Then, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair back from her scraped cheek with two fingers.
“From now on, ye stay close tae me,” he said. “And I dinnae want tae hear any clever arguments about it.”
She looked up at him. Felt the weight of—something that had no name yet and wasn’t going to get one, not here, not with his warriors within earshot and ash still drifting in the air between them.
“Close enough tae bite the next one?” she asked with an impish smile.
“Aye. Close enough fer that,” he said, his voice rough.
He held out his hand. She looked at it, broad, calloused, a scar across the knuckle she didn’t know the story of yet—and placed hers in it.
They walked out of the alley together, his hand warm and steady around hers.
Isolda didn’t let go. The village was partially ruined, a wound that would take weeks to heal.
And Isolda couldn’t help but wonder what Douglas would do when he learned that his plan had failed.
