Page 151 of The Thornwyck Rose

The banns had been read. The vows spoken. The widow of Mortlande, once bought and broken, had wed her match.

Lady Dowager de Thornwyck—now Lady de Montfort—was a wife by her choosing.

Inside the great hall of Montfort Keep, warm light spilled from chandeliers of twisted iron. Rough-hewn benches were packed with men and ladies laughing, drinking, and toasting their baron and his new bride. Erik’s men filled the outer circle, forced to lodge in tents until the barracks were complete. They didn’t seem to mind.

No word had been sent to Shrewsbury of the wedding, just in case Lord Robert thought to make himself known. But none of the other lords had objected when David officially granted Erik the right to marry his mother.

It was done.

Seren hadn’t dared imagine this day—not after years beneath another man’s command, not after so much silence, distance, and waiting. But here she was as Erik’s wife, just as he had said.

At the dais, Seren sat beside Erik, her veil of gold and cream pinned back behind her braided crown. He hadn’t stopped looking at her since she entered the chapel, even as the food disappeared and the music swelled.

He’d once called her his Valkyrie. And tonight, he looked at her as if the gods themselves had handed her to him in reward for every wound he’d survived. He made her feel like a queen, though she never wanted the crown.

When the toasts ended and the hall emptied, Erik took her hand. He kissed her knuckles first, then her wrist.

She let herself be led to the lord’s chambers on the top floor.

The room smelled of lavender and pine. Candles burned low on every surface, casting long shadows on the stone. The window was open for air. It was a beautiful room—rebuilt, like everything else.

Seren let him kiss her.

His kiss was tender. Lord Henry had never kissed her tenderly. He had taken her body like a transaction—and only five times after Cari’s birth. Seren had learned to fear the touch that should have come with love.

She froze as Erik pulled his tunic over his head. Her breath caught, a phantom echo of dread tightening her ribs.

Erik was not Henry, but her body remembered the coldness, the shame, and the pain.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Her hand rose slowly, smoothing over the inked skin of his chest, her heart beating in panic. Erik and Henry were not the same, she told herself, but still, “I’m your property now,” flew from her lips.

His brow furrowed. “By law, yes.”

Her voice trembled. “If I asked you to wait one more night . . . would you wait?”

He stilled. “Have I done somethingwrong?”

“Would you wait?” she asked again.

He let go of her arms and stepped back, gentle as a man setting down his most prized sword. “I would wait. But . . . may I ask why?”

She hesitated, then stepped forward, pressing her body to his.

“If you want me to wait,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “you can’t do that.” He cupped her head. “Not when I love you like this.”

Her lip quivered. “It’s just been such a good day. I don’t want the night to end in pain.”

His face shifted. Understanding struck hard. “Pain? Do you think I’ll hurt you?”

She dropped her gaze. “It always hurt.”

He drew in a breath and rubbed her arms.

“Seren, Henry did not love you. He did not honor you. He took what was yours and made it his. That’s why it hurt.”

She licked her lip. “I don’t?—”