Page 121 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
CHAPTER 33
Ciaran stoodin the middle of his chamber, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The air felt too thin, and his breathing was too ragged. He stared at the cup he had flung across the room, still there, broken, almost a physical manifestation of his anger.
His eyes skimmed over the cold, hard floor and settled on the neatly folded blankets, the carved chair by the window. All of it felt too still. Too quiet for the thoughts raging in his head like alarm bells.
He shoved the chair aside. It struck the wall with a sharp crack. The blankets followed, kicked into a corner. His breath came in sharp bursts. Logan’s snarling face flashed in his mind’s eye, and his head throbbed as those words scraped over every thought.
“Ye’re a weapon, Ciaran.”
He tore the sheets off the bed and flung them across the room, the rage inside him growing still.
“Ye’ll never stop being the Hound.”
He stomped from the edge of the bed to the table by the wall. His hand closed around the edge and wrenched it away. The table toppled on its side, crashing onto the floor with acrackthat reverberated through the room.
The door suddenly swung open, and Ciaran turned to it, half expecting it to be her. However, it was Gordon who stepped in, his grip firm on the doorknob. He stopped short, taking in the overturned chair, the heaped linens, and the table in one sweeping look.
Ciaran turned away from him. The chaos in his head was torture enough.
“What do ye want?” he asked, his back still turned to him.
There was no answer.
He eventually turned back to the man.
Gordon’s lips thinned, and for a moment, they stared at each other. They did not have to speak, for the looks on their faces were full of subtle understanding. Then, he stepped back out of the room without a word and pulled the door shut.
For a moment, the silence and solitude returned. Ciaran braced his hands on the edge of his bed frame, his shoulders heaving. He did not know how long he stood there, but he knew itwas long enough that the ache in his arms began to fade into something dull.
The door opened again, and Gordon came back inside, a sword in his hand. He tossed it across the room. The blade clattered onto the floor and spun to a stop near Ciaran’s boots.
“Come along,” Gordon said, his voice too calm.
Ciaran stared at the sword and then back at him. “What?”
“Ye need it,” Gordon simply responded.
Ciaran turned around slowly and bent to pick up the sword. The leather of the hilt pressed against his palm.
“Now, come along,” Gordon repeated, stepping out first.
Ciaran, who continued to study the sword in his hand, followed right behind.
They went out into the courtyard. The morning was still, and the dew on the grass was beginning to disappear.
“I heard yer wife left the castle. Said she needed some time to herself,” Gordon started.
Ciaran only shrugged in response. He had not exactly acted in a way that would make her want to be around him or in the same place as him.
Gordon stepped back a pace once they got to a space clear enough to train and lifted his sword. “Ye look like ye’re about to fall apart.”
Ciaran did not answer. He charged forward without warning, swinging his sword in a low arc. Gordon blocked the strike with the flat of his blade and pushed him back.
They moved across the packed earth, their boots digging into the green grass in slow circles.
“Ye ken,” Gordon said, his breath short, “she’s a rare one, yer wife.”
Ciaran drove him back another step.
