Behind him, Enya stood in the center of a pale bar of light, the wooden sword hanging forgotten at her side, her silence the loudest thing he had ever heard.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She left before he could find the words to ruin her any further. The heavy iron-banded door closed behind her with a muted, final thud, and Enya kept walking, her pace steady even as everything inside her threatened to splinter like dry wood.
Her steps rang too loud in the narrow stone passage—sharp, rhythmic, grounding—though the sound did nothing to quiet the echo of his jagged voice or that abrupt, violent withdrawal.
She focused on the steady rise and fall of her breath, counting the inhales until the corridor widened and the air shifted—cooler, less suffocating, no longer carrying the scent of his skin or the heat of his presence. Only then did she slow, her shoulders tightening as the distance between them settled in her chest, heavy and unresolved.
That’s enough fer today.
The words replayed with cruel clarity. The rejection felt like a physical blow to her stomach.
She told herself not to think of his hands—large, scarred, and surprisingly gentle as he’d engulfed her own. She told herself to forget how his voice had dropped to that low growl, or how the air had turned to liquid fire when she’d rotated and found him so close she could see the flecks in his eyes.
She told herself not to think of the way he had stepped back like he’d been burned by her touch. Like she was a contagion he’d suddenly remembered to fear.
Ye misread his closeness.Again.
She had learned long before not to trust heat, nor the brief moments when men forgot themselves and looked at her as though she were something worth wanting—before remembering her eyes made her undesirable.
By the time she reached the great hall, the ache in her chest had settled into something dull and manageable.
The hall was alive with motion when she stepped inside. Benches dragged across the floor. Tables laid end to end. Women moved in lines, arms full of linens and greenery. The scent of pine and beeswax hung in the air, sharp and clean.
Focus on the work.
A few people greeted her, but even more heads turned, eyes lingering just long enough to register her presence before slipping away again, cautious in their avoidance. She felt the attention settle all the same, quiet and appraising. It was exactly what she had expected.
Dinnae look up, dinnae give them the satisfaction o’ seeing ye flinch.
Enya moved toward a stack of folded linens that sat half-unraveled on a side table, the pile collapsing into messy disorder. She set to work. Her hands moved with clinical precision—smoothing, aligning, refolding. The rhythm was a lifeline, something to hold onto while the hollow ache beneath her ribs throbbed in time with Harald’s rejection.
The women nearby kept their voices low, but the hall carried their whispers like smoke.
She folded a cloth once, then again, her knuckles white.
I am more than a curiosity.
Across the room, a heavy banner had slipped, its corner sagging like a broken wing. Two women passed it, glancing up with irritation but never stopping to fix it. Enya set her linens down and crossed the hall. She reached up, her fingers finding the loosened cord. She tightened the knot with a sharp, decisive pull, anchoring the fabric until it hung straight and proud against the stone.
When she stepped back, the banner held. No one thanked her. No one even looked her way. The quiet settled around her again, isolating and familiar.
Near the long tables, a young kitchen girl fumbled with a tray of cups. One slipped. Then another. The tray tilted dangerously, panic flashing across the girl’s face as porcelain shattered against the floor.
“I—I’m sorry—” The girl’s voice broke, her eyes wide with terror as the older women turned, expressions sharpening into scolding.
“It’s all right,” Enya said quietly, crouching to gather the shards before anyone could step on them. “Nay one’s hurt.”
She guided the girl’s hands away from the sharpest pieces, her movements efficient, sure. When the tray was cleared and the broken cups gathered, Enya rose and handed the girl a cloth.
“Breathe,” she added softly. “Then go fetch replacements. I’ll explain if anyone asks.”
The girl stared at her, wide-eyed, then nodded and fled toward the kitchens.
A few of the women watched her more openly now. Their expressions were no longer dismissive. Curious, perhaps.
Enya stepped back again, invisible as she had been moments before. It was as she returned toward the center of the hall that the brush came—an older woman passing too close, shoulder knocking into her arm with unnecessary force.
