She forced her shaking hands upward, fumbling with the greenery.
She was hyper-aware of him beneath her. She felt the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, and the way his hold adjusted minutely when she shifted, keeping her perfectly centered.
“Almost,” she managed. Her voice was a broken whisper, her breath shallow and betraying her.
“Aye,” he replied, his voice just as quiet, just as wrecked.
Behind them, a maid inhaled sharply. Skirts rustled in alarm. “Me laird, I can fetch a ladder?—”
“It’s fine.” Harald’s answer was immediate, a growl of command that didn't leave room for argument. He didn't look away from Enya. “Almost done.”
She finished the knot with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else and let her hands drop. Suddenly, the reality of the room rushed back—the eyes watching them, the impropriety of it, the fact that he was holding her like she belonged to him.
“There,” she breathed.
For a heartbeat longer than necessary, he didn't move. He held her there, suspended between the earth and his heart. The air between them screamed with unsaid things. Then, with agonizing slowness, he lowered her. His hands lingered at her waist just a second too long, his thumbs brushing the curve of her ribs in a way that made her vision blur.
He finally stepped away. The air rushed back into her lungs, cold and lonely.
“Carry on,” he told the room, his voice regaining its iron edge as he turned toward the servants.
The hall exhaled. Work resumed, but Enya’s hands were useless now. Her heart racing with a confused, aching hope. He hadn't kept his distance. He had crossed the room specifically to touch her, to hold her.
She returned to her candles, telling herself not to look for him. But she did. And every time she glanced up, he was there—lifting heavy crates, adjusting banners, moving through the hall like a storm that refused to break.
He pushed me away. He rejected me,she reminded herself, her chest aching.
But as she watched him move, the butterflies in her stomach refused to die. She was a fool, a girl enchanted by a man who was a riddle she couldn't solve, and God help her, she didn't want him to leave.
By the time the candles were arranged and the hall began to take on the shape of celebration, Enya felt wrung out and strangely light all at once.
Harald crossed the hall once more, passing close enough that his sleeve brushed hers.
“Good work,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
Her chest tightened and she nodded, unable to trust her voice.
As he moved away, she let herself watch him go. Her eyes tracing the line of his shoulders until he disappeared into the crowd of servants.
A new kind of hope stirred in her gut—something sharp, dangerous, and terrifyingly bright. It threaded through the thick layer of doubt she had been carrying like a shroud all afternoon.
Maybe it wasnae me eyes.
The thought was a tiny flame in a cold room. Maybe he hadn't pulled away in the training yard because he found her undesirable or strange. Maybe she had been wrong to assume the worst, to immediately build a wall of shame the moment he stepped back.
It was the way he’d held her with a grip that possessed. It was a reckless thing to believe, a path that could lead to a far more painful rejection than the first. But she couldn't stop the warmth from blooming under her skin.
She tightened her grip on the candle she was holding until the wax bit faintly into her skin, forcing the thought back down before it could take root.
A shadow fell across her hands. “Ye’ll snap that if ye keep squeezing it.”
Amelia’s voice came low, pitched just beneath the noise of the hall.
Enya startled. Amelia held a folded cloth in one hand, her other already reaching for the candle.
“Here,” she murmured, easing it gently from Enya’s fingers. “Let me.”
Enya let her. Amelia set the candle down with the others, then lingered, her body angled just enough to shield Enya from the rest of the room. She simply looked at her, eyes searching.
