Chapter 17

17

I 'm a fool.

That was the only thing Hakon could think beyond the mire of despair that weighed him down in the ensuing days. He hardly saw Aislinn as she and the castle staff prepared and bid farewell to Lord Merrick when he left with Sir Ciaran. Hakon himself was up late into the night to ensure all the parties' horses were properly shoed and every metal piece of all the supplies was shining and strong.

He'd held hope that with her father gone, Aislinn might find time to slip away, but in the glimpses he stole of her, she was always busy, her nose buried in papers or listening to three people at once. He wished he could walk up to her and smooth away the line of consternation between her brows, but without her encouragement, he didn't know where he stood.

Hakon hammered his frustrations into horseshoes and breastplates and anything else that needed a beating. Mercifully, Fearghas seemed to recognize another of his dark moods and left him alone rather than picking at the wound. It was a mercy Hakon didn't appreciate, instead frothing for a fight—anything to distract him from the hours that staggered by without her.

I've ruined it. She thinks I've rejected her and won't return.

The doubts clawed at him, their tenor louder than the hammer even as he struck the molten iron with all his might.

Just when he'd committed to his plans, to her, he went and ruined everything. What could he do? How could he woo her back?

Hakon spent any of his free time trying to shape gifts from iron and wood, working his fingers to beyond pain, but could finish nothing. None of the gifts were good enough nor expressed his devotion. How could he make iron tell her that she was the most perfect creature to walk the earth and he was lucky to even stand in her presence?

Hurling away a useless chunk of wood that'd begun to take the shape of Wülf, Hakon hissed at himself in disgust. The real Wülf trotted over to the discarded wood and began gnawing on it, oblivious or apathetic to Hakon's unhappiness.

Slumping into a seat, Hakon raked his hands through his hair, no doubt spreading soot and grime all over himself. He didn't care. She hadn't come today and it was already early evening; she never came too late, not since the first time.

Another day without her, without knowing.

Fates, how did anyone do this? Being lovesick made it sound almost romantic, poetic. This sinking dread and apathy in all else was nothing of the sort.

He'd no desire to go to the dining hall for dinner—nor even to find some scraps in the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, he could barely sleep. His mind merely kept showing him memories of her, soft and willing on that bale, and how he'd denied her.

Was ever a male so stupid?

He tried reassuring himself that she was busy with her duties. With Lord Merrick gone, full authority over the entire demesne now rested with Aislinn, and it wasn't a responsibility she took lightly. He loved that she was devoted to her land and people—and hated it, too.

She would be a wonderful Liege Darrow, but she could be happier as my mate. I'll make sure of it.

That was, if he ever saw her again.

Fates, what if she didn't remember what they'd done, what he'd said. His sore fingers went cold with horror at the thought. He didn't think she'd been too badly affected by the mead—just on the right side of drunk. But then, she was so much smaller than him. Could it be that she didn't remember his profession and promise of more if she came to him?

Hakon opened and closed his hands nervously, not knowing what to do with the realization.

He had to try again. There was nothing else for it and no turning back now.

Nothing was promised in this world, not a mate, not happiness. Hakon knew this well, knew the dangers of the mate-bond and how it consumed all around it. The bond didn't care what it left in its wake as it sought fulfillment.

He couldn't be a mindless beast, lost to his love and desire for her. He had to be smart.

For once, he wanted the mate-bond to do right by him.

Standing so suddenly he startled Wülf, Hakon hurried to collect his bathing sheet and loose linen braies. First, he needed a bath. He wouldn't woo his lady love dirty from the forge.

Second…well, he hoped he'd have that figured out by the time he returned from the baths. At least, a better plan than scaling the wall outside her balcony.

A islinn lay awake late into the night, restless yet again. She hadn't slept well since the wedding, and her exhaustion was beginning to get the better of her. Emotions tumbled like leaves in a gale through her, one quicker than the last, giving her no time to make sense of any of them other than frustration .

