“Lady Thorsen.” He offered his hand, calm as if they were at a feast instead of a battlefield. “We should move ye tae safety.”
But there was no safety. The narrow path had become a killing ground—Erik and his men outnumbered but fighting with the kind of brutal efficiency that came from years of surviving exactly that kind of ambush. Steel clashed against steel, men shouted and screamed, and blood painted the rocks in patterns that would have been beautiful if they weren’t so horrifying.
Claricia watched Erik fight, and something fundamental shifted in her chest.
He moved like water given deadly purpose—fluid, inevitable, unstoppable. His blade seemed to know where his enemies would be before they did, cutting through defenses with surgical precision. But it wasn’t the skill that stole her breath. It was the way he kept positioning himself between her and danger. The way every strike, every pivot, every brutal kill served one purpose: keeping her alive.
This is what it means tae be his.
The thought struck her with the force of a blade—sharp, undeniable, terrifying in its clarity. Not his possession, not his property, buthisin the way that mattered. His to protect. His to defend. His to kill for without hesitation or question. She’d spent days pushing against the cage of marriage, fighting the title of wife like it was chains around her wrists. But watching him now—watching him bleed for her, watching him move like death incarnate to keep her breathing—she fully understood something she’d been too proud to see.
He wasn’t caging her. He was shielding her. And that made all the difference.
He’s protectin’ me… Even now. Even in the middle of this nightmare, he’s thinkin’ of me.
An attacker broke through the line, rushing straight for her with wild eyes and desperate purpose. Claricia scrambled backward, her hands finding a rock roughly the size of her fist. The man raised his sword?—
Erik crashed into him like divine retribution made flesh. They went down in a tangle of limbs and fury, rolling across blood-slick stones. Erik came up on top, his blade already moving, already ending the threat with mechanical efficiency that should have terrified her.
It didn’t.
“Erik! Behind ye!”
Aksel’s warning came just in time. Erik twisted, his blade catching the descending sword mid-swing, but the force of it drove him to one knee. The attacker pressed his advantage, raining blows down with desperate strength, and Claricia watched red bloom across Erik’s shoulder where steel had found flesh.
She was moving before she thought, the rock still clutched in her hand, every instinct screaming to help him, to do something?—
“Me lady, stay back!” One of the guards grabbed her arm, yanking her away from the fight just as Erik surged upward, his sword taking the attacker under the ribs with brutal efficiency.
The man dropped. Went still. And suddenly, it was over.
Six bodies lay scattered across the rocks. Erik stood in the center of it all, breathing hard, blood dripping from his sword and seeping through his shirt where a blade had found him.
“Claricia.” Her name came out rough, scraped raw. “Are ye hurt?”
“I’m fine. But ye’re?—”
“Later.” He was already moving, already checking his men with that same careful efficiency he’d used to kill. “Aksel. Casualties?”
“Finn took a cut tae his leg. Deep, but he’ll live if we get him back quick.” Aksel wiped his blade clean on a dead man’s shirt, his expression grim. “The rest are scratches. We were lucky.”
“Nae luck. They were poorly trained.” Erik crouched beside one of the bodies, yanking the cloth from the man’s face. “Professional enough tae set an ambush, but nae skilled enough tae execute it properly.”
“Same as before?” Aksel joined him, studying the corpse with the detached interest of a man used to examining the dead.
“Aye. Nay clan colors.” Erik straightened, his jaw tight with frustration. “Someone’s feedin’ them information.”
“Me jarl.” One of the guards approached, leading Claricia’s mare by the reins. “The horses are spooked but unharmed. We should move before dark.”
Erik nodded, then turned to Claricia. His eyes swept over her—quick, thorough, checking for injuries she might not have noticed in the chaos. When he seemed satisfied she was whole, something in his expression softened marginally.
“Can ye ride?”
“Aye.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “But ye need?—”
“I need ye safe.” He moved toward her, and she saw the way he favored his injured shoulder, the way his jaw tightened against pain he refused to acknowledge. “The wound can wait.”
“Lady Thorsen rides with me,” he announced to the group, already reaching for her. “Her mare’s too skittish after the attack.”
