Page 83 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Aye." He held it up. "Though I'm still nae convinced ye should be readin' when ye've got a head wound."

"Ye read it tae me."

Lachlann stopped mid-step. "What?"

"Ye read." Alba patted the bed beside her. "I'll listen. That way me eyes can rest and me mind stays occupied."

"I'm nae sure that's a very good idea."

"Please, Lachlann." She looked up at him with those dark eyes, and he felt his resistance crumbling. "I dinnae want tae be alone right now. And yer voice... it helps."

How was he supposed to refuse that?

"All right," he said, settling carefully onto the bed beside her. "But if yer head starts hurtin' worse, ye tell me immediately."

"I will."

Lachlann opened the book, finding where a ribbon marked her place about halfway through. The text was poetry, old Highland verses about love and loss and the wild beauty of the isles.

He began to read.

His voice felt rough at first, uncertain, but it smoothed out as he found the rhythm of the words. Alba shifted closer, her head resting on his shoulder, and Lachlann adjusted his position to make her more comfortable.

The candlelight flickered across the pages, casting moving shadows that danced with each word he spoke.

Outside, the castle had settled into evening quiet—only the occasional footstep in the corridor, the distant bark of a dog, the ever-present whisper of wind against stone.

"'And when the sun sets o'er the loch,'" Lachlann read, "'and darkness claims the Highland sky, I'll think of ye, me bonnie lass, until the day I die.'"

Alba made a soft sound—not quite a sigh, not quite a hum. Her breathing had grown slower, deeper, her body relaxing against his.

Lachlann glanced down and saw her eyelids drooping, fighting to stay open.

"Sleep," he murmured, pausing in his reading. "I'll keep goin'. Ye dinnae have tae stay awake."

"But I want tae."

"I’ll be here." He pressed a kiss to her temple, careful of the bruise. "Rest, lass."

"Only if ye keep readin'."

"I will."

Her eyes closed fully then, though she remained pressed against his side. Lachlann continued reading, his voice low and steady, feeling the gradual softening of her body as sleep pulled her under.

"'The heather blooms on distant hills,'" he read quietly, "'the seabirds cry their mournful song. But here beside the peat fire's warmth, is where me heart belongs.'"

Alba's breathing had evened out completely now, slow and deep. Lachlann glanced down and confirmed what he'd suspected. She was asleep, her face peaceful despite the dark bruise marring her temple.

He should stop reading. Should carefully extract himself and let her rest properly.

Instead, he shifted to make them both more comfortable, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders with his free hand while keeping the book open with the other.

And he kept reading.

Not because she could hear him anymore. But because the words gave him something to focus on besides the fear that still coiled in his chest. Besides the memory of her limp body in that bastard's arms.

Besides the terrible question of what might have happened if he'd been too late.