“No,” I say, rubbing my head with a wince, “but whatever hair he didn’t pull out got cut off.”
“Hair grows back,” he says, kissing my cheekbones, the tip of my nose, and my forehead. “How do you feel?”
“What?” Everything feels like it’s at a standstill, like even the room is holding its breath.
“How do you feel?” Alastair repeats, gently moving his fingers along my ribs. “This isn’t about your hair. You just killed a man. I cannot be prouder of you. But this is…” he hesitates, “this is significant.”
“I remember. Him, I mean. There was a girl, she couldn’t even have been eighteen yet. She was begging him to help her. He…” I bury my face in his neck. “He hit her so hard he knocked her unconscious. They just… dragged her off.”
His arms tighten around me carefully, avoiding my ribs. “Love, you have been so strong. Can you tell me three things you see in this room?”
My brow wrinkles. My ribs are aching and my scalp feels like someone took a blade to it, but I canfeelthat. I’m not fading away; I can see and hear him.
I’m still here.
“I’m okay. Is it wrong that I dinna feel bad?” I ask slowly, trying to sort through my jumbled brain. “I was certain he’d pull me out the window with him, but I dinna care. I just… he couldn’t live. I’m not sorry. He’ll never hurt another person.”
“My beautiful warrior,” he says, kissing me again. “I love you. You’ve shown such courage. I am honored to marry such a goddess. Again,” he added with a chuckle. “Do you want me to call in your mother?”
“Let’s just… sit here a moment, is that all right?” I close my eyes, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart.
“As long as you like,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
***
Throwing a paleerie - Scottish slang for freaking out or throwing a fit
Svinje - Pig in Serbian
Wheesht - Scottish slang for shut up
Carfuffling - Scotting slang for arguing
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In which Sorcha and Alastair are married. Again.
Sorcha…
“You know, short hair suits you.”
Isla is always one to try to find the silver lining, but I appreciate her smile of approval. The poor stylist my mother hauled through the door blanched when she saw what was left of my hair. Once she trimmed all the ragged ends to the same length and restyled it, it looked fine, hidden under my veil.
“I miss my long hair,” I admit, “it felt safe, it covered… Well, it doesn’t matter now.”
Alastair runs his fingers along my back, I can feel his warmth, even through the chiffon and lace that covers my scarred skin. “Perhaps,” he whispers, “you don’t need to hide the scars any longer? They’re a part of you now. A sign of your courage.”
“I love you,” I say, feeling my eyes grow wet.
“And I love you, sweet girl,” he says, kissing me.
The ceremony is done, a beaming Father Barclay mentioning more than once what a pleasure it was to marry me in a ‘proper setting.’ I suppose - based on what my brother put the poor man through - that is accurate. The lights strung over the massive garden look like fireflies darting in the night sky, and the air is perfumed from hundreds of roses and lilies brought in for ourwedding. The Scottish country band is playing their hearts out as my clan drinks and dances.
Alastair puts his chin on my head, watching my family dance, laughing and shouting as they twirl around each other.
“All right, we’re doin’ this right now.”
Cameron plants a chair in front of us, fixing my husband with a glare. “Now then. What’s this shite about me stealin’ a girl from you at the Academy?”
