Page 59 of The Thornwyck Rose

And he had taken that moment—her courage, her tenderness—and marred it with desire.

"Fool," he muttered under his breath.

He closed his eyes.

The image of Ragnar, bound at the post, resurfaced in memory. Erik had stood like a statue as the whip cracked. Every blow on the boy's back had echoed in Erik's own ribs. He had tasted blood from biting his tongue. If he had spoken, intervened, Henry would have turned his wrath on Ragnar, Seren, Aveline, and Vala. Henry did not care for any of them. There had been no choice but to do nothing.

He envisioned how Seren must have cradled Ragnar, as if he were her own.

She had gone to Ragnar after. She had risked her life to see, tend, and care for his son. He owed her every gratitude he could offer, and what had he done?

Kissed her cheek and her neck. Tried to kiss her lips. Taken advantage of a narrow space, needing soft whispers to speak.

He'd thought he'd understood her. Thought her soft glances meant permission. Thought her stillness meant longing.

When she'd pressed her cheek to his, he'd wanted to stay in that space—thought she wanted the same. He hadn't meant to brush her neck, but when he did, he couldn’tnotkiss her.

He hadn't meant to hold her longer than necessary.

She hadn’t pulled away then. Her breath and touch told him a story different from “friend.” Maybe he’d only seen and heard and felt what he wanted.

He had only understood the part of her that Ragnar told him—the part she gave to everyone: her grace, her strength, her listening ear.

Of course, Erik had fallen in love with her.

Anyone would have, except Henry. But she hadn’t given Erik anything more than trust and mercy. And what had he done with it?

Tried to memorize the feel of her cheek beneath his lips. Let his mouth brush the curve of her neck, pretending it was an accident, pretending he could pretend.

The firelight cast shadows over his bed as he turned back toward the room, sat down heavily with his armor creaking, and rubbed a hand down his face.

He could not apologize, for what would he say?

Forgive me for wanting what I cannot have?

She was married, bound in name and law and child.

He rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

And yet—he had seen the way her hand shook when she let go. Felt the way her lips pressed against his cheek. The way her eyes lingered on him before she disappeared behind the nursery door.

Either way she felt about him, she had rejected him. She was right to. She was not married to him. She had not chosen him. And he had no right to ask her to.

But part of him still burned with the shape of her hand on his chest and face. The way she had pressed her forehead to his—her body to his—the softness of her sultry voice.

And even if Henry died tomorrow, she could never be his. Though Erik bore a Norman name—Payen de Montfort—Henry had given him no land, no title.Just a name that mocked the gods of his people. He was no lord. Not a match. Never a match.

When Henry fell, Seren would be bartered again—passed to the next Marcher Lord who sought peace with the northern chiefdoms of the Welsh Marches. Erik wouldn’t be able to stop it. He wouldn’t even be able to follow her.

He had known war his whole life. But she was raising children in a world of blood, teaching them to believe in something better, showing them love in a loveless world and mercy in a merciless court.

And he had nearly ruined that with the want in his heart.

He stood again, breath heavy in his chest. He pulled off his uniform and extinguished the torch. The night would be short, and the ride in the morning, long.

He crashed into the bed and watched the moon’s light dance with the room’s shadows. Thoughts twisted in his mind.

If she never looked at him that way again, he would deserve it.