Grumbling, she rearranged her pillows, wishing her mind would just go quiet long enough to fall asleep. Instead, it ran rampant through everything she needed to do the following day and everything she hadn't accomplished today and whether Connor Brádaigh would have any luck locating Jerrod and if she could ever forgive Brenna and and and—

Whether she had the courage to return to the smithy.

She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to.

Falling into her duties and preparing for her father's departure had been an easy distraction. However, now that he was gone with half their company of knights for the south, work was the only distraction.

And it wasn't the kind she enjoyed.

Aislinn struggled with the realization that she didn't want to distract herself. She didn't want duties. She wanted her blacksmith—and to know if he meant everything he'd said to her at the wedding.

Fates, I hope he did.

She'd never hoped for something more.

Aislinn would never go on the adventures Sorcha did with her mate nor get to go to academy like Maeve Brádaigh. She'd never experienced the freedoms even Jerrod did.

She couldn't leave Dundúran, her father, for so long. She couldn't be selfish. At least not in that.

I want to be selfish about him, though.

And yet…

What if it's wonderful but then all goes wrong?

That was a distinct possibility. What future could they really have together, a blacksmith and a noblewoman? Sorcha had the support of her family and neighbors, and even King Marius had granted permission for otherlies to live in the Darrowlands and, feasibly, marry humans. But what would happen if such a marriage came with the promise of an otherly lord consort?

She hardly dared to think it, but could the Darrowlands and Eirea herself accept a half-orc for an heiress's husband? Brenna couldn't be alone in her opinions and prejudices. It was all well and good when the otherlies were in their own camp, making friendly with rural villagers—but what happened when there was a dispute? Sorcha and Orek's wedding was a fine example of harmony, but it was bound to be tested eventually.

Aislinn didn't know any of the answers to these questions—and she hated not knowing.

But did not knowing truly mean it wasn't worth the chance?

No.

That simple answer rang in her mind, clear as a tolling bell.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she sat up in her bed.

Not knowing did her no good, only robbed her of the little sleep she managed. If nothing else, even if heartbreak was what it brought her, at least it came with a clearer mind—it would be worth getting rid of some of these emotions crawling just beneath her skin. Better to find out one way or another now and be done with it.

And…the chance to be with Hakon, for however long, to whatever end, was worth the risk. Come what may.

Heart racing, Aislinn threw back the coverlet and grabbed up her dressing gown. Her hands shook with excitement and terror as she shoved them through the sleeves and tied the waist.

He would be awake still, she was sure of it. What he would say, would think, she was less sure. But she had to find out.

She'd never get to sleep now—she needed to know .

It felt as though she didn't breathe at all as she stole through the castle. With her fingertips on the cool stone of the achingly familiar walls, she made her way down from her chambers, her slippers silent on the flagstones. The castle was quiet in its slumber, only a few of the night's watch on their rounds to break up the darkness.

A handful of torches lit her way, but she hardly needed them. The sky was clear and the moon nearly full, just enough for her.

It wasn't Aislinn's first time creeping through the castle at night. She'd suffered with bouts of insomnia before, as well as with ideas that wouldn't leave her and demanded she return to her study to draft.

However, she'd never stolen from her bed to meet a lover—or potential lover—before. Not even in the height of her ardor with Brenden, when every tender moment they shared was stolen, had she done such a thing. It hadn't even occurred to her.

The illicitness of the act was delicious, and Aislinn's heart beat hard under her breast with the thrill. Just a few more steps, and then she would know .

Her hair and the skirts of her dressing gown flowed behind her in her haste. In just a few moments, she was in the bailey and opening the smithy door. In another breath, she was inside, the soft glow of the forge fires filling the space.

And revealing—

Hakon wasn't there.

Neither was Fearghas, which was a relief, but…

Where is he?

A cold dread sucked at her stomach, and Aislinn pressed her fist against her sternum.

Terror, cold and sharp, lanced her middle and made her lips tremble. What did she do now?

The high whine of a boiling kettle filled her ears, and tears gathered at her lashes. Fates, what did she do now? Even her panic didn't know what to do.

What if— what if he's —

"Aislinn?"