“No,” the Prince said. “I’m asking you to live.”
Something inside Fiona twisted.
Something she didn’t dare name.
The Prince looked directly at her. “You walked half the Highlands to reach him. Faced soldiers. Saved his life. If Harris Mackenzie is to survive what comes next…”
Harris’s gaze snapped to the Prince, exposed.
“…he will need you.”
The world narrowed to breath and heartbeat.
Fiona felt Harris’s hand graze her back—light, cautious, but undeniably there.
A choice.
A beginning neither of them had been ready for.
“Aye,” Harris said hoarsely. “We’ll go together.”
Fiona believed him.
The storm rolled in after sunset.
Not a loud storm; no thunder, no roaring wind.
Just a steady curtain of rain whispering against the moss and stone, soft enough that Fiona almost mistook it for breathing.
Flora had offered them the cottage loft.
Together.
“Newlyweds share a bed,” she’d said dryly, handing Harris the ladder. “Try not tae make it obvious you’re lyin’ about that part.”
Fiona had nearly choked.
Harris climbed first, jaw tight, ears pink, every inch of him radiating the kind of tension she could feel from below.
Fiona followed.
The loft was small, low-ceilinged, lit by one lantern hung from a beam. The bed was wider than the one they’d used earlier… but not by much. She could see where Flora kept blankets folded, an old shawl, a book of psalms.
Everything looked lived-in.
Loved.
Safe.
Fiona wasn’t sure she’d ever shared a room that felt safe.
Harris stood near the single narrow window, rainlight tracing the shape of his shoulders. His hair was darker wet, curling a little at the edges of his neck. He looked… younger.
Or perhaps just tired.
He didn’t turn when she approached.
“You’re quiet,” she said softly.
