The memory of what had landed him in hospital rose unbidden—finding him in Brodick Castle’s north wing corridor, the sound of impact echoing through the stone walls, his hair matted with blood where they’d struck him down. His body had been limp when I lifted him, a deadweight in my arms that terrified me because I didn’t know yet if he was breathing. Ophelia had dropped beside us, and she searched for his pulse. I recalled how calm she’d remained in the face of chaos. “He’s alive. Weak pulse. We need help now.”
We carried him out, working in perfect sync without having to speak. Her hands checked his vitals while mine bore his weight. I’d feared we were too late, then felt relief when he came to.
That was two weeks ago. Oliver had been in hospital in Glasgow ever since, and I’d driven there twice during the worst of it—once during the meningitis scare, oncewhen an infection flared. I sat with Ophelia for hours while Oliver’s body fought to recover. With every passing day, their connection deepened. Each time, I left without warning, furious at myself for wanting to be part of what was forming between them.
After the briefing earlier today—beforeI’d driven here from Glenshadow—ended with the usual wrap-up, Prima lingered. The same exhaustion on her face that I’d seen during my visits to the hospital was evident now as she briefed me on what came next for Oliver.
The infection had cleared, which meant he could be released tomorrow. However, the concussion meant he required twenty-four-hour monitoring for two weeks.
Fourteen days. The number lodged in my mind. That meant two weeks before he could return to Glasgow for medical clearance, until they returned to London and their jobs with MI6. The time I had to claim what I wanted was finite, and if I didn’t, I’d be forced to let it go. Let them go.
When I asked about his family, she told me they lived in Australia, too far away to help.
The obvious solution was her. She’d been at his bedside for two weeks already and could provide the monitoringhe required. But they were both based in London, eight hours away. He couldn’t fly with the head injury, and that distance by car was too much in his condition.
She hadn’t asked for solutions. She’d simply laid out the facts.
The answer came to me before she stopped talking. Greymarch sat four hours from Glasgow with staff, space, and a guest wing that no one ever used.
Rather than offer it as an option, I kept my mouth shut. She eventually nodded and left, and I spent the rest of the afternoon telling myself silence was the right call. Bringing them here meant having them under my roof, sleeping close enough to touch while I fought every instinct screaming at me to claim them both.
Mine.The word surfaced unbidden, fierce, and nonnegotiable. I shut down the thought before it could take root. They weren’t mine. They might never be. And wanting them this badly was a weakness I couldn’t afford.
As I held the glass, the whiskey warming my palm, I knew I was going to do it anyway.
I took another sip, letting the burn of alcohol slide down my throat, but my mind wouldn’t quiet. Finally, exhaustion won. I retreated to my bedroom in the castle’swest tower, stripped down, and fell into bed, hoping for oblivion.
Sleep offered no escape.
The dreams came in fragments—Ophelia’s hair spilling across my sheets. Oliver beside her, his eyes glazed with need. Their responses tangled together, “Yes, sir,” and “Please,” and my name on their lips.
Twice, I woke hard and aching. The third time, dawn was creeping across the horizon and I gave up on rest altogether. Every time I closed my eyes, they were there. Every silence was filled with the echo of their voices. Isolation only sharpened the wanting.
Resistance was pointless. I threw off the covers, got out of bed, and prepared to leave for the hospital.
In the great hall,Millie was arranging white roses and heather in the ancient stone vases. Their scent filled the space with a fragrance almost painfully beautiful. She raised her head when I passed through.
“Going somewhere, my lord?”
“Glasgow. I’ll return late afternoon or early evening.”
“Is something troubling you, Kiernan?”
I stopped and turned. Millicent Ogilvie had been Greymarch’s housekeeper since my father’s time. She’dbeen with me through every phase of my life, through growth and grief. She’d also witnessed my life implode several years ago. Not that she’d asked a single question then. She’d respected my privacy while I tried to keep my life compartmentalized, never passing judgment as far as I could tell. For her to ask if I was troubled, it was so far out of character that it jarred me.
“I’m fine,” I snapped.
The tightening of her weathered hands on the rose stems said she knew I was lying, but she’d never press.
The driveto Glasgow took four hours. I pushed the speed limit where I could as the Highlands gave way to farmland, then to the gray sprawl of the city. Every mile brought me closer to them, and yet, I had no plan beyond needing to be there when Oliver was released.
The hospital smelled the same as on my last two visits—antiseptic and bleach. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I walked the now-memorized route to room 347, my heart rate climbing with every step.
I heard Ophelia speaking before I reached the door.
“The doctor said another hour at most. Then we’ll sort out where you’re staying.”
I stopped with my hand raised to knock. Through the half-open door, a sliver of the room was visible—the edge of the hospital bed, the medical equipment with its steady beeping, and her shadow passing across the wall, graceful even in silhouette.
