Fiona shoved him then.
Hard.
Her jealousy and fury braided into one unstoppable force.
“You’ll cast me aside,” she hissed, “because it’s easier than wantin’ me. Easier than trustin’ me. Easier than lettin’ me stand where Flora stands and hearing the same truths ye give her.”
Her chest rose and fell in sharp, trembling breaths.
His jaw clenched, but not in anger.
Something rawer.
He stepped toward her.
She stepped right into him.
And then—
She shoved him in the chest once more.
Harris rocked back half a step, eyes flaring with shock, and underneath it? Hunger he’d been fighting for miles.
“You think I don’t see ye?” she spat, stalking him like a challenge made flesh. “Running yourself ragged, actin’ like the whole rebellion rests on your shoulders alone? You think I don’t know the weight ye carry? You think I haven’t watched you—EVERY NIGHT—pretend ye don’t want anyone close enough to share it?”
“Fiona—”
“No. You’ll listen, ye godforsakenMARTYR!”
She shoved him again, harder this time, her whole fire-red fury in her palms.
“I’m not Flora MacDonald,” she snapped. “I see the way you look at her, like she belongs in the pages of some noble tale. But I’m not her. I’m not one of your men. I’m not a ghost from Culloden hauntin’ you. I’mhere. Ichoseto be here. And you’ll damn well treat me like someone who matters.”
His jaw flexed.
But he didn’t back away this time.
Fiona’s voice trembled, not from fear but from the strength of holding herself upright.
“You’re sendin’ me away,” she said, “because you want me close… and it terrifies you.”
His breath hitched.
“That’s it, isn’t it?”
She fisted his shirt, dragging the towering man down to eye level.
“You’re not protectin’ me. You’re protectin’ yourself. From wantin’. From losin’. From feelin’ anything at all.”
His eyes widened, truth laid bare like a wound.
He opened his mouth. Maybe to deny it, maybe to beg, maybe to run—
Fiona didn’t let him.
She grabbed him by the nape of his neck and kissed him first.
A strike of flint against steel.
