Page 32 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

He shook his head, his eyes flicking to her briefly before looking away again. “I’ve had worse.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his stubbornness. “Aye, I’m sure ye have,” she murmured, dipping the cloth into the water again. “Still, it doesnae mean ye should be careless.”

He didn’t respond. As she worked, Freya became acutely aware of how close they were. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and pine clinging to him. It was distracting in a way that made her cheeks flush. There was a heaviness in her stomach, an inexplicable heat pooling between her legs.

Her fingers hesitated for a moment as she pressed a clean cloth to the wound to staunch the bleeding. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she felt him flinch slightly, the muscle in his arm tightening under her touch.

“Almost done,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning within her.

When the wound was cleaned and wrapped, she finally allowed herself to sit back, her hands falling to her lap. Her fingers still tingled from where they had touched him, and her heart raced in a way that had nothing to do with fear or anger.

Freya glanced up at him, half expecting some gruff remark or dismissal, but he simply nodded, his gaze unreadable.

“Thank ye,” he said quietly, his voice rough but sincere. “Although it was unnecessary. It would have stopped bleedin’ on its own.”

Freya nodded quickly, unable to meet his eyes for long. She stood, gathering the bloodied cloths and the basin, her hands trembling again now that the moment had passed.

As she turned to leave, she couldn’t shake the way her heart had betrayed her with every touch. Her body didn’t want to belong to her any longer.

No. It wanted to belong tohim.

Those were the thoughts that were still swarming inside her mind.

“What are ye doin’, Freya?” she whispered aloud, her voice trembling.

The quiet of the space pressed in around her as she closed the door to her chamber. He wasn’t even grateful that she tended to his wound. His gruffthank yeseemed to have been willed out of him as if someone tortured him for it.

She shouldn’t care. Shecouldn’tcare. And yet…

Freya sank onto the edge of her bed, her hands twisting in her lap. Her chest ached, a hollow, raw feeling she couldn’t seem to shake. It wasn’t just the way he had refused to let her in, though that stung, too. It was the way he made her feel, the way his presence filled a room and left her breathless, even when he wasn’t trying.

She pressed her hands to her face, as if she could block out the memory of his voice, his strength, the warmth of his skin under her touch as she tended to his wound. Every time she touched him, it felt like her entire body was on fire.

She wanted to be strong. Shewasstrong. Yet the weight of it all, leaving her home, protecting her sisters, hiding her own fragile hopes, pressed down on her, until it felt like she might break.

“I cannae chase after a man,” she whispered to herself, the words shaky but resolute. “I cannae afford to.”

Her sisters needed her. Marissa and Abigail were still so young, so full of life and dreams. They didn’t have to know the struggles Freya carried, the sacrifices she had made to keep them safe. They didn’t have to feel the gnawing loneliness that sometimes crept in during the quiet moments, when she let herself think about what might have been.

She wanted more. But wanting didn’t change anything.

Right then, a soft knock on the door startled her. She hastily wiped her face with her hands, brushing away the lingering tears.

“Come in,” she called, her voice rough but steady enough.

The door creaked open and Laila stepped in. “Freya?” Laila’s gaze immediately fell on her, and her brows knit together in concern. “Are ye all right? Ye’ve been cryin’.”

Freya’s stomach twisted at the observation. She turned her face away, her hands busying themselves with the folds of her skirt. “It’s naythin’, truly,” she said, forcing a small smile.

Laila stepped closer, her kind eyes searching Freya’s face. “Ye daenae look like it’s naythin’, if ye daenae mind me sayin’. Did somethin’ happen? Can I fetch somethin’ for ye?”

Freya hesitated, the urge to confide in someone flickering briefly before the weight of embarrassment smothered it. She couldn’t tell Laila the truth—not about the laird, not about her heartache. It was too raw, too foolish.

“It’s…” she started, then paused, her hands clenching tightly in her lap. “It’s just… earlier, when it all happened with Cody, I was afraid. For him. For all of us.” She forced the words out, hoping they would suffice. “I think it’s only just hittin’ me now.”

Laila’s expression softened further, and she nodded, as if understanding. “Aye, that was a frightful thin’ to happen,” she said gently. “But ye took good care of the laird.”

Freya felt a pang at the mention of Michael but pushed it aside. “I suppose the worry’s just caught up with me, wonderin’ what could have happened,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to her hands.