Page 115 of The Thornwyck Rose

He flicked his hand and strode to the dais, toward David. “Take the savage to the dungeon. Flog him for his disobedience and remind him where his loyalty lies. If he defies me again, he’ll die a torturous death and join his son and wife.”

A guard tapped Erik’s shoulder with a spear. Another guard stepped up behind him.

The room spun, and Erik knew he couldn’t move without tipping.

Henry seized David by the sleeve and yanked him into the seat beside him. Then Henry struck him hard across the cheek.

“No tears for any woman. Do you understand? They mean nothing—every single one is replaceable.”

David swallowed, nose dripping blood, eyes burning. “Yes, Father,” he gritted.

The look on David’s face was familiar through the haze. It was the one Erik had worn for nearly two decades—rage restrained in a cage of duty.

The spear tapped his arm again, urging him forward, but he didn’t move, afraid of toppling. So he lowered his hand to the woman he loved beside him on the floor.

Seren took his hand as she stood.

His chest thumped with an erratic heartbeat, pumping hard to keep himself upright. He closed his eyes and stumbled, but Seren caught his arm. The warmth of her fingers burned his frigid skin.

Their eyes locked. Her face came into full focus. He could only pray she knew what she was doing. He would have gladly cut down Henry when the surge fueled his body and accepted the execution to follow. If Seren returned from the meeting with her father, she would die, and Erik would have no recourse left to save her.

But peace lived in her gaze. She gave him a tiny nod, or maybe he just imagined it.

Cruel darkness edged his vision. Air twisted his lungs.

He hoped a lie had passed through Seren’s pious lips regarding Ragnar. His eyes misted at the thought; his breath hitched if it was true.

Father Osbert entered the hall with a pointed finger at Henry.

“It is one thing to make me leave, but you dare lock me away?” the priest thundered. “I am the Church!”

The words rang too loudly in Erik’s ears. He still didn’t look away from Seren. He couldn’t. If he did, he would fall. His body swayed, cold swallowing the edges of his vision. Nothing made sense except her—the woman he’d crossed death to reach—and the brightness he’d come to know in her gaze.

“Return to your domain, priest,” Henry snapped. “Take him there.”

Men moved, boots scuffing across the stone, but the sound came warped and distant.

Seren’s fingers tightened around his hand. Her brow creased with knowing, with resolve. He felt the warning in her touch:hold fast.

That was when he realized how violently his body shook.

The spear tapped his arm again.

His knees threatened to buckle, but he locked them, teeth gritted. He would not fall—not here. Not now. Not in front of her.

Seren turned her full attention to Henry, drawing his wrath away from Erik. Her action steadied the hall.

Geoffrey stepped to Erik’s side, lifting a hand to hold the guard back, buying Erik a moment to gather himself. Even so, Erik’s breath came thin. Air scraped his lungs. The walls of the room wavered.

He stayed standing only because Seren had anchored him there.

But cold dragged at him, trying to pull him under its dark spell. His heartbeat thudded unevenly in his ears. His fingers went numb around hers.

The world tilted without Seren in focus.

His vision blurred again—then steadied, just barely—as he forced himself to endure, to hold fast, as she had told him in her gaze.

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