Page 69 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

She offered him a leather strap.

Lachlann waved it away. "I dinnae need⁠—"

"Take it," Alba said quietly. "Please."

Something in her voice made him pause. Then he nodded, accepting the strap and placing it between his teeth.

Alba watched as Morag cleaned the wound with practiced efficiency, noting every flinch, every sharp intake of breath, every time Lachlann's fingers crushed hers with barely restrained pain.

"Almost done," Morag murmured, threading a needle. "Just the stitches now."

The first pierce of needle through skin made Lachlann go rigid. The leather strap muffled his groan, but Alba heard it anyway.

She leaned closer, her free hand coming up to brush sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. "Look at me," she whispered. "Nae at what she's daein'. Just look at me."

His eyes found hers, pain-dark but focused.

"That's it," Alba continued softly. "I had a feelin' somethin' was wrong all day, ye ken. Couldnae sit still. Couldnae focus. I broke one of yer mother's mugs."

Lachlann's eyebrows rose in question.

"Aye, I ken. Clumsy of me." She kept her voice light, conversational, anything to distract him from Morag's needle. "Cut me hand on the pieces. See?"

She held up her bandaged palm.

Lachlann's eyes narrowed. He reached up with his free hand, pulling the leather strap from his mouth. "Ye're hurt?"

"It's just a scratch."

Lachlann's expression darkened. "That needs cleanin' properly."

"It was cleaned. Cook took care of it."

"Did she stitch it?"

"It daesnae need stitches, Lachlann."

"Morag."

The healer studied the cut with a critical eye. "He's right. It could use a stitch or two, just to keep the edges clean. Otherwise ye risk infection."

"But—"

"Dinnae argue," Lachlann said, settling back against the pillows. "If I have to suffer yer fussin', ye have tae suffer mine."

"That's completely different. Ye were shot with an arrow."

"And ye were hurt while I wasnae there tae protect ye." His hand found hers again, holding tight. "So humor me, lass. Please."

Alba wanted to argue. Wanted to point out the absurdity of comparing a minor cut to an arrow wound.

But the look in his eyes stopped her.

"Fine," she said instead. "But I'm stayin' beside ye."

"Wouldnae have it any other way."

Morag finished Lachlann's stitches first, twelve neat sutures that pulled the wound closed. Then she turned to Alba, gesturing for her to sit on the stool beside the bed.