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Caelan’s entire body went rigid.

He stared at her parted, trembling lips. He felt the soft heat of her breath against his jaw.

Tell her to marry him.

The words echoed in his mind, shattering the last remaining shred of his iron control. The tactical discipline, the heavy guilt, the agonizing need to protect her from himself all violently collapsed into a pile of useless ash.

He couldn’t do it.

With a low, feral growl that tore its way out of the deepest part of his chest, Caelan dropped her wrist.

Before she could step back, he grabbed the back of her head, his thick fingers tangling desperately in her golden-blonde hair. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, hauling her flush against his body, lifting her slightly onto her toes.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was desperate, violent, and consuming.

Mabel let out a sharp gasp against his mouth, but she did not push him away. She leaned into him, her small hands sliding rapidly up his leather coat to grip his broad shoulders. She opened her mouth to him instantly.

Caelan took over. He tasted the sweet cider she had been drinking mixed with the raw, intoxicating heat of her submission. He deepened the kiss aggressively, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, demanding everything she had. He angled his head, slanting his mouth harder over hers, desperate to consume the very breath from her lungs.

He dragged his hand from her waist, sliding it forcefully up the curve of her spine to cup the back of her neck. He held her firmly in place, overwhelmed by the sheer, perfect way her soft body fit against the harsh, brutal lines of his own.

She tasted like light. She tasted like salvation.

Mabel’s fingers slid into his dark hair, gripping the strands tightly. She made a soft, breathless sound in the back of her throat, a tiny, surrendered whimper that destroyed him.

The sound hit Caelan’s ears, slicing through the blind, roaring heat in his brain.

He realized exactly what he was doing.

He was the Black Laird. He was a warlord covered in blood. And he was currently crushing the innocent, grieving heiress of Clan MacAllister against his chest, devouring her.

Pure, unadulterated horror flashed violently through his mind.

Caelan tore his mouth away from hers.

He stepped back so quickly, he nearly stumbled, dropping his hands from her body as if the dark blue wool of her gown had suddenly caught fire.

He stared at her, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

Mabel stood exactly where he had left her. Her eyes were wide, incredibly dark, and heavily dilated. Her golden hair was wild and tangled from his grip. Her lips were swollen, flushed a deep red, and slightly parted as she struggled to catch her breath. She looked ravished and beautiful.

Caelan backed away, the crushing weight of his failure slamming into him. He had lost control. He had let the monster out.

He could not look at her. If he looked at her for one second longer, he would cross the room and do it again, and he would never, ever stop.

Without saying a single word, Caelan turned on his heel.

He strode out of the guest chamber, fleeing the room. He grabbed the heavy iron latch and pulled the oak door shut behind him with force.

The door slammed with a deafening, finality.

He stood in the corridor, ignoring the confused stares of the guards. He pressed his back flat against the freezing stone wall, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart hammered a violent, frantic rhythm against his ribs, his blood roaring in his ears.

He had kissed her.

He tasted her on his lips, the sweet, intoxicating memory already burning itself permanently into his brain. He dragged a trembling hand over his face, his fingers pressing brutally against his closed eyes.