Page 35 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Tonight.
Sorcha sat on the edge of her bed that night, her fingers curled into the soft linen of her shift as she stared at the door.
I am going to go crazy waitin’.
Flora had refreshed the lavender and rubbed floral oils in her skin and hair. Everything was prepared. And still, he had not come.
Her body felt tight as she forced herself to stay still. But it had been hours, and the night grew late with no sign of him. Anxiety started to fester in her gut.
Stop. He said he would come.
The memory made her heart flutter.
I cannae just sit here. I’m goin’ to go mad!
She got up from the bed, her eyes drifting to the trunk. She crossed the room without thinking and dropped to her knees beside it. Digging through her dresses, she found what she was looking for—a small leather bundle. Relief washed over her the moment she felt the familiar shape beneath the fabric.
There ye are.
She unwrapped it slowly, revealing the small set of carving tools she had had for years, their wooden handles worn smooth from use. A small block of wood rested beside them, already marked with something she had planned on shaping before.
Lifting a small bladed tool, she touched it to the wood with a quiet scrape. With each ribbon of wood she peeled off the block, the tension in her body eased.
A curve began to take shape beneath her fingers, slow and careful. She turned the block with one hand, using her other hand to push away thin curls of wood that gathered in her lap.
Elspeth’s voice echoed faintly in her mind.
“He has a ma, a da, and lots of braithers and sisters.”
A small smile formed on Sorcha’s lips. Elspeth spoke of the turtles as though they were a great clan of their own.
Scorcha’s hands softened in their work, the shape slowly becoming clearer now. A small, rounded shell. A head just beginning to emerge.
A turtle.
For Elspeth.
I want to give her somethin’ of her own. Somethin’ that stays. Maybe a wooden Mr. Turtle that she can always carry with her.
Elspeth had looked so pleased this morning at the pond, so alive in a way Sorcha had not expected. She had not realized how much she needed that, not until it was gone again.
The blade slipped slightly.
Sorcha inhaled sharply, catching herself before it cut too deep. She adjusted her grip, steadying her hand.
Focus.
But she could not. Rowan’s voice echoed in her head.
“I’ll come to ye tonight.”
Her hand went still. She did not understand what made him so earnest all of a sudden. His restraint had been clear the night before.
What changed?
Her fingers tightened around the small carving.
I willnae fail this time. Nae again.
