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An exhausted groan tears out of my chest.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I mutter at the empty room, throwing my hands in the air. “That’s an antique and I have no idea how to clean it."
A gravelly chuckle rumbles from the floor behind me.
I whip around.
Lachlan is sitting up, his back propped against the marble base of the staircase.
He’s completely naked, covered in drying black mud and smears of my blood, his dark salt-and-pepper hair a storm around his broad shoulders. But the gaping hole in his ribs is gone. Now there is only smooth skin, framed by thick muscle and the pale star of a freshly healed scar.
His hazel eyes are clear, the amber flecks in them burning bright.
On his left wrist, his matching Celtic braid glows with a soft gold fire.
A sob chokes out of me.
He looks at the pile of gray lint on the rug, looks at the empty velvet coat, and then slowly lifts his gaze to mine. The ferocious, terrifying warlord is completely gone; in his place is a man looking at me with a reverence so deep, so absolute, it makes my throat tighten until I can barely swallow.
"We’ll have to work on that rug, lass," he rumbles, his Scottish accent thick, hoarse, and dripping with lazy amusement.
"I’ll replace it," I say, though my lower lip gives a wobble. "I am not spending my first week as your mate scraping vampire out of the rug."
Lachlan’s chest shakes with a deep laugh.
"Come here, Vivienne. My mate."
I collapse forward onto the floor beside him, burying my face straight into the solid curve of his uninjured neck. He smells like home.
His muscled arms wrap around my ribs, hauling me into his lap, pulling me so tight against his chest that I can feel every steady beat of his heart. Lachlan buries his face in my messy hair, letting out a ragged shudder that tears my heart wide open.
"I have you," he whispers into my scalp, his rough lips pressing against my temple, fierce and possessive. "I have you, lass. You're mine."
"We broke the whole house, Lachlan," I mumble into his skin, my fingers digging into the hard slabs of his back as tears track through the dirt on my cheek. "We broke the cellar door, we broke the front door, and there's a dead guy in the entryway."
"Aye," Lachlan breathes, his chest rumbling with a fierce, quiet triumph that echoes through the ancient stone of our house. "And the house is ours. You did that, Vivienne, my heart. You did that. And if I heard you correctly, that means I get to actually train you to take care of yourself now."
I wave a hand at him, sniffling, somewhere between laughter and complete teary breakdown. “I’m not spending our first week as mates doing that either.”
He arches an eyebrow at me, grinning impishly. “Oh, is that right? What did you have in mind, then, lass?”
“Something a lot more fun.” I bury my face back into his neck. “But right now, I just want to hold you, okay?”
“Okay, love. As long as you need to hold me, I’m here.” He shifts uncomfortably. “Just ignore my excitement.”
I burst into laughter, and he joins me until the noise of our mirth echoes through the house.
Thirty-Seven
Vivienne
The floor is freezing, the air smells like ozone and dead leeches, and my entire body feels like an overcooked noodle.
When Lachlan moves, he doesn't groan or favor his left side. He just rises in one smooth, terrifyingly quiet movement, scooping his arms under my knees and shoulders before my brain can even signal my feet to stand.
"Hey," I protest, but it comes out as a raspy puff of air against his collarbone. "I have legs. They’re attached and everything."
"They're trembling, lass," he rumbles, his voice like river gravel grinding together. "And you're covered in muck."
