She wrapped her arms around him and held on. The fire cast its light across the ceiling, and she felt herself fall apart in a way that was thorough and complete, leaving her boneless, breathless, and still—somehow, entirely herself. Afterwards, they lay tangled in the firelight, and she listened as his heartbeat slowed.
She had shared a bed before in the purely practical sense.
She and Esther still sometimes fell asleep together over books, and years ago, she’d shared a room at the tavern with the other girls when the weather was too cold.
But this was different. This was choosing to be here. This was lying beside a man who had asked her to marry him and meant it, and was already half-asleep, with one arm around her, and a satisfied quality to him that she suspected she would find deeply irritating if it were anyone else.
“Ye’re thinkin’ again,” he said, without opening his eyes.
“I’m allowed to think.”
“Nae when it disturbs me rest.”
“Yer rest.” She tilted her head to look at him. He still had his eyes closed. “Ye’ve been asleep for thirty seconds.”
“Aye. And ye’re loud.”
“I’m quiet. I’m thinkin’ quietly.”
“Ye think loud.” He opened one eye. “What is it?”
She thought about not telling him, but she told him anyway.
“I was thinkin’ that I’ve spent most of me life bein’ afraid of wantin’ things too much. In case they were taken away.” She looked at the ceiling. “And I was thinkin’ that this, all of this, is the most I’ve ever wanted. And it’s still here.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Aye,” he said. “It’s still here.”
“I ken it is.” She paused. “I just needed to say it out loud. To check.”
He moved, rolled over, and propped himself up to look at her properly, the firelight catching the line of his jaw.
“It’ll still be here tomorrow,” he said. “And the day after. And every day after the handfastin’.” He looked at her steadily. “Ye’re done checkin’, Ava. Ye’re here. It’s done.”
She looked at him.
His seriousness showed in the way he said everything the same way—plain, direct, with no softening. That particular quality, which once seemed cold to her, now felt like the most reliable thing she had ever known.
“Aye,” she said. “I ken.”
“Good.” He lay back down. “Go to sleep.”
“I’m nae tired.”
“Ye are.”
“I’m nae.” She stopped. She was, actually. She was very tired, in the comfortable, specific way of someone who has finally stopped holding something and put it down. “I might be a little tired.”
“Aye.” His arm came back around her. “There ye go.”
She closed her eyes.
Outside, the castle settled into its night sounds. The distant creak of the old stone, the wind along the eastern wall, the occasional soft footstep of the watch. Familiar sounds. The sounds of a place that had become, in the way of things she hadn’t planned on, home.
She was asleep before she finished thinking it.
EPILOGUE
