7 years ago
The Carvenmoor tavern is loud tonight. Bodies press against bodies, voices competing over laughter and arguments and mugs crashing to the floor.
I navigate by instinct, eyes down, because looking up invites attention I can't afford. The tray in my hands is heavy—six mugs of ale, all sloshing dangerously. I weave between tables toward a man sitting alone in the corner.
My grip slips. The tray tilts. Ale pours across his sleeve.
Time stops. My throat closes. I set the tray down too hard and the mugs rattle. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please, I'll clean it, I'll—"
He looks up. The apology dies on my tongue.
Dark hair falls across his forehead, slightly too long. Blue eyes—not pale and watery, but deep blue, the color of sky right before full dark. Strong jaw shadowed with stubble that makes him look like he's just rolled out of someone's bed, which does something unfortunate to my pulse. Mid-twenties, straight-backed and sure, like he's used to people listening when he speaks.
Then he laughs. The kind that reaches his eyes and crinkles the corners, transforms his whole face into something warm and dangerous.
"It's just ale." His voice is low, rougher than I expected, northern but educated. He glances at his ruined sleeve. "I've had worse spilled on me."
I'm frozen, not sure if I should laugh or apologize again.
He studies me, head tilted. "You look exhausted."
"I'm fine." The lie is automatic.
"You're swaying on your feet. Your hands are shaking. When did your shift start?"
The fact that he noticed makes my stomach do something complicated. "Dawn."
His eyebrows lift. "Past midnight now. Fifteen hours."
"It was supposed to end at sunset. The girl who was meant to take over didn't show."
He reaches over, takes the tray from my hands, and sets it down with a gentleness that suggests he's used to handling fragile things.
"Sit down." An invitation in that low voice that makes my spine straighten. "Just for a moment, before you collapse on my boots."
The corner of his mouth lifts. An acknowledgment that this is irregular, that I should walk away.
The owner is watching. I have three more tables. My feet are screaming. I sit anyway, knees giving out.
"Better?" There's something in his gaze that makes my skin prickle—not leering, but genuinely interested.
"Better."
He leans back and candlelight catches on his throat where his collar's loose. I should not be noticing his throat, or the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders, or the calluses on his palms.
"What's your name?"
My mouth has gone dry. "Mairead."
"Domnall." He extends his hand. I stare at it before taking it. His grip is warm, firm, and the touch sends heat up my arm in a way that makes me deeply aware I haven't been touched—really touched, skin to skin, with intention—in longer than I can remember.
I pull my hand back too quickly. He notices. That almost-smile returns.
"So, Mairead." He settles like he has all the time in the world. "What are you reading?"
The question is so unexpected I forget to breathe. "What?"
"You heard me. What are you reading?"
"I don't…" I start to deflect. But something in his expression stops me. He's actually waiting.
"Essays. Montaigne. From the lending library."
His eyebrows lift. "What do you think of him?"
No one has ever asked me what I think. Not about books, not about ideas, not about anything that matters.
"I think he's honest about uncertainty in ways most people aren't brave enough to be." The words tumble out unpracticed. "He admits he doesn't know things, contradicts himself, changes his mind."
Domnall nods slowly. "And that appeals to you."
"It feels true." I'm gripping the table edge, leaning forward. "Most of what I've read feels like someone pretending they have all the answers. He just... wonders."
"What else have you read?" He's asking like my answer matters.
I tell him. He listens, asking questions that make me explain myself, that make me realize I have opinions I didn't know I was forming.
Hours collapse. The tavern empties. I forget I'm exhausted. I forget the knot in my back. I forget that I'm supposed to be invisible.
The owner shouts last call. The sound crashes through whatever spell we've been under. I stand too quickly and the room tilts. Domnall's hand shoots out, steadying me.
"Where are you staying?" His voice has gone quieter.
"Lodging house three streets over. Shared room."
"I have a room upstairs." He's watching my face. "We could keep talking."
I know what he's asking. I know what "keep talking" means when a man says it after midnight. I should walk out and forget this happened.
"Yes."
His room is small but clean—a bed, a chair, a washstand. The door closes and suddenly we're standing too close. My heart hammers.
"We don't have to—" he starts.
I kiss him first. I kiss him because I want to, because for one night I want to be someone who chooses instead of being chosen.
He makes a sound low in his throat and kisses me back. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and the gentleness nearly undoes me.
I've been touched before—grabbed, groped, handled like something to be used—but this is different. This is deliberate and careful.
"Mairead." His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling. "Are you certain?"
"Yes." The word comes out rough. I reach for the buttons of his shirt.
He catches my hands. "Hold on." His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "I need you to be certain. Not because you think you owe me something—"
"I'm certain." I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart race. "I want this."
He kisses me again, deeper, and his hands slide down to my waist.
My back hits the wall and he's pressed against me, solid and warm. His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat, the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes my knees forget how to function.
My fingers finally manage his buttons. His shirt comes loose and I slide my hands underneath, mapping the planes of his chest, the muscles of his back. He's warmer than I expected, skin smooth except for scattered scars. He shudders when I touch him and I feel powerful.
"Your turn." His voice has gone rough. His fingers find the laces of my dress and I nod.
He undresses me slowly. Each piece of clothing removed feels ceremonial, weighted with intention.
When he looks at me—his gaze traveling over my skin—I should feel exposed. Instead I feel seen. Chosen. Like I'm something worth the attention.
"You're beautiful." He says it quietly, reverently. "You have no idea, do you?"
I don't know how to answer. I kiss him instead, pulling him toward the bed. We fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.
He holds himself over me, careful not to put his full weight down.
"Tell me if you want to stop." His hand traces patterns on my ribs, feather-light, maddening. "Any time."
"I promise." My hands are in his hair, pulling him down. "But I don't want to stop."
What happens next is both overwhelming and tender. He touches me like I'm something precious, like every response matters, like my pleasure is as important as his own. He asks questions with his hands, his mouth, reading my body's answers with attention that makes me feel worshipped.
When he finally pushes inside me, I gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the strange perfection of being connected like this. He freezes.
"Okay?" The word is strained, his whole body taut with the effort of holding still.
"Okay." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He moves and I move with him, finding a rhythm that feels ancient and new. His mouth finds mine. Our hands tangle together on the pillow.
The pleasure builds slowly, relentlessly, until I'm shaking, my nails digging into his shoulders as everything inside me pulls tight and then breaks apart.
He follows moments later, my name on his lips, his face buried in the curve of my neck. The weight of him collapses onto me and I hold him there, both of us breathing hard, hearts racing.
The exhaustion I've been holding at bay for fifteen hours crashes over me. Eventually I fall asleep with his heartbeat steady against my back.
When I wake, the sheets beside me are cold. The bed is empty. I woke up alone.