Her face went hot. “Well. Better safe than?—”
“Than what? Me overcomin’ me exhaustion, scalin’ yer impressive defenses, and ravishin’ ye?” He sounded more amused than offended. “I spent last night in a chair that was designed fer someone half me size, then rode fer hours scoutin’ the coastline. I’m sore. I’m tired. And I’m nae in the habit of forcin’ meself on women thus neither on ye if ye’re unwillin’, wife or nae.”
The blunt honesty in his voice caught her off guard. So did the edge of hurt beneath it, quickly hidden but there nonetheless.
“I ken that,” she said quietly, surprising herself. “Ye’ve been… very understanding about it. I just?—”
Erik didn’t push. He just moved to his side of the bed—carefully avoiding her pillow wall—and sat with another groan that made guilt twist in her chest. When he reached for the hem of his tunic, Claricia immediately turned her back, staring determinedly at the far wall.
She heard fabric rustle. Heard him moving around. Heard the bed frame creak as he stretched out on top of the furs with a sigh that sounded like relief and pain mixed together.
“Ye can look now,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion. “I’m decent.”
Claricia risked a glance over her shoulder. He’d changed into a loose sleep shirt, though it hung open at the throat in a way that really wasn’t helping her scattered thoughts. His eyes were already half-closed, exhaustion written in every line of his face.
He looks... nae like the Wolf of Skye at all.
She settled onto her side of the bed, hyperaware of his presence despite all the pillows Another small groan escaped him as he tried to find a comfortable position, and the sound made her chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to guilt.
“Sound like the floor might have been more comfortable fer ye last night,” she said quietly, surprising herself.
“And have Aksel mock me fer the rest of me natural days? I’d rather face a dragon.” He cracked one eye open to look at her. “This is better. Even with yer wall of fluff between us.”
Despite everything, Claricia felt her lips twitch. She could hear him—his breath slow and steady, already evening out toward sleep.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… charged. Heavy with everything unsaid.
“Erik?”
“Mmm?”
“About the books. And the paints ye had brought.” She picked at the edge of the fur, not looking at him. “Thank ye. Ye didnae have tae dae that.”
The pause that followed felt weighted, significant. “Ye’re me wife. I’ll provide fer ye.”
It was the way he said it—matter-of-fact, like it was the simplest truth in the world—that made her throat tight. No grand speeches. No expectation of gratitude or submission. Just quiet certainty that she was his responsibility and he’d meet it without question or complaint.
Why daes that make me want tae cry?
“Still,” she whispered. “Thank ye.”
The bed shifted as he turned toward her—toward the pillow wall, really, since that’s all either of them could see. “What were ye paintin’? I saw ye covered it.”
Claricia’s eyes flew open. “How d’ye?—”
“The cloth over the easel wasnae there this mornin’. And ye had paint on yer fingers at breakfast.”
“’Tis naethin’,” she said quickly. “Just practicin’.”
“Practicin’ what?”
“None of yer concern.”
“’Tis in me chamber, little bird. That makes it me concern.”
“Ourchamber,” she corrected before she could stop herself. “And it’s still none of yer business.”
She could practically hear him smile. “Stubborn lass.”
