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They reached the door of the solar. Caelan pushed it open, the familiar scent of old leather and burning peat washing over him. The room felt suffocating. He walked directly to the desk, snatching the block of black wax and holding the taper to the hearth flames until it caught fire.

He brought the flame to the wax, watching it begin to melt.

“Place the letter on the wood,” Caelan commanded, keeping his eyes firmly on the dripping wax.

Duncan laid the parchment flat on the desk.

Caelan moved the melting wax over the edge of the paper. A drop hung dark and molten, ready to fall. Once the seal was pressed, the message would ride to Comyn Castle. Fergus Comyn would ride through these very gates, sit at his table, drink his ale, and look at Mabel with the intention of claiming her.

The wax dripped.

Caelan jerked his hand away. The black drop missed the parchment, splashing uselessly onto the bare wood of the desk.

Caelan cursed under his breath, dropping the wax and the taper onto the table. He braced his hands against the edge of the desk, leaning his weight forward, his chest tight.

Duncan watched the display with narrowed eyes. The captain crossed his arms, letting out a long, slow exhale.

“I have watched ye charge into a line of pikemen without blinking,” Duncan noted quietly, his tone carefully measured. “I have seen ye face down three armed men with nothing but a dagger. Ye have fought battles with far more confidence than ye currently show toward a simple piece of parchment.”

Caelan’s head snapped up, a volatile, lethal heat flashing in his eyes. “Watch yer tone.”

“Then seal the letter, Caelan,” Duncan challenged, keeping his voice steady and completely devoid of insubordination yet pressing the issue nonetheless. “Seal it, send for Comyn, and let us be done with this. Ye made the decision in the council meeting. Ye gave the order. So why does yer hand stop short?”

“It slipped,” Caelan snarled, standing at his full, imposing height.

“Men like ye daenae slip,” Duncan grunted, his gaze piercing but focused on the political implication of the unsealed letter. “Ye have barely spoken a word to anyone outside the training yard. Ye left the guest corridor three nights ago looking like a man who had just taken an arrow to the chest, and ye havenae gone back since. If ye intend to host Fergus Comyn, ye need to be of clear mind. Are ye?”

The memory of the kiss surged to the forefront of Caelan’s mind. The heat of her mouth. The soft, desperate grip of her fingers in his hair.

“Me mind is perfectly clear,” Caelan stated, his voice a harsh, impenetrable wall of ice.

“Ye are a terrible liar,” Duncan replied evenly. “And a stubborn fool. If ye daenae intend to send this letter, then ye need to admit exactly why before Comyn takes yer silence as an insult.”

“I am honoring me promise to William,” Caelan ground out, his jaw rigid. “I will vet Comyn. I will see if the man is suitable for the alliance.”

“And if he is?” Duncan asked, tapping a finger against the desk. “Will ye stand in the Great Hall and finalize the terms?”

Caelan’s stomach twisted at the thought. He turned his back on the captain, staring blindly out the narrow window into the gray, misty morning. He could not answer the question. He could not even stomach the image it created.

“Leave the letter on the desk,” Caelan ordered softly, his voice drained of all its usual thunder. “I will seal it before noon.”

Duncan did not argue further. He knew better than to push a cornered wolf. The captain simply nodded once, his expression grim. “Aye, Me Laird. Before noon.”

The door clicked shut, leaving Caelan alone in the deep shadows. He looked back at the unsealedd parchment, the political necessity sitting there like a death sentence.

Mabel paced the length of her chamber, the soft leather of her slippers making a rhythmic, muted sound against the woven rugs.

She walked from the roaring hearth to the arched window, turned on her heel, and walked back again. The dark blue wool of her gown swirled around her ankles with every sharp turn.

Three days.

It had been three entire days since Caelan had kissed her, torn himself away with a look of horror, and fled the room like she was a sudden, deadly plague.

She stopped pacing, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. A hot, stinging flush crept up her neck as she replayed the moment in her mind for the hundredth time. She had challenged him. She had pushed him. Tell me to marry him, she had demanded. And he had answered by crushing his mouth to hers, tasting of desperate, unyielding possession.

And then he had run.

Mabel pressed her fingers against her forehead, closing her eyes. I am such a fool, she thought bitterly. I allowed meself to believe his protectiveness was affection. I thought the fire in his eyes meant he cared.