That night,Ava did not sleep.
She just lay flat beneath the blankets with her eyes open, staring into the dark until the chamber felt smaller than its walls.
The day kept returning in pieces. The hall. The line of women. Isobel’s face. Ciaran stepping forward with that infuriating calmness, as if nothing in the world could surprise him, wound him, or even give him the slightest bit of trouble.
She hated that he had been casual about this whole thing. In fact, that was probably the part she hated the most.
Being chosen had been bad enough. Being handled as though the choice required no more than a touch beneath her chin and a few plain words was worse. But being dismissed after it, left to swallow his decision alone while he carried on as though he had settled some minor business, was what had lodged like a thorn under her skin.
He had not looked ruffled. Not even a little bit.
He had not looked like a man who had just laid claim to a woman.
He had looked certain. Like he had chosen a tunic for the day, and no one else could sway his decision.
Ava clenched the blanket in both fists and closed her eyes. It did little to nothing for her. The room remained warm, the mattress soft, and the blankets heavy. The candle had long since gone out, and only a thin strip of moonlight filtered through the windows.
It should have soothed her, but instead it felt neat and settled and hateful. Almost like nature itself was mocking her for being so gullible.
She turned onto her side, then onto the other. Then onto her back again.
Idiot.
She flung one arm over her eyes, then yanked it away when the gesture gave no relief.
Her father was not there. Had he been present, he would have laughed the affair into pieces or fought it into ruin. He would not have stood by while some laird chose his daughter with the same calm practicality he might have used for cattle or land or horseflesh.
But her father was not there, and she had only herself, her temper, and the memory of Ciaran looking at her distress as if it changed nothing at all.
That was what made the stillness unbearable.
At first, she only wanted to get out of bed. Then she wanted to get out of the room. A few breaths later, that was no longer enough.
She sat up so quickly that the blankets slid into her lap.
No, she had no concrete plan. She knew that perfectly well. She had not packed a bag. She had not stolen food. She had not bribed a groom, or hidden coins, or marked a road in her head. She was not running toward freedom in any sensible form.
She only knew she could not stay where she was and wait for morning.
“I cannae do this,” she whispered to herself. To the air. To no one in particular.
The next morning would bring looks from people and questions she was definitely not ready to answer. She would be expected to stand there and endure it. To submit with dignity. To act as though she had a part in choosing what had been chosen for her.
Nay.
“I must get out of here.”
The answer came so hard and clean inside her that she was moving before she had fully registered it.
She pushed off the bed and crossed the room barefoot, snatching up her gown. The cold struck her skin at once and woke every part of her. She dragged on her stockings, shoved her feet into her shoes, and tied the laces with her fast-moving, tireless fingers.
She did not bother with her hair beyond pushing it back from her face. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, and her breath came shallow as she swung on a thick cloak. Still, she went on.
She was doing this.
She was reallydoing this.
When she opened the door, the passageway beyond lay in darkness and silence. It was such an odd view because she had seen what it looked like during the day. It looked like it belonged to the life of the castle. Servants passed with folded linens and trays, doors opened, and voices rose and fell. Now, it felt like another place entirely. It was all cold edges and dim corners. Even the scrape of her shoe sounded too loud.
