“Claricia—”
“We’re finishin’ this meal without bloodshed.” Her voice left no room for argument. Steel wrapped in silk. “Both of ye matter tae me. So, act like it matters that I’m askin’. Please.”
Finnian looked ready to fight, but something in her face—the steel she’d inherited from him, perhaps, or maybe just exhaustion—made him sink back into his chair. Slowly. Jaw locked. Fists clenched on the table.
Erik remained standing longer, gaze locked on hers. Something passed between them in that look—understanding, maybe. Respect. Then he gave a single sharp nod and sat.
Claricia collapsed into her own chair, pulse hammering like a war drum. Her hands were shaking. Across the table, Erik’s eyes held what looked like grudging respect.
The rest of the meal passed in silence thick as winter fog. No one spoke. Knives scraped plates. Cups were refilled. The fire crackled. Each sound seemed too loud in the oppressive quiet.
When her father finally excused himself—exhaustion, he claimed, though Claricia doubted that was all—she walked him to his chamber. The corridor felt longer than usual. Colder.
At his door, he pulled her into an embrace that squeezed the breath from her lungs. “I love ye, lass. Never forget that. Whatever happens, whatever ye choose—I love ye.”
The words felt too much like goodbye. Like he was preparing for her to slip away from him forever.
She accepted his kiss on her forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of him one more time. “I love ye too, Faither. We’ll talk come mornin’. When heads are clearer, aye?”
Relief flooded her veins as she made her way back to her chamber.
Erik was already there when she entered, standing by the window like a dark sentinel carved from shadow and moonlight.
“So.” She closed the door behind her with a soft click. “Ye heard the whole conversation earlier, I take it?”
He turned from the window, and firelight caught the harsh planes of his face. “Some of it.”
The silence stretched. His expression was unreadable—that blank mask he wore when sorting through problems. When deciding what to do with threats.
Perfect. He probably thinks I’m conspirin’ with them.
“And?” She kept her voice steady, but her heart was hammering. “Dae ye think I’m lyin’ about wantin’ tae stay?”
“Should I be?”
“That’s nae an answer?—”
“Claricia.” He crossed to her in three strides. Close enough she had to tilt her head back. “If I thought ye were workin’ against me, ye’d be in the North Wing, keepin’ company with chains and pointy things while I sort truth from deception.”
The bluntness should have stung. Instead, it steadied something inside her.
“Then what’s that look fer?”
“What look?”
“Ye look like ye’re expectin’ me tae pull a blade on ye.”
His mouth twitched. “Because I’ve spent fifteen years expectin’ betrayal.” He reached up slowly, fingers brushing her cheek. “But hearin’ ye defend me tae the one person whose opinion matters most tae ye...” His voice dropped. “That showed me somethin’ else, little bird.”
Her breath caught. “Did it?”
“Aye.” His expression went soft around the edges. “I’m nae angry, lass. I’m grateful. Yer faither cares enough fer ye that he’d risk the king’s wrath tae get ye out if he thought ye were in danger. That’s… that’s a good thing.”
She blinked. “It is?”
“At the end of the day, he and I want the same thing—taekeep ye safe.”His thumb traced her jaw.
Relief flooded through her. “He mentioned Duncan offered tae help.”
