He found her an hour later in their chamber, standing by the window in one of her simpler gowns—deep green wool that brought out those impossible blue-green eyes. Her hair fell loose down her back in waves that made his fingers itch to tangle in them, and when she turned at the sound of the door, her smile was soft. Unguarded.
Och, gods have mercy.
“I thought ye’d disappeared intae the mornin’ mist,” she said, moving toward him. “Was startin’ tae think I’d dreamed the whole night.”
Erik caught her by the waist, pulling her close enough to feel her warmth. “If ye dreamed it, then we had the same dream.”
She laughed—the sound light and genuine and doing absolutely devastating things to his carefully maintained control.
He pressed his lips to her temple, breathing in the scent of her—herbs and honey and something uniquely Claricia. “How d’ye feel?”
A blush crept across her cheeks. “A wee bit sore, if I’m honest. But… good. Very good.”
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, and felt her tense slightly in his arms. “About yer faither.”
The shift was immediate—happiness dimming to wariness. “What about him?”
“He came all this way. Watched his daughter bein’ married tae a man he has every right tae hate.” Erik chose his words carefully, aware they were walking dangerous ground. “I thought... perhaps we should honor his arrival properly. A feast. Taenight.”
She pulled back far enough to study his face. “A feast fer me faither?”
“Aye.”
“Yehatecelebrations.”
“I tolerate them whennecessary.”
“Erik.” Her voice went soft. “Ye’re daein’ this fer me, arenae ye?”
“Aye,” he admitted. “Yer faither should’ve been there when we were wed. So... this is me tryin’ tae make up fer what I couldnae control.”
She went very still. Then, without warning, she launched herself at him—arms wrapping around his neck as she kissed him with enough force to make him stumble backward. He caught her, hands splaying across her back as he kissed her back with everything he’d been holding in check since waking.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“Ye’re agoodman, Erik Thorsen,” she whispered. “Even when ye’re pretendin’ tae be ruthless.”
Good.The word lodged somewhere in his chest. He’d been called many things—brutal, savage, cold—but never good. Not like she meant it.
“Dinnae spread that around,” he managed. “I have a reputation tae maintain.”
She laughed again, and the sound wrapped around him like warmth. “Yer secret’s safe with me, Wolf.”
They stood there for a long moment, just holding each other. Outside, Skye’s wind howled across the cliffs, carrying the salt-sharp scent of the sea. Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, Erik felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in fifteen years.
Peace.
“I have somethin’ fer ye,” Claricia said suddenly, pulling away with nervous energy that made him immediately suspicious. “Wait here.”
She disappeared to the other side of the chamber, returning with something wrapped in cloth. Her hands trembled slightly as she held it out, and Erik realized with shock that she was nervous.
“I… I made ye somethin’,” she said, the words tumbling out fast. “Well, painted. I’m nae very good at it, but I thought… ye should have it.”
Erik unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing a painting on wood—and the breath stopped in his lungs.
A wolf stared back at him. Not just any wolf, but one rendered with such attention to detail he could see individual strands in its fur, the intelligence in its pale eyes, the power coiled in its frame. It stood on a cliff overlooking dark water, head raised as if scenting prey or danger or simply freedom. Behind it, Skye’s distinctive jagged peaks cut against a storm-dark sky.
“I ken it’s nae perfect,” Claricia was saying, her words nervous and quick. “The proportions are probably wrong, and the shadin’ could be better, but when I look at it, I think of ye. The way ye are when ye’re fightin’, or when ye’re protectin’ yer people, or how ye looked last night in the water—like ye are wild and free and impossible tae tame. So I thought… ye might want it.”
