“Watch yerself,” the woman muttered, sharp enough to cut. “This is work fer folk who ken the place.”
Enya stilled, straightened slowly and turned. The woman had already taken two steps away.
Enya spoke evenly, each word placed with care. “I’ll help where I’m needed.”
The woman stopped.
Enya met her gaze fully now, chin lifted, eyes steady, her tone calm. “But I willnae be spoken tae like that by people who are meant tae bemepeople.”
A pause followed.
The older woman looked at Enya again. Her mouth tightened, then relaxed, something reconsidered behind her eyes.
“Fair…” she muttered and turned back to her task.
The air loosened. A woman near the hearth glanced at Enya, then motioned with her head toward a stack of candles. “If ye’ve a moment, those need sorting.”
Enya inclined her head once and moved to where she was needed. No one tracked her with their eyes anymore. Hands passed her things without hesitation. The work folded around her, and she slipped into its rhythm as though she had never been an outsider to it.
Boots crossed the threshold and a hush settled fully.
Enya didn’t need to turn. The awareness came with a violent, unerring certainty—a magnetic pull in her marrow that she had learned to recognize even when she wished she could rip it out. Her body knew before her mind caught up. The air in the hall suddenly felt charged, thick with the scent of pine and the looming shadow of him.
She straightened slowly, her heart hammer-tapping against her ribs, and faced the doorway.
Harald stood there. His broad shoulders seemed to swallow the light, his presence commanding the room without a single word. His gaze swept the hall, taking in the frantic wedding preparations, the greenery, the women.
Then it found her. Something in Enya’s chest tightened until it hurt.
Why is he here?
The rejection in the training room was still a raw, stinging welt on her pride. He had stepped back from her like she was a flame that might consume him, yet now, he was looking at her with an intensity that made her knees feel like water.
She waited for him to dismiss her with a cold, polite nod and leave. Instead, he stepped inside.
He crossed the hall with unhurried strides, eyes locking into hers. Enya stayed where she was, her fingers frozen around a bundle of candles. Her pulse was a thundering riot. She was certain the whole room could see her trembling.
The space between them closed with terrifying speed. He stopped so close she could feel the heat of his body through her skirts.
“There,” he said. His voice was a low growl that vibrated in her own chest. He tipped his chin past her shoulder toward the wall. “That needs fixing.”
The sound of him so near, so intimate after his earlier coldness, sent a swarm of butterflies erupting in her stomach—a treacherous, beautiful fluttering she hated herself for feeling. She turned, desperate for a safe place to land her eyes. Above the doorway, the greenery had sagged, shedding needles onto the stone.
“I can—” she began, her voice faltering as she realized how close he had moved.
He was directly at her back. She could feel the solid breadth of him, the sheer mass of the man pinning her against the task. Before she could protest or scramble for her lost composure, his hands settled firmly at her waist.
He lifted her.
It was a smooth, powerful motion that made her feel weightless. Her body fitted his palms by some cruel instinct of nature. Her feet left the ground, and a sharp, unguarded sound slipped from her throat—half-gasp, half-sob of surprise.
His grip tightened instantly, his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, anchoring her against him.
“Easy,” he murmured. The word was a velvet caress against the shell of her ear, his breath hot and damp against her skin. “I’ve got ye.”
Her pulse skidded and crashed.
She was suspended against him. She could feel every muscle in his arms, the raw strength he was using to hold her aloft as if she weighed nothing at all. It was overwhelming—to be rejected by him only hours ago and now to be held with such fierce, possessive care.
