Page 92 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
He said nothing.
“What happened was simple. Ye gave me a choice, and I made it.”
“Ava.”
“Nay.” Her voice sharpened. “Daenae dothat. Daenae turn me into some helpless girl now because it suits what ye want to say.”
He could not answer. This would have been rough, no matter how he had presented it. Her reaction was expected.
“Ye asked me,” she continued. “I answered. I stayed. I kept staying. Daenae sit under this sky and pretend I stumbled blind into me own marriage.”
His jaw tightened. The comet still burned above them, pale and distant and suddenly hateful for having remained so beautiful while the ground under them split open.
“I amtryingto set something right.”
“Nay. Ye are doing what ye always do—trying to run.”
The words hit close enough to ignite his anger, sharp and immediate. “Ye think I daenae ken what I am doing?”
“Worse, Ciaran. I believe ye ken very well what ye are doing. And frankly, I am growing tired of it. How much grace do ye think I have left in me?”
He rose to his feet almost immediately. Sitting there while she said it had made him feel trapped in a softness he could no longer bear. Ava remained where she was on the coat, looking up at him with fire and hurt in her eyes.
“This cannae continue,” he insisted.
“And why do ye think so?” The question came without hesitation.
He should have spoken with more care. He should have kept hold of the language of duty and fit and practical correction. He should have done anything except tell her the truth in the shape it lived in him.
Instead, he exhaled and forced the words out before they killed him alive. “Because I daenae want ye here anymore.”
Ava flinched as if he had struck her, and the sight of it made the next second worse than the one before. He had meant to drive the conversation to a stop, but as usual, he had landed on where he usually did—cruelty.
Her voice came lower. “Say that again?”
He could not.
“Say it to me face, Ciaran,” she demanded.
Ciaran dragged a hand through his hair and turned away a step before turning back. The night had narrowed, and everything around them seemed to press in out of nowhere.
“Why?” she pressed.
He exhaled heavily.
“What? Ye have nay reason?”
“That isnae?—”
“Am I that undesirable to ye that ye would tell me ye nay longer wanted me while me father was still here?”
Ciaran exhaled again. “Ye have it all wrong.”
“Oh, do I? Ye must forgive me if I cannae think straight while ye throw this news at me.”
“Ye want to ken why I want ye away? Because ye drive me mad. If ye remain in this castle, close to me, under me roof, I am going to lose me mind.”
The words came out raw and suddenly grew too loud for the softness that had seemed to be the major accomplice of the loch a minute ago. He did not care. The truth had ripped out of him, and there was no way he could soften it.
