He reached for words and found none worth saying. He turned and left before he said something he could not take back.
The door closed behind him, and the hall felt too narrow. Heat ran up his neck as he took the stairs two at a time and went straight to his study.
He shut the door, crossed to the table, and poured wine with a hard hand, ignoring the way the cup shook against his fingers. He drank and tasted nothing, then he looked at the red liquid in the cup and immediately wanted it gone.
Before he could stop himself, he threw it at the wall.
The clay shattered, and wine slid down the stone in a dark smear. He poured another and did the same. The second cup hit lower, the crack sounding flat.
He braced both hands on the table and bowed his head. The study was so quiet that he could hear a guard call somewhere outside and the soft scrape of a tree branch against his windowsill. His eye stung. He wiped it with the back of his wrist.
A knock sounded, interrupting his thoughts.
“Who is it?” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
The latch lifted, and Bettie stood in the doorway, hair loose and feet bare. Her face was worried.
“Da?” she asked. “Are ye all right?”
His anger broke like thin glass. He knelt at once and opened his arms. She came close, small hands clutching his shirt. He kissed her hair and held her tight.
“I am fine,” he said, voice low. “Back to bed, little bee.”
She leaned back to look at him. “Ye sounded angry.”
“I was loud,” he said. “I shouldnae have been. I am sorry.”
The nurse hurried in behind her, cheeks flushed. “Forgive me, me Laird. She was as quick as a rabbit. I didnae?—”
“It is fine,” Alex said flatly. “I should have locked the door.”
Bettie’s eyes dropped to the broken cups. “Did ye find something in the cups?” she asked, trying to be funny the way she did when the air felt wrong.
He managed a thin smile. “Aye. But it’s gone now.”
She nodded solemnly, as if that settled it. “Will ye come tuck us in?”
“In a moment,” he said. “Go with yer nurse.”
She squeezed his neck once and let him go. “Good night, Da.”
“Good night,” he said.
The nurse gathered her up, murmured another apology, then left. The door clicked shut behind them, and the room fell quiet again.
Alex stood and faced the wall he had marked. The anger had drained out, leaving a cold ache. He cleaned the mess with a cloth and a bucket from the corner as slowly and as neatly as he could.
Order was the only thing keeping him sane now, so he had to maintain it. He picked up the shards and set them aside. He wrung the cloth and watched the water redden.
He sat at the table again and pressed his palm to the wood. He thought of Erica’s face when he said the words. He thought of her hands on his wrists. He thought of the sound she made when he kissed her like a man who had decided something.
He drew in a breath that did not steady him. The truth settled in the room with him, heavy and plain: he could not marry her.
He just could not.
Erica’s anger dissolved into sadness as the door closed behind Alex.
The sound was soft, but it landed hard. She stood there for a beat, as if her body had not caught up. Her knees trembled, and she went to sit on her bed. She pressed her face into the pillow to keep the sound down. Tears came hot and quick, streaming down her cheeks.
