Page 97

“For too long, I have held back,” he said. “Measured what I might lose instead of claiming what stands before me. I have stood apart from my own life, as though it were something to be guarded rather than lived.” His gaze softened, though the strength in it did not waver. “And I will not do so again.”

She felt the truth of it in him, not as a declaration, but as something he had already decided.

“You stand before me now,” he said quietly, “and I know with a certainty I did not allow myself before, that I cannot imagine this house, this life, without you in it.”

Her breath trembled.

“You have already become part of this place.” His hand lifted then, not yet touching her, but close enough that she felt the warmth of it. “I love you.”

The words settled into her more deeply than anything else he had said. For a moment, she could not speak. She could only feel the weight of them, the honesty, the absence of anything held back.

He reached into his coat then and drew out a small object, his hand steady even as something deeper moved beneath the surface of him. When he opened it, the firelight caught on the gold ring, simple in its design, its band worked with a quiet strength, an emerald set at its heart that glowed dark and rich, drawn from the land itself.

“I will not bind you by gratitude,” he said, his voice low but certain. “Nor by what has passed between us. I ask you because I choose you, and because I believe you have already chosen me.”

For a heartbeat, Sorcha could not answer. Her gaze remained on the ring, but she did not truly see it, not at first. What she felt instead rose from somewhere deeper, something that had been gathering in her without name or permission. It moved through her now, quiet and undeniable, threading together every moment she had tried not to dwell on—the first time she had seen him stand when he believed himself broken, the way he had listened when others would have dismissed her, the way he had released her from blame when she could not release herself. The way he had chosen her, not once, but again and again.

The truth settled over her with quiet certainty, less a revelation than an acknowledgement of what she had known for far longer than she had allowed herself to admit. She loved him. Not because he had fought for her. Not because he had offered her a place here. But because he had seen her fully and had never once tried to make her less than she was; because he had changed, and had allowed her to change with him.

She lifted her gaze slowly to his, and when their eyes met, she smiled. “I have loved you from that first moment in the kitchen when I tended your wound,” she said, her voice soft but without hesitation.

He stepped closer then, closing the last of the space between them, and when he spoke her name, it carried everything he had held back until now. “Sorcha, will you remain here, not as guest, not as obligation, but as my wife?”

Her heart swelled at the question, not with uncertainty, but with the fullness of what it meant. This was not survival. Not refuge.

This was choosing. “I will remain,” she said, her voice steady, though it carried the depth of everything she felt. “Because I do not wish to stand anywhere you are not.”

She stepped closer, lifting her hand to his, not just to take what he offered, but to meet him in it. Emotion rose in her throat, but she did not turn from it.

“I love you,” she said. “Aye,” she added, her breath softening into something steadier. “I will marry you.”

With a smile, he slipped the ring onto her finger with a care that felt almost reverent. He closed his hand around hers for a moment, his thumb brushing lightly across her skin, as though confirming what had just been made real—not only the promise between them, but what they had both finally spoken aloud.

When Gavan drew her into his arms, the warmth of the fire behind them and the life of the house around them no longer felt separate from what they had chosen. Instead, it felt bound to it, as though Lemlair itself bore witness to their promise.

She remained there for a breath, held in the steadiness of him, her hand still clasped in his, the ring warm against her skin. When he drew back slightly, she felt a shift in him, a quiet intention settling behind his gaze.

“There is one more thing,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful.

She looked at him with confusion, her heart still full from all that had already passed between them. “You have already given me more than I could have imagined,” she replied gently.

His smile deepened. “Even so,” he said, “there is something that should never have been taken from you.”

He turned then and extended his hand without looking away from her. Colin stepped forward at once, as though he had been waiting for the moment, and placed a small, carefully wrapped bundle into Gavan’s palm. There was a quiet satisfaction in his expression, though he said nothing at first.

Gavan turned back to her and placed the bundle into her hands with deliberate care. “Colin found the merchant who purchased the necklace from the bandits who attacked you,” he said. “The negotiations took time, and a fair measure of persuasion, but the necklace has been returned.”

Colin gave a brief, dry laugh. “The man was more willing once he understood who wished it back. He even gave up the names of the men who sold it to him. They are both now in custody.”

Sorcha barely heard him. Her hands had already begun to tremble as she unwrapped the cloth, her breath catching as the folds loosened. Her mother’s emerald necklace lay within.

For a few seconds, she could only stare at it, unable to fully trust what she was seeing. The silver caught the firelight just as it had before, the familiar shape unmistakable, the stones glimmering softly as though they had never left her.

A quiet, broken breath left her. She lifted the necklace with reverence, her fingers tracing its delicate lines, memory rising sharp and immediate—her mother’s voice, her past, the piece of herself she had believed lost beyond recovery.

“You found it,” she whispered, her voice unsteady.

Gavan’s answer was simple, but it carried weight. “It was always meant to return to you.”