He did not bother with boots. His mind raced through possibilities: an intruder, a blade, a mistake he would never forgive himself for making.
He reached her door just as the guard posted at the end of the corridor arrived. Duncan told him to go forced the door open with his shoulder as he burst into the room.
“Elaina—”
The lamplight revealed no attacker, no blood and no struggle.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, with her knees drawn close and her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if holding her body together by sheer will. Her hair had come loose, falling in disordered strands around her face. She was trembling in violent, uncontrollable shakes that racked her small frame. Tears streamed down her cheeks, soundless now except for the broken hitch of her breathing.
She looked up at him. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Duncan realized then that she was staring at him with wide, startled eyes, not in fear of him, but of how he looked. He must have been a sight: half-dressed, with his chest heaving, every line of him drawn tight with panic barely restrained.
“Ye’re safe,” he said, though he was no longer certain whether he was reassuring her or himself. “I thought?—”
Another sob broke free from her before he could finish.
He crossed the room in two strides and stopped just short of her, as if some invisible line still held him back. The air was thick with the scent of cold sweat and candle smoke. With the sharp aftermath of terror.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head, unable to answer, fingers twisting into the fabric of her nightgown as though anchoring herself to the present. Her breath came too fast and too shallow. Even her gaze was unfocused, seeing something he could not.
Understanding hit him then, heavy and immediate.
A nightmare.
He swallowed, remembering his own sister’s nightmares, through which he had guided her years ago. This was that same terror.
“Elaina,” he said again, more softly now. “Look at me.”
Slowly, as if dragged back from somewhere far away, her eyes found his.
“I’m here,” he told her. “Naething will touch ye.”
The words were a promise he did not make lightly. He did not reach for her yet. He remembered too well how fragile people became in moments like that, how easily touch could become another threat. Instead, he stayed where he was, grounded and solid, letting her see that the danger was gone.
Still, she did not calm.
Her breath remained jagged, catching painfully in her chest. Her hands were clenched so tightly in the fabric of her nightgown that her knuckles had gone white. Duncan watched, helpless for a heartbeat longer than he liked, until his eyes finally took in what panic had obscured.
She was wearing nothing but a thin nightgown, pale against her skin. The fabric was slipping slightly at one shoulder. Her hair lay loose down her back, dark blonde and unbound, framing her face in soft disarray. In the low lamplight she looked unreal, like something half-dreamed, all sharp vulnerability and fragile grace.
A fairy.Lovely. Ethereal. Breakable.
He forced his attention away from the thought at once.
“Elaina,” he said quietly. “May I sit beside ye?”
She hesitated, eyes flicking to him as though measuring the question, then nodded once. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd her, angling his body so she could see him clearly. He could feel the heat of her now, the tremor running through her as if she were cold to the bone.
“Here,” he said softly, lifting her hand with deliberate slowness so she could stop him if she wished. When she did not, he placed it flat against his chest, over his heart. “Dae ye feel that?”
Her fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his shirt.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured. “Slowly… like this.”
He exaggerated his breathing, deep and steady, letting his chest rise and fall beneath her palm.
