The words struck too close, and Enya’s composure cracked at last. Her hands clenched in her skirts as she swallowed against the lump of grief and longing in her throat. The answer had lived in her body for long—a secret pulse she had tried to ignore until it became her entire heartbeat.
“O’ ye,” she admitted, her voice a fragile thread. “O’ wantin’ somethin’ I’ll never be allowed tae keep.”
Harald reached for her then. He moved with a deliberate, agonizing slowness, giving her every heartbeat of time to step away, to bolt, to stay in the dark. But she remained rooted as he cupped her face with one broad, calloused hand. His thumb was a brand of heat against her cheek, steadying her world.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did, helplessly, her vision blurred by the shimmer of unshed tears.
His gaze searched her with the steady, reverent intent of a man committing a holy thing to memory. He looked at the blue, and then the brown. When he spoke, his voice was a low, vibrating certainty that settled deep in her marrow.
“Yer eyes are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Enya’s breath caught hard enough to hurt.
“They’re the first thing I noticed,” he went on, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. “And the last thing I see when I close me own eyes at night.”
Something inside her gave way entirely—a heavy, rusted armor she had worn since the day she was born.
His mouth softened, his eyes darkening into a storm of gold and shadow. He leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers, trapping her in the heat of his gaze.
Enya’s pulse leapt so violently she felt light-headed, the world outside the room dissolving into static. His thumb moved with agonizing slowness, tracing the trembling line of her lower lip. It was a plea for permission that made her breath hitch in her throat.
Then, he leaned down.
The movement was sudden enough to steal the very air from her lungs.
The first brush of his lips against hers was so impossibly light it barely seemed real—a ghost of a touch, a breath more thana kiss. He was testing her, giving her one last heartbeat to pull away, to stay safe in her solitude.
Enya’s breath broke apart in her chest.
The shock of his mouth on hers sent a rush of heat through her so sharp it left her knees weak. For an instant, thought was impossible. There was only the scent of him, the surprising softness of his lips, and the way he held himself back even as every nerve in her body strained forward to meet him.
She answered him without permission from her mind.
Her lips moved against his, tentative for a heartbeat, then surer, driven by a desperate, starving need that had already chosen for her.
Her fingers rose, clutching at his forearm, gripping the hard muscle through the wool of his tunic as if he were the only solid thing in a world turned to water. The contact sent a fresh jolt through her, low and dizzying, making her head swim.
Harald’s breath hitched audibly, a low growl of surrender. The kiss was no longer tentative.
The pressure deepened, turning unmistakably hungry, his control finally snapping to reveal the raw, crashing want he had been guarding. His hand tightened at her jaw, his fingers threading into her hair, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.
The sensation tore a sound from her chest—soft, broken, and utterly vulnerable. It frightened her, how much she was giving him, but the fear only made her want him more, made her want to sink deeper into the safety of his arms.
Enya felt the sound vibrate against her lips. Then Harald broke away abruptly, as if he’d been burned.
His forehead remained pressed against hers, his breath coming in uneven, ragged gasps. The hand at her jaw was still warm, his fingers trembling slightly.
For a long moment, he said nothing, as though the weight of the moment had rendered speech impossible. They stayed like that, suspended in the charged silence, close enough that she could feel the frantic thud of his pulse against her own. There was no pretending now. No hiding behind politics or duty.
“There’s nay retreat from this,” he murmured, his voice a rough, shattered rasp.
Enya swallowed, her throat raw with the effort not to cry. “I ken.”
His thumb brushed her jaw again, a lingering, reverent touch, as if he couldn't stop himself from reaching for her even now.
Enya’s chest ached with the sheer weight of it—the terrible, beautiful hope she had spent her whole life trying to kill.
