One month prior

It’s only a short conversation… I dinnae have tae speak tae him fer long.

Isabeau stopped by the forge, trying in vain to take another step. She knew what lurked inside. She would have to face a man she truly abhorred.

Tiernan Falconer had been a new addition to the clan, a man Alaric, her brother, had brought with him when he had returned from his adventure with the infamous Ravencloaks gang. A brigand. A criminal. A killer and a thief, the kind of man Isabeau, as a proper lady, had learned to fear.

For men like him, she was the perfect target. Had he encountered her outside the castle walls, he would have most certainly attack her, she thought.

Everyone claimed he was a changed man. Everyone claimed he was, in fact, perfectly polite and always keeping to himself, never causing any trouble in the castle. Alaric himself vouched for Tiernan and for the fact that he was a good man, and Isabeau trusted her brother.

She just was not certain if he had been fooled.

Drawing in a deep, steeling breath, she took a tentative step into the forge where Tiernan was working. She had barely moved before she came to a sudden halt once more, heat rushing to her face—heat that had nothing to do with the insufferably hot room, the fires burning bright to melt the steel.

No, it had nothing to do with the flames. Instead, it had everything to do with the fact that Tiernan was shirtless, his chest and shoulders covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his arms bulging as he worked. This wasn’t the first time Isabeau had seen him, but it was the first she had ever witnessed him in such a state of undress, and the sight was simply too overwhelming for her to bear.

She was just about to flee and forget about the whole thing when Tiernan turned around and spotted her, forcing her feet to remain rooted to the spot. He gave her a small, almost awkward smile in acknowledgement, something that seemed very unlike him. Isabeau would have thought him anything but awkward, but there he was, avoiding her gaze as though he was the one embarrassed by her presence.

And despite it all, he was still a brute. The entrance of a lady like Isabeau was supposed to be acknowledged with a bow, not with a smile—a bow he never gave her, as if the thought didn’t even cross his mind.

Tiernan took a moment to wipe his hands on a rag, though that did little to help with the stains, his skin coated in a layer of coal. Once he deemed he had done a good enough job, he approached Isabeau with a small frown, as if surprised to see her there.

“Me lady,” he said. “Is there somethin’ I can dae fer ye?”

His voice was a low, smooth baritone, a rumbling sound that Isabeau could feel in her bones. She found that he was far too close and she took a step backward, her heart leaping to her throat as she tried to look anywhere but directly at him. She hated being around this man, hated that she didn’t know what to expect from him, that she couldn’t read him. But at the same time, her gaze was drawn back to him again and again, seeking the contours of his chest and stomach, the swell of his shoulders and his arms. There was something appealing about him, something so foreign that it rendered him magnetic and repulsing at the same time. On the one hand, Isabeau had never met a man like him before. On the other, she was glad he was the first of his kind she had met.

“I…” For a moment, she forgot why she had come to the forge in the first place, before she glanced down at her hand, where she was still clutching onto the two stones she had brought with her—one blue and one green, family heirlooms she had found that week in an old chest. “I came tae ask ye a favor. I was wonderin’ if ye could make two identical daggers an’ add these tae the hilts. As identical as possible.”

As she spoke, Isabeau held out the two stones for Tiernan to take. It was his turn to hesitate before he finally reached for them, his fingers brushing ever so lightly over her palm as he took the two stones in his hand. The touch, feather-light as it was, sent a shiver down Isabeau’s spine—a shiver she attributed to fear rather than anything else.

Holding them up to the morning light, Tiernan examined the two stones. “Sure, I can,” he said. “Fer whom?”

“Me braithers,” Isabeau said. “One each. I wish tae gift them tae them.”

“A very nice gift,” Tiernan said as he gingerly placed the two stones on the workbench. As he did, Isabeau couldn’t help but notice one of his fingers was bleeding, and he had done nothing to bandage the cut or take care of it.

“That’s a dangerous thing,” she cautioned and Tiernan looked at her with another confused frown, following her gaze to his finger. “It could get infected. Even the smallest cuts can be troublesome.”

“Ach, it’s alright,” said Tiernan, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ve had worse.”

Isabeau knew that to be true, simply because she could see all the scars that covered much of his body. Especially now that he wore no shirt, his past injuries were obvious and she couldn’t imagine how many fights he must have fought to have so many of them.

Once again, she was reminded of how dangerous this seemingly polite and shy man was. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to leave, to get out of that forge and back into the safety of the keep, where she would be far away from him, but the concern as a healer that his cut would become infected gnawed at her and would not let her go. Instead of leaving, as she desperately wanted, she let out a weary sigh and began to look for some ointment, knowing the smiths always kept some supplies in the forge in case of an accident.

Her hands got grimy as she looked for the jar and she scrunched up her nose in distaste as dust and steel particles clung to her fingers. In the end, she found the ointment in a drawer and held it up triumphantly, only for Tiernan to look confused once more.

“It’s fer yer cut,” she told him as she approached. It occurred to her then that she could simply hand it to him and leave, that her task could easily be done, but instead, she approached him—a little timidly—to do it herself. He couldn’t be trusted, she reasoned. He had completely ignored the cut until she had pointed it out. “Give me yer hand.”

Tiernan cocked his head to the side, looking at her as though she was some sort of puzzle he was trying to solve. Isabeau waited patiently for him, opening the jar and scooping some on her finger, only for Tiernan to remain baffled and still, making no attempt to cooperate.

“Yer hand,” she repeated, and it was only then that Tiernan held his hand out, his lips quirking up into a half-smile.

“Dinnae fash, me lady,” he said and then had the audacity to wink at her. “I’m plenty strong.”

Isabeau had half a mind to curse him out, dump the ointment on him, and leave. The nerve of him, acting so lecherously around her, especially when only moments prior, he had seemed so timid! Had it all been an act? Or had she done something to give him the impression this kind of behavior was acceptable?

With a huff, Isabeau snatched his hand and quickly applied the ointment over the cut, making sure to coat it evenly. The entire time, Tiernan didn’t move, but he stared at her so intently that Isabeau was just about ready to jump out of her skin with all the tension hanging in the air around them. Only once she was done did she realize just how close they were once more—close enough for her to feel the heat emanating from his body, close enough to feel his breath on her cheek.

Her heart skipped beat after beat and for what seemed like a small eternity, the two of them gazed into each other’s eyes as if under a spell—a spell that was only broken when the fire crackled and Isabeau jumped back, startled by the sudden sound.

What am I doin’? I must get out o’ here!

She couldn’t understand her own mind anymore. She couldn’t understand her own body, how it seemed to have a will of its own, ignoring her desire to leave and getting so close to a man so dangerous. Slowly backtracking, she huffed out an awkward chuckle, wishing Tiernan could just vanish on his own.

“Well… thank ye,” she said. “I look forward tae seein’ the daggers.”

“Wait—”

Tiernan called out to her, but Isabeau was already fleeing the forge, her legs carrying her out of there as fast as they could without breaking into a sprint.

Foolish… so foolish!

It was only when she was back in the keep that she slowed down, for the first time realizing that she was heaving, gasping for breath. For a moment, she rested against the wall, waving a guard away when he came over to see if she needed any help.

She didn’t need any help—she only needed a minute.

And she needed to forget those grey-blue eyes, that piercing gaze that seemed to see right through her.

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