The words made her breath catch. Slowly, she turned her head to Wiliam. He was still walking beside her. She had almost forgotten that, what with being lost in her thoughts.
Sunlight shone high behind him, haloing his dark head. His tall frame was like a protective shadow that shielded her from the glare. Even now, he walked slightly ahead of her, as if to protect her. As if it were instinct. As if it were destiny.
He had not released her hand since they had left the chapel. Not even once. Now, his fingers gently tightened around hers.
She had drifted again. He always noticed.
She exhaled shakily, squeezing his hand back. What they had endured would take years to recover from.
Caelan was dead now. There was a thin line between love and hate, and she would be lying if she said that she hated him. Perhaps it would come later. Perhaps with time. For now, there was only shock, the kind that lingered on her tongue like bitter poison.
William stopped, causing her to follow. He turned to face her, as if he had felt her thoughts drifting again. He lifted his other hand and placed it on her shoulder.
“Some things,” he said tenderly, “arenae meant to be carried alone, especially when ye couldnae have controlled them.”
He was doing that thing again, speaking in a tone that wrapped around her very soul like a balm.
He smiled. It wasn’t wide, it wasn’t triumphant. Just gentle, reassuring.
Sorcha’s lips curved before she even realized it. She was achingly glad to have him here. To have survived everything with him. Most of it all, to be standing in the aftermath instead of lost within it.
“Come,” he urged, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. “Let us go inside.”
He led her through the corridors, his steps sure, his grip steady.
Her chamber smelled like lavender, as sweet as she remembered as though nothing had been changed since she left.. The scent struck her harder than she had expected, making her realize how close to home it felt.
She sat on the edge of the bed, weariness weighing her bones. William moved closer, approaching her slowly as though shewere something precious and breakable. Every movement, each moment, felt intimate, even though he had yet to speak.
He took her hand in both of his. He squeezed her fingers gently before lifting them to his lips. The kiss he pressed there was reverent, tender.
When he looked up at her, his brown eyes were filled with a warmth she had never seen before. There was no duty, no mask to hide how he felt. He was baring himself without care, without shame.
“I was wrong,” he began quietly.
Confusion broke through her exhaustion.
“I was wrong to choose revenge over ye,” he continued. “I told meself that there would never be time for love, that it had nay place beside what I had to do.”
She inhaled deeply, before slowly shaking her head. “Ye were only avenging those ye lost.”
He stared at her face for a moment, his hands trembling slightly against her own.
“Nay.” His voice was firm but heavy with emotion. “I forgot that I could have lost ye, too. And that would have been far worse than any delayed justice.”
She melted at those words, emotions welling in her chest. Without thinking, she lifted both hands to cup his face. Her thumbs stroked his cheekbones, memorizing every inch of his skin.
At the end of the day, he was just a man who had been forced to grow up too quickly. Despite his pain, despite the title and responsibilities, she could still see the boy behind his eyes.
She leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead. Then lower, to press one to the tip of his nose. And finally, his lips.
She kissed him softly, languorously, pouring her love into him. It felt like coming home.
“I am just glad to have ye here with me,” she whispered. “That is enough.”
His breath shuddered out of him, tickling her lips. Then he gave her a smile. It was the most genuine, devastating thing she had ever seen.
He raised one hand to her cheek, brushing away a tear she had not felt falling. The air between them grew warm, almost making her forget everything they had lost.
