“Brutish oaf.”
“Get some sleep, little bird,” Erik murmured, his voice roughened by encroaching exhaustion. “We’ve both had a long day.”
Claricia lay there in the darkness, listening to his breathing gradually slow and deepen again. Despite the pillow fortress between them, she could feel the warmth of him. Could sense his presence filling the space even in silence.
This is dangerous.More dangerous than any escaped prisoner.
Because at least she knew how to fight that.
She had no idea how to fight the way her heart beat faster when he said her name. Or the warmth that bloomed in her chest when he looked at her like she mattered. Or the terrifying truth that part of her—a growing, traitorous part—wanted to tear down the pillow wall and?—
Sleep. Just sleep, ye daft woman!
But sleep was a long time coming. And when it finally claimed her, she dreamed of gray-blue eyes and strong hands and a voice calling her ‘little bird’ like it was the most precious name in the world.
Warmth.
That was the first thing Claricia became aware of—solid, encompassing warmth that surrounded her like a cocoon. She made a small sound of contentment and pressed closer to the source, her body seeking more heat before her mind could catch up with what she was doing.
The warmth shifted. Moved. Made a low rumbling sound that vibrated through her entire body in the most delicious way.
Her eyes flew open.
Gray-blue eyes stared back at her from approximately three inches away.
Erik’s eyes. Erik’s face. Erik’s very large, very solid, very warm body wrapped around hers like she was something precious he was protecting from the world.
For one frozen heartbeat, they simply stared at each other. Claricia catalogued every point of contact—his arm heavy across her waist, his leg tangled with hers, his chest pressed againsther. The pillow wall lay scattered across the bed and floor like casualties of war neither of them remembered fighting.
When did this happen? Och… he smells good.
“Um,” Erik said, his voice rough with sleep and about an octave lower than usual. “Mornin’.”
Suddenly, Claricia became hyper aware of his one leg draped over hers, and panic hit her like a lightning strike.
“Get off!” Claricia tried to scramble backward. Her knee came up. Connected with something that made Erik’s eyes go very, very wide.
“Get off, get off, get—och… Erik? What’s wrong?”
The sound Erik made wasn’t quite human. Somewhere between a wheeze and a groan and the death rattle of a man who’d just taken a cannonball to a very sensitive area.
Then—almost in slow motion—he toppled sideways off the bed and hit the floor with a crash that rattled the windows.
“Och, nay. Erik? ERIK!” Claricia scrambled to the edge of the bed and peered over, horror flooding through her veins. “Are ye?—”
He was curled on his side on the floor, both hands clutched between his legs, his face contorted in what could only be described as exquisite agony. His mouth opened. No sound came out. Just a strangled wheeze that made her want to simultaneously apologize and flee the country.
“I’m so sorry!” She slid off the bed and dropped to her knees beside him, hands fluttering uselessly. “I didnae mean tae… I panicked and ye wereso closeand I just—should I fetch the healer? I can fetch the healer!”
“Dinnae,” he managed, voice strained and several octaves higher than normal, “fetch anyone. Just… give me… a minute.”
“Are ye sure? Because ye look like ye’re dyin’ and if ye’re dyin’ someone needs tae?—”
“Nae dyin’.” Each word seemed to cost him. “Just… wishin’ I was.”
“That’s nae helpin’!” She wrung her hands, guilt and mortification warring for dominance in her chest. “Och, fer the love of… just tell me what tae dae, ye daft oaf!”
“Stop… screechin’.” He cracked one eye open to look at her. “Please.”
