Page 98 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
And that hurt more than it should have.
The trust.
He’d just claimed her, and she’s still going to leave. She washis.
Mine.
But she’d chosen to leave.
What does this mean now?
…I’ll just stay with her as long as I can…
He didn’t know what she would have said next, and again he didn’t let her say it.
“I’ll escort ye,” he said, his voice low. “If ye wish it.”
Amara blinked. Startled, maybe, but her expression softened into something that might’ve been relief. Or maybe just gratitude. “Aye,” she said. “I’d like that.”
The corridors of the keep were quiet at that hour. Just before supper. Everyone busy with various tasks before the last meal of the day.
Rhys walked beside her, slower than usual.
The silence this time wasn’t taut. It was stretched too thin. Fragile.
He didn’t know what to say. Not really. He’d never been good at begging, and worse still at letting go.
She was going back.
Of course she was.
He’d brought her here in chains. Fed her with suspicion. Looked at her with accusation more often than kindness.
It was only right that she would want to face the man who had cast her aside. To finish what had been left undone. To look him in the eyes and find out for herself what her heart wanted.Is that what she wants? Is that why she wants to go back? Will she come back to me afterwards?
Rhys just hadn’t expected her heart to want something he couldn’t give.
They reached the base of the stairs.
Amara turned toward him, her eyes searching his face.
“We’ll only be gone for a few days,” she said.
Rhys nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
He forced a small smile instead and reached for her hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles reverently, lingering like it might be the last time.
She didn’t pull away, but that didn’t mean it was a promise to stay, either, or come back.
And that was the thing that gutted him.
Because she’d already taken his heart with her. And he’d let her.
He just didn’t know if she’d bring it back.
25
Daisy clung to Amara’s waist like a stubborn burr, her little fingers curled in tight fists, face mashed against the folds of Amara’s skirt.
