Page 36 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

He knew exactly how his son felt. He also didn’t want Freya to leave. But how could he ask her to stay?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Just to check on him, naythin’ else.

Those were the words Freya kept repeating to herself as she moved silently. She couldn’t sleep, not when the laird’s wound lingered in her thoughts. Though he had dismissed her earlier with a gruff assurance that it was nothing, she knew better. Injuries, no matter how minor they seemed, could fester in silence.

When she reached his chamber, the door stood slightly ajar. She hesitated, her hand poised to knock, but then she heard the faint sound of water sloshing within. Curiosity tugged at her, and she peeked inside.

The sight stole her breath.

Goodness me, why is he…

She couldn’t finish that thought as she drank in the sight of him. He stood in front of the mirror, his broad back to her, a damp cloth in his hand as he washed himself. He turned slightly, his profile now visible, the sharp line of his jaw taut as he rubbed the cloth over his chest. The sight of him, half-clothed, so strong and unguarded, sent a wave of heat through her, exploding somewhere between her thighs.

Her breath hitched. She pressed a hand to her lips, willing herself to look away, but it was no use. She swallowed hard, her pulse racing as unfamiliar feelings stirred within her. Want. Desire. They came upon her like a storm, fierce and unrelenting. She had admired him before, of course—his strength, his devotion to his son, his sharp mind. But this was different. This was raw, visceral.

Michael turned then, his gaze catching hers in the reflection of the mirror.

“Freya?” His voice, deep and low, filled the room, a note of surprise in his tone. There was no other way in which she wanted him to address her. Her name on his lips sounded almost like blasphemy, and yet, she wanted to have him repeat it over and over again.

She jumped, her cheeks flaming as she realized she’d been caught. “I—I’m sorry, me laird,” she stammered, clutching the satchel tighter. “I… I came to check on yer wound.”

He turned fully now, the cloth in his hand forgotten as he faced her. His hair, dark and damp from where it had been splashedwith water, clung to the nape of his neck. His shoulders were wide, his muscles rippling beneath the flickering light of the candles that cast golden hues over his skin.

His chest glistened in the candlelight, and the sight of him made her knees feel weak. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.

“Ye shouldnae be wanderin’ the halls so late,” he said, his voice lower now, his eyes searching hers.

Freya swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she clutched the strap of her satchel. “I couldnae sleep,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was worried… about ye. I mean, yer wound.”

Michael’s gaze softened, but there was something else there too—something darker, more intense. He stepped closer, and Freya’s breath caught as the space between them seemed to shrink.

“Ye worry too much, lass,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur.

Freya looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to speak, to tell him she was only doing her duty, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she found herself drawn to him, her eyes lingering on the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips.

“Wounds…” she said softly, “they can turn ugly if nae tended to.”

Michael’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, the tension between them became unbearable. He reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek, and the touch sent a shiver down her spine.

“Freya,” he said, her name a whisper on his lips.

The world seemed to fade around them, the flicker of the candles casting shadows on the walls as they stood there, so close and yet not close enough. Freya’s breath came in shallow gasps, her body alight with a longing she had never known before.

She reached up, her hand trembling as it rested against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers. “Michael…” she whispered, his name escaping her lips like a prayer.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she swore she saw the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, as though he could read her thoughts. Her heart thundered in her chest, her pulse racing so fiercely she thought it might burst.

Michael leaned in slightly, his eyes locked on hers, and the air between them seemed to crackle with an electric energy. Freya’s lips parted, her breath shallow, her body yearning for the closeness, the heat, the touch she craved more than anything in that moment.

But just as the space between them seemed to vanish, a knock at the door shattered the spell.

“Da?” Cody’s voice called out from the hallway, small but insistent.

Freya gasped softly, stepping back as if the sound had pulled her from a dream. Michael closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening, the tension in the room shifting instantly.

“Go back to yer chamber, lad,” Michael called, his voice steady but edged with a hint of frustration. “I’ll be there in a moment.”