His voice was a low, honeyed vibration that settled deep into her soul, grounding her. She felt the slight squeeze of his arm, a silent check to see if she was truly there, and for once, Enyadidn’t want to run. She wanted to disappear into the shelter of him and stay there forever.
“I dinnae want tae get up,” Enya whispered, her voice soft and thick with sleep. Instead of pulling away, she shifted, inched backward, and pressed herself even closer into his massive frame. She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling the scent of him—salt, woodsmoke, and the clean, cold air of the islands.
“Enya,” he rasped, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her spine.
“Just a moment more,” she breathed. She turned slightly in the circle of his arm, tucking her face into the hollow of his neck, seeking the shelter she had only ever found here.
She felt the rough scrape of his jaw against her forehead and sighed, her fingers curling into his forearm to hold him in place.
The rumble of a laugh vibrated against her skin before a single sound escaped his throat. A rough jaw tucked into the mess of her hair and she was hauled flush against the solid planes of his chest, anchored there as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
He is tae be me husband today. Truly.
The thought didn't bring the old dread; instead, it sent a flutter of something terrifying and beautiful through her chest.
“I have tae go,” he murmured against her skin, though his arm remained locked around her waist.
“Stay,” she whispered, the word escaping before she could catch it. “The king’s men can wait a bit longer.”
Harald shifted, rising over her on one elbow. He looked down at her with an expression so heavy with devotion it felt like a physical weight. Slowly, he leaned in. He stayed there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of her hair, his eyes closed.
Then, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the center of her forehead. Enya closed her eyes as the warmth of his lips seeped into her skin, anchoring her.
When he finally pulled away, the loss of his heat felt like a sudden, sharp winter. Enya shivered, watching him roll out of bed and dress with effortless grace. He paused at the door, his dark, hawk-like eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs.
“I’ll be at the altar, Enya,” he said. It wasn't a cold command. It was a vow, raw and unbreakable. “And I will nae be moving until ye are standing beside me.”
Enya felt the heat of a blush creep up her neck. “Well,” she managed, her voice regaining its sharp, biting edge to hide the wobble in her heart. “Then I suppose I’d best find a way out o’ these furs. It would be a shame tae keep a man like ye waiting.”
He didn't smile, but his gaze softened for a heartbeat—then, he was gone.
Enya dragged herself out of the bed, her body aching with a bone-deep fatigue that no sleep could wash away. She made her way to her own chambers and Amelia was already there, hovering by the window. Her hands were twisting in her apron. As soon as she saw Enya, her face crumpled with a mixture of relief and reverence.
“Me lady,” Amelia breathed, rushing forward. “I’ve the water ready. The dress... oh, the dress is beautiful.”
Enya looked at the gown draped over the chair. It was a pale, shimmering thing—silk and silver thread that looked like moonlight trapped in fabric. It looked like a dress for a girl who believed in fairy tales, not for a woman whose own brother had held a knife to her throat just a few hours before. Bitterness tasted like cold copper in the back of her throat, but she shoved the feeling into the dark and reached for the silk anyway.
“It’s a lot o’ silk, Amelia,” Enya said, her voice steady but her fingers trembling as she reached for the washbasin. She looked at her reflection in the water, seeing the shadows under her eyes. “I dinnae feel as pretty on the inside as this dress is. I feel... frayed.”
Amelia stopped, her eyes wide and earnest. “Dinnae say that, me lady. Ye’re wrong. Ye should feel as pretty as ye truly are, and today, everyone must ken it.”
A small, surprised laugh bubbled up in Enya’s throat—a dry, shaky sound. She looked at the maid and felt a sudden, rare warmth.
“Come then. Help me get ready before the king’s men decide I’ve bolted.”
The door creaked open, admitting Claricia and Ada. They moved with a lethal, fluid grace that made Enya feel suddenly very small and very human. She found herself silenced, her tongue failing her as she watched the sheer, cold elegance of them claim the room.
"Still in yer shift?" Claricia asked, her eyes sweeping over the room with a sharp, practical glint. "We’ve a wedding tae prepare for."
Immediately, Ada pushed in to help Amelia with the laces, her fingers nimble and quick.
Claricia stepped closer, the heavy silver comb glinting like a weapon in her hand. She didn't wait for an invitation; she reached out and gathered a thick, unruly section of Enya’s hair, her mouth curving into a knowing smirk.
"Sit," Claricia commanded, though the mischief in her eyes softened the edge of the word. As she began to weave the first section, she pulled upward with a ruthless, practiced strength. Enya’s head lurched back, her scalp stinging as the silver comb caught on a stubborn knot near her ear.
"Ouch!" Enya hissed, her hand flying up to steady her head as she winced. "Are ye fixin' me hair or preparin' fer war?"
Claricia let out a short, barked laugh but eased the tension by a fraction, her fingers moving with the rhythmic, hypnotic grace of a weaver at a loom. "I'm makin' sure Harald has nowhere tae look but at the woman he's tae marry."
