Page 74

His wife.

Evander did not think he would ever grow sick of saying that. The more he said it, the more possessive he became.

Freya was his wife, no matter how many times she wanted to deny it. It was never supposed to happen. He was never supposed to want to keep her as a wife and keep her close, but there was no going back now.

Three weeks. That was the bargain they had struck.

If he didn’t manage to convince her in less than three weeks, then she was going to leave. He had been fine agreeing to that at the time, but now he was starting to change his mind, something that wasn’t supposed to happen.

What if he didn’t want to set her free? What if he wanted her here, in his castle, at his table, in his bed? What if he wanted her stubbornness and her laughter and the way she said his name?

Did it make him selfish?

Perhaps, but if it did, then so be it. That was a risk he was willing to take.

Still, wanting to keep her was one thing. Keeping her was another.

Freya was not a woman who could be held against her will. He had seen enough of her temper to know that, from that first morning when he’d gotten a lantern thrown at his head.

That was enough of a sign that she was not a woman who could be caged. She would fight him every step of the way, and she would be right to.

But Evander didn’t want her to stay because she had no other choice. He wanted her to stay because she had chosen to. It needed to be her decision in the end and no one else’s.

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He had never needed anyone’s approval. Not his father’s, not the clan’s, not the King’s. He had made his own way and answered to no one.

But Freya’s choice mattered. It mattered more than it had any right to.

“What happened when ye were sixteen?”

For a long moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she drew a breath and began to tell him. He listened without interrupting once. He tried not to show his anger, tried not to show how annoyed he was at the fact that someone had dared to touch her in such a way.

Evander hadn’t known her then, but he still wished he could have helped in some way. Though he had a feeling the story wasn’t going to end with her needing help. It was going to end with her finding a way to take care of it. It was how he imagined the wild woman within her would react.

“And what did ye do?” he asked carefully.

“I punched him and ran, of course. But I stopped trusting all men that night. It may sound silly⁠—”

“It isnae,” he interrupted her. “I wish I could kill him for ye.”

“Ye’re joking.”

“Do ye remember his name?”

If, by some chance, he ever found out the bastard’s name… well, the man would live, but he would be sorry for ever trying to dishonor his wife.

Freya sighed, as if she had expected him to ask that question. “Ye’re impossible.”

“Maybe, but I’m also right.”

“I daenae want him dead. I daenae want this to affect me life anymore. I do wish I had punched him more, but…”

He chuckled.

“All right. I willnae do anything ye daaenae want me to. Now get some rest, wife.”

She pouted.

He groaned and turned his face into the pillow. He told her, his voice muffled and strained, that he was doing everything in his power not to claim her right then and there, and that she was not helping at all.