Not because he’d claimed her with that one furious word.
Because walking away now felt impossible.
The path hugged the spine of a ridge, pines hemming them in on either side. Mist clung low over the moss, the weak morning light turning the world to washed-out grey. Fiona rode with her hood up, fingers stiff on the reins, eyes flicking more often to Harris than to the road.
Every time she thought he wasn’t looking, he proved her wrong.
He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease.
But once, just once, when she tucked a stray curl behind her ear, she caught him looking back.
Not curious.
Not irritated.
Something quieter. Something that flickered across his face and vanished like breath on glass when he turned away.
That night at camp, he tossed her a folded blanket without ceremony. Their fingers brushed—brief, accidental.
Heat shot up her arm like she’d touched a coal.
Harris snatched his hand back a shade too quickly and turned his attention to the fire, jaw tight and shoulders rigid, as if he’d vowed never to feel anything human again.
She lay across the flames from him, wrapped in her cloak, listening to the wind and his steady breathing. Once, as she turned onto her side, she felt his gaze on her—one quick, assessing look.
Then he rolled away, back to the dark.
On the fourth morning, the land opened to water.
Mist lifted in torn veils off the surface of Loch Arkaig, long and silver as a drawn blade. Pines marched down to the shore. The air smelled of peat and damp earth.
Fiona reined in beside him. “Why here?”
Harris didn’t answer.
He swung down from Dubh in one fluid motion, tied the reins to a low branch, and strode toward the water’s edge like a man walking into judgment.
“Harris?” Fiona filled in the silence with annoyance before it could become fear. “What are we doin’ here? Why this loch?”
He shrugged out of his coat and boots and stepped straight into the water.
Fiona blinked. “Are you mad?”
He kept going.
Cold claimed his ankles, then his calves. Ripples shivered outward from each step. The loch swallowed sound.
“Harris.”
He ignored her, wading deeper.
She kicked her own boots off and splashed after him. “Have ye lost your wits? I know we’ve not been acquainted long, but I’d hoped ye’d at least die with a plan—”
He vanished.
No cry.
No splash.
