lips slightly parted, as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
She looked like someone about to walk willingly into her enemy’s bed.
Because that’s exactly what I am.
“Comin’,” she called, proud when her voice came out steady.
She followed Liv from the chamber, walking toward a wedding she’d been forced into, toward a man who’d killed her brother, toward a marriage bed she didn’t understand but couldn’t stop imagining.
And the guilt warring with desire in her chest felt like it might tear her in two.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Ye’re allowed tae be nervous, ye ken. ‘Tis yer weddin’ day.”
The corridor felt too long and too short all at once.
Claricia’s fingers worried the crimson fabric of her skirts as she walked, the silver beads in her hair clicking softly with each step. Behind her, Liv’s presence was steady.
She kens I’m barely holdin’ it together.
Could everyone see the way her hands trembled, the way her breath came shallow despite her best efforts to appear calm?
“Claricia.” Liv’s voice was gentle. “Ye’ll wear a hole in that fabric if ye keep frettin’ at it.”
She dropped her hands immediately, then hated herself for the tell. “Liv…” She stopped walking. “How did ye… when ye lost yer parents, how did ye...”
The question died on her tongue. What was she even asking? How did one forgive the unforgivable?
Liv’s eyes softened with understanding. “Ye’re wonderin’ how I dinnae hate every Highlander I see, aye? How I can stand here helpin’ ye prepare tae marry me cousin when it was Highland steel that took me maither?”
Claricia nodded mutely.
“Because hatred’s a heavy thing tae carry.” Liv reached out, squeezing her hand briefly. “Erik isnae whatever monster lives in yer head wearin’ his face.” She paused. “Give him a chance tae surprise ye. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
Before Claricia could respond, the massive oak doors to the Great Hall swung open.
Sound rushed out—conversations, laughter, the crackle of the enormous hearth—and with it, the scent of roasted meat and mead and burning pine.
The hall had been transformed—though calling it mere decoration felt insufficient. Massive wolf banners hung from every pillar, their silver threadwork catching firelight and throwing dancing shadows across stone walls. Fresh rushescovered the floor, releasing the sharp-sweet scent of rosemary and lavender with each step. Torches blazed in their sconces, turning the cavernous space into something almost warm, almost welcoming.
