Enya was acutely aware of him—the heat of his body acting as a shield against the biting cold, the scent of pine and old leather that had become far too familiar. She felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, a grounding rhythm that made her own frantic heart slow just to match it.
Enya watched a massive man with stone-gray eyes and tattoos peeking from his sleeves. He looked like he was carved from the very cliffs of his home, terrifying and immovable. But as soon as he saw Harald, the stone cracked. His grim face broke into a jagged, toothy grin.
"Harald!" Erik roared. He didn't wait; he closed the distance in three long strides and slammed his hand against Harald’s shoulder, pulling him into a rough, bruising embrace.
"Ye look like hell, Erik," Harald laughed, the sound deep and genuine, a side of him Enya had barely seen.
"And ye look like ye’ve finally stopped brooding," Erik shot back, his eyes flicking to Enya with a sharp, knowing glint.
Before Enya could catch her breath, another man swung down from a bay horse. He had hazel eyes that danced with a mix of mischief and shadows. He caught a slender, copper-haired woman by the waist as she dismounted, his touch lingering on her pregnant belly with a fierce, quiet protectiveness that made Enya’s throat ache.
"That’s Magnus," Harald whispered. This time, he didn't just lean in; his lips brushed the shell of her ear, a grazing touch that made her toes curl in her boots. "The Serpent o’ Barra. And his wife, Ada. She’s a healer. Dinnae let his tongue fool ye; he’s the sharpest mind in the Isles."
The heat of him was everywhere—at her back, against her ear, in the heavy scent of him that filled her lungs. She felt trapped in the best and worst way, anchored by a man who seemed to find her even in a crowded yard.
"Did I miss the drinking?" Magnus called out, grinning as he joined the huddle. He gripped Harald’s hand and pulled him into a rough, one-armed hug. "I see ye’ve been busy, Harald. The rumors didnae dae her justice."
The yard felt alive, the air electric with the arrival of the others. Two more men followed—Ragnar she supposed, a towering, noble figure who moved with a stag’s grace, and Ivar, lean and dark with black eyes that seemed to read the wind. They didn't approach like allies; they moved toward Harald like brothers, a knot of power and shared history that made the keep feel small.
Enya watched Harald among them. He laughed, a low, rasping sound that vibrated through her where they touched. His two other friends, Ivar and Ragnar, had joined into the merriment as well.
She felt the crushing weight of it. These weren't the monsters her brother had described; they were a pack, bound by a history she couldn't touch. She felt the terrifying pull of wanting to belong to it, but the fear of being cast out was sharper.
Her stomach coiled into a tight, sickening knot as Claricia stepped forward.
Enya’s hands went cold, buried deep in her skirts to hide their trembling. These women—the wives of lairds—were the ones who truly kept the reins of the north. They would see right through her.
They would see the odd girl with the mismatched eyes, the spy with the stolen secrets, the pretender who didn't belong at a hero's side. She braced herself for the squint of judgment, the cold appraisal that had followed her since childhood.
Claricia was carrying a bundle wrapped in thick wool. She looked exhausted, her chestnut hair windswept and tangled, but her smile was like a hearth fire in a storm.
“Laird Alvsson,” Claricia teased, inclining her head toward Harald before turning her gaze fully onto Enya. Her blue-green eyes were bright with a raw, piercing curiosity that made Enya’s breath stall in her lungs. “So, this is the woman who finally caught the Great Hawk o’ Lewis.”
Harald shifted, his hand finding the small of Enya’s back. The heat of his palm burned through her gown, a solid, grounding anchor that refused to let her float away into her own panic.
“This is Enya Cameron,” he said. His voice was thick with a quiet authority that claimed her before the whole yard. “Me betrothed.”
Claricia stepped closer, the smell of woodsmoke and wool clinging to her. She didn't wait for a formal introduction. She just reached out and gripped Enya’s forearm, her skin warm.
"Dinnae let them intimidate ye," Claricia said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "They spend all morning growling at each other just so they have an excuse to drink all night. It’s exhausting."
Enya felt the tension in her neck snap. "They dae seem... loud."
"They're children with bigger swords," Ada said, joining them. She moved with the heavy, careful grace of her pregnancy, resting a hand atop her bump. She looked Enya up and down—like a weary soldier recognizing a new recruit. "Magnus spent the whole ride complaining about a draft, but the moment we hit the yard, he’s all stone and iron. It’s a performance, Enya. Every bit o’ it."
"I have ears, Ada!" Magnus called out without looking back, his arm thrown over Erik’s shoulder.
Ada didn't even blink. "See? Sensitive as a bruised plum."
The easy, biting affection between them was a shock to Enya’s system. She looked at those women—Highlanders who had been traded away just like she was—and they didn't look like victims. They looked like the ones holding the reins.
"Come," Claricia said, shifting the baby as he let out a soft, hungry whimper. "Let's get inside before the wind peels the skin from our faces. I need tae sit down before I drop this little one on his head."
They moved together toward the keep, and Enya went with them without looking back, Amelia trailing a step behind them. Enyafelt lighter with every turn of the stairs, steadied by the quiet certainty that she was not the only woman here who had been traded for peace, and that survival did not have to look like surrender.
In her chamber, the fire had been banked low against the chill, the room warm. Claricia settled onto the bench by the hearth with a careful sigh, shifting the baby higher against her chest as Ada lowered herself into the chair near the table, exhaling slowly through her nose. Amelia hovered near the door, already reaching for the jug as if she needed something to occupy her hands.
Claricia looked up, her blue-green eyes softening as she watched Enya hover near the table. "Truly, though," she said, her voice dropping the playful edge, "how have ye been feelin’, Enya? Nae the 'betrothed' answer. The real one."
