Page 165 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
It was quite ironic because Rory Fraser was not the kind of man to fill a room with tension. If anything, he came in with more care than usual, his expression sober from the day’s events, his eyes moving first to Ava with concern before turning to Ciaran.
Yet his presence pulled the chamber back into the shape of family and duty so completely that for one brief, strange moment, Ava felt younger than she had been an hour ago.
She suddenly felt more like a daughter than a wife. More like the girl who turned to her father when the world frightened her than the woman who had just stood in her husband’s arms and kissed him back fiercely.
“How are ye faring?” Rory asked.
Ava found her voice only because his was so steady. “Better.”
It was not a lie, though it felt incomplete in ways she could not possibly explain while standing there with Ciaran’s taste still on her lips.
Rory nodded once, as if accepting both the answer and its limits. He then looked at the fresh gown she wore, the absence of blood on it, and some tension in his face eased. “I am glad of that.”
His gaze shifted to Ciaran’s shoulder next, where the wound showed plainly enough.
Ava saw the exact moment her father registered both the wound and the fact that Ciaran remained upright despite it, as if stubbornness alone could turn blood loss into inconvenience.
“I came to see how ye were faring, and I can see I had nothing to worry about in the first place,” Rory said.
Ava nodded in response. Ciaran remained just as quiet.
“I also thought now would be a good time to inform ye that I will return home.”
Ava blinked. “Really?”
Rory nodded. “Aye. I would like to make sure that all is well and speak with allies if there is a need. After today, I would rathernae assume one dead bastard solves every problem he created. If more men are wanted here, I can send them.”
The words settled heavily in the room, practical and sensible, yet Ava felt the love beneath them all the same.
Her father was not simply thinking of walls and retainers and neighboring clans to be summoned into support. He was thinking of how he had nearly lost her. He was building order against that fear before it could return and catch him when he wasn’t ready.
For one heartbeat, the offer comforted her so sharply that it hurt.
Ciaran answered on her behalf and without delay.
“It willnae be necessary.” His voice was even but thick. “Jack was the only enemy left alive. What remains of his men will be dealt with before the night is over, and there is nay one else with the will or strength to mount another attack now.”
Ava knew the words were true. She believedhebelieved them. Still, the firmness of his answer made the air tighten. There was pride in his words, and ownership.
This was his stronghold, his responsibility, his wound to answer, and he would not have it seem to another laird, even one as well-meaning as her father, that he needed support inside his own walls.
Ava couldn’t tell if he was being too cocky or if he just believed he was strong enough to take on anyone else.
But then, they daenae call him the Silent Death for nothing.
Rory studied him. The silence lasted only a moment, yet it stretched with the weight of several things at once.
Ava wondered what her father was thinking at that moment and felt herself caught between the two of them in a new way.
Her father was the man who had held every part of her old life together, who had offered home and safety and choice even when it would have cost him to do so.
Ciaran was the man who had taken a blade for her, carried her away from bloodshed and chaos, and kissed her with enough force to leave her shaken where she stood now.
Neither role canceled the other, and neither lessened the pull of the other. The overlap made the chamber feel too small for simple breathing.
At last, Rory gave a short nod. “As ye say.”
Nothing in his tone openly challenged the answer, yet nothing in it surrendered judgment either. He accepted Ciaran’s position as a laird might accept another laird’s word while reserving the right to continue thinking whatever he pleased.
