Page 65 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
“Aye,” she said. “But daenae worry, the piano isnae jealous.”
That drew a rough, low laugh from him, and the sound of it loosened something in her chest. She laughed too, still flushed, still unsteady, her forehead nearly resting against his as the tension from the interruption faded into something warmer.
His thumb brushed lightly over her cheek. “Are ye all right?”
“Aye,” she replied, and this time there was no breathless confusion in her voice. “I am.”
The answer settled in the space between them.
He looked at her for a second longer, then kissed her once, slowly, as though the pause and the shared laughter had somehow made the next touch more intimate instead of less.
For a few seconds after, Ava could do nothing but breathe. His right hand remained on her waist, steady and warm. The other rested against the piano lid beside her. She could hear his breathing too, slower than hers, though only just.
When she opened her eyes, the room looked the same as it had been earlier. She could see the candles, the dark wood, the open window. Yet nothing in her felt the same as it had been when she had first climbed those steps.
Ciaran looked down at her with an expression she had no proper name for. She saw hunger still and something more open than she had ever seen in him before.
He helped her down from the piano with more care than when he had lifted her onto it. By the time her feet touched the floor, her knees felt weak.
She sat against the side of the piano, pulling her cloak closer around herself by instinct. Ciaran sat down beside her, one knee bent, one arm draped loosely over it. He looked as if he did not know what to do with himself.
For a little while, neither of them spoke.
Then Ava looked at his hands and exhaled. “Ye play beautifully.”
His gaze flicked to the keys above them. “I hadnae played in a while.”
“Why nae?”
He paused. “I almost thought I wouldnae be able to anymore.”
She turned that over in silence. He had meant more than the instrument. She could hear that much in his words.
“Ye were marvelous,” she said softly.
His eyes came back to her face, and heat rose into her cheeks again, though she had already given him more than praise. She did not take the words back. They were true.
He started to move, perhaps out of habit, perhaps because remaining here in the silence with her felt harder than touching her had been.
“We should go,” he uttered.
Ava reached for his hand before he could rise fully. The contact stopped him at once. “Stay.”
His gaze dropped to where her fingers held his. “Ava.”
“Only a little longer.”
There was no urgency in her voice now. She did not ask for more. She only wanted his presence. She wanted this—the tower, the floor, the minutes after—before either of them put distance back in place and pretended they could still stand where they had been earlier.
“We can stay for a few more minutes,” she added.
He looked at her, then sat back down without argument.
That small concession touched her more deeply than she had expected.
They sat there together on the floor by the piano while the night air drifted through the tower. Ava let her hand remain in his, and he did not pull away.
Warmth spread through her slowly, mixed with astonishment and the plain knowledge that their marriage had crossed into something neither of them could describe.
