Kissing her like she was the first breath he’d taken since Culloden.
Kissing her until she forgot fear, forgot fury, forgot her own damn name.
—And the way she had pulled him into the bed without a second thought.
Fiona shifted.
An arm tightened immediately around her waist.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Harris Mackenzie was wrapped around her like the Highlands themselves—broad, immovable, radiating heat. His leg tangled with hers, his chest molded to her back, his breath warm against the side of her neck. His hand, dear God, was splayed over her stomach like he had meant to anchor her even in sleep.
And worst of all—
He was still asleep.
Fiona swallowed hard. “Saints preserve me,” she whispered.
A low voice rumbled at her ear:
“Already tried,” Harris murmured, rough with sleep. “They were useless.”
She elbowed him, mortified. “You’re awake.”
“Aye.” He didn’t move. Didn’t loosen. “Have been for a wee while.”
“And you didn’t think to let go?”
His arm tightened by a breath. “Didn’t want to wake ye.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed, voice soft but unguarded. “It’s not.”
Heat flared up her neck. Saints, she was in trouble.
“If Flora walks in—”
“We’ll never hear the end of it,” he finished, maddeningly calm. “So best we rise before she does.”
Fiona tried to sit, but then she realized how small the bed truly was.
Their noses nearly brushed when she turned.
Harris huffed a quiet laugh. “We barely fit.”
“Barely?” she scoffed, shoving at his chest. “I’ve been smothered by your—your everything.”
He arched a brow. “High praise, lass.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped, though her pulse betrayed her.
He rolled onto his back, giving her space. But before she could escape, his fingers curled gently around her ankle.
“Fiona.”
She went still.
