He didn't speak. He just tucked his chin against the top of her head, his large hand splaying across her back, holding her together while she fell apart.
“I’m here,” he murmured, the words vibrating through his chest and into her very bones. His voice was a rough, broken rasp against her hair. “I’ve got ye, Enya. I’ve got ye.”
The words were the final blow to her defenses.
A sob tore free of her—an ugly, unrestrained wail of pure agony that shook her entire frame. It was the sound of a decade of loneliness finally shattering.
She clawed at his cloak, her fingers cramping as she tried to pull him even closer, desperate for the solid, grounding heat of him. She needed the proof of his heartbeat against her ear to convince herself she wasn't still being dragged through the dirt.
The pain was a physical weight, a raw, bleeding hole where her trust in Finley had once lived.
He held her without a moment’s hesitation. One of his massive hands cradled the back of her head, shielding her from theprying eyes of the world, while the other remained a jagged, firm anchor at her waist.
She lost all sense of time. The night air bit at her skin, but she only felt the furnace of his embrace. Every time she tried to catch her breath, the memory of that blade—of her brother’s cold, calculating eyes—sent a fresh wave of tremors through her.
Eventually, the violent storm inside her began to ebb, leaving her hollow and exhausted, though the ache in her chest remained sharp enough to make every inhale a struggle.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words coming out hoarse and ruined. She couldn't even look at him, her forehead resting against his collarbone. “I should have... I should have told ye. I should have seen it comin'. I was so blind, Harald. So foolishly blind.”
Harald didn't answer with words. He simply pulled back just enough to force her to look at him.
His hands, calloused and scarred from a lifetime of war, framed her face with a delicacy that felt like a miracle. His thumbs brushed the sensitive skin beneath her eyes, catching the salt-stains and wiping away the evidence of her shame with a tenderness that made her heart throb with a new kind of hurt—the hurt of being loved when she felt she deserved it least.
His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the hair at the nape of her neck with a fierce, possessive intent.
“Nay one touches ye again,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to press against hers, his voice a low vibration that shook her soul.
Enya looked at him then, her vision blurred by fresh, hot tears. She looked at the man who had risked war to save a woman theworld called cursed. The dangerous, aching pull she had been fighting—the one she had tried to bury under duty and secrets—surged to the surface like a tidal wave.
It hurts. It hurts tae let him in.
Harald held her, his breath warm against her skin. “Come,” he said softly. “Let’s get ye inside.”
She let him lead her back toward the keep, her steps unsteady, her heart in tatters. As they crossed the threshold, she glanced back once into the darkness where her brother had vanished.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harald kept her hand crushed in his, his pulse hammering against her knuckles as they crossed the yard.
Every time she stumbled, a fresh wave of agony sliced through him. She was a woman of iron and biting wit, now reduced to a vibrating ghost of terror. He couldn’t scrub the image of the blade at her throat from his mind, a dark prayer repeating in his mind like a frantic rhythm.
"Can ye walk?" he barked, the words catching in his throat. He looked down at her, his jaw clamped, the muscles in his neck standing out like iron cables. "Enya. Look at me. Are yer legs injured? Did the bastard hurt ye?"
Enya didn't look up. Her head hung low, her dark hair a tangled veil over her face. "I... I'm fine," she whispered, though the word was barely a breath. She tripped over a loose stone, her knees buckling.
Harald caught her before she fell, his massive arm hooking around her waist with a grip that was almost too tight. He let out a low, guttural growl
"Answer me properly!" he murmured, his voice trembling with the effort not to shout. He was terrified for her, and that terror was turning into a blinding, white-hot rage. "Can ye make it tae the solar, or am I lifting ye right here in front o' the whole damn keep?"
"I can walk," she rasped, her fingers twitching against the leather of his sleeve. She sounded hollow, the woman who usually had a sharp retort for everything momentarily gone. "Just... the ground willnae stay still, Harald. Everything is moving."
"I’ve got ye. Focus on me, naught else." He tucked her closer to his side, practically hauling her along, his boots slamming against the stone steps. "We’re almost there. Just a few more steps, Enya. Stay wi' me."
"He had a knife," she muttered, her voice distant, her eyes fixed on nothing. "It was so cold, Harald. The edge... it felt like ice."
Harald flinched as if she’d stabbed him. A pained sound escaped his throat. He shoved the heavy oak doors of the solar open so hard they bounced off the stone wall with a crack.
"Nay more," he grounded out through clenched teeth, steering her inside.
