Page 65 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
He ran a hand through his hair, the dark waves falling across his forehead in disarray, and his jaw was clenched so tightly that she could see veins bulging in his neck.
“Nay more,” he said roughly.
He would not look at her when he spoke. His eyes flicked to the fire, to the wall, to anything in the room that was not her face.
“Nay more?” She repeated the words like she did not understand them, because she did not. “What do ye mean, nay more? Rowan, look at me. Please look at me.”
He shook his head. “I cannae. I shouldnae have done any of this. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake.” The words landed like stones in her chest. “Ye kissed me. Ye touched me. Ye made me feel things I have never felt before in me life.”
“I couldnae control meself.” His voice was rough, almost angry, but she did not think the anger was directed at her. “I should have been able to control meself, and I couldnae. Ye daenae understand what ye do to me, Sorcha. Ye daenae understand the danger.”
“What danger?” She stepped towards him, reaching for his arm, but he moved away before she could touch him. “Rowan, what are ye talkin’ about? There is nay danger. We are married. This is what married people do. This is what ye’re supposed to want from me.”
He turned away from her, his broad back presented to her like a wall she could not climb. He braced his hands on the edge of the desk, and she could see his shoulders rising and falling with each breath he took.
Why is he doing this?
“I cannae do this,” he said, his voice steadier now, colder, as though he was forcing the emotion out of it one word at a time. “I thought I could, but I cannae. Ye need to go back to yer chambers, Sorcha.”
She stood there, flushed and breathless, with her skirts still bunched around her thighs and her lips still swollen from his kisses. She wanted him still, wanted him with an ache that seemed to have no end, and he was telling her to leave.
“Rowan.”
“Go.” The word cracked through the room like a whip, and he still would not look at her. “Please, just go.”
I’m tired of trying to understand him. This is so exhausting!
She smoothed her skirts down with trembling hands and straightened her bodice where his hands had loosened the laces.
She walked to the door with her head held high, and though tears stung her eyes, she refused to shed them in front of him. She paused with her hand on the latch, waiting for him to call her back, to say something, to do anything that would show her that he did not want her to go.
He said nothing.
She opened the door and walked out into the corridor without looking back.
Her chamber was dark when she entered, the fire burned down to glowing embers, and the candles guttered low in their holders. Flora had left a fresh candle burning on the table near the window, and by its light, Sorcha could see the trunk where she kept her carving supplies.
I willnae cry.I willnae give him the satisfaction.
She tried to convince herself while her lips trembled. She sat down in the chair by the cold hearth, retrieving the carving knife she had hastily brought up from the study. Reaching into the nearby woodbox, she pulled out a thick, unshaped block of timber.
The wood was different from what she had expected, harder than the pine she usually worked with, and the blade did not glide as smoothly through the grain.
She welcomed the resistance, for she needed something to fight against, needed the strain in her hands to match the strain in her heart.
I cannae believe he called what happened a mistake.
She carved and carved, the shape slowly taking form beneath her fingers. She was not sure what she was making, did not care what it became, only knew that she needed to keep moving, keep cutting, keep doing something that did not involve thinking about him.
But I have never felt anythin’ that good. Why does he have to be the one to make me feel that way?
But the longer she worked, the weaker she felt.
Her arms grew heavy, the knife seeming to weigh more with each passing moment. Her head began to pound, a dull ache behind her eyes that spread to her temples and down her neck. She blinked, trying to focus on the wood in her hands, but the candlelight seemed to blur at the edges of her vision.
Strange.
