The First Meeting Part 3

"Wisdom beyond your years," Kieran murmured, and something in his voice made the words sound like a caress. "Your father didn't do you justice in his description."

What exactly did Father tell you about me? I wanted to ask. What details did he share when he was bargaining away my future?

But the questions felt too dangerous, too likely to reveal the true nature of what had brought me here. And part of me—a part I didn't want to examine too closely—wasn't sure I wanted to know what currency Father had used to purchase his family's salvation.

"I'm sure he was... economical with details," I said instead. "He's never been one for elaborate descriptions."

"No," Kieran agreed, his eyes never leaving mine. "He struck me as a man more concerned with immediate necessities than... finer qualities."

Finer qualities. The phrase made my cheeks warm, though I couldn't say whether from embarrassment or something more complicated. Because the way he said it—the way those golden eyes swept over me with unmistakable appreciation—suggested he found more than just adequate payment in whatever arrangement they'd reached.

"I hope," I said carefully, "that whatever expectations you might have formed won't prove... disappointing."

It was as close as I dared come to asking what he actually wanted from me. What role I was meant to fill in his isolated existence. What duties would be required to justify the fortune he'd settled on my family.

Kieran's smile turned predatory—not cruel, but carrying an edge that made my pulse skip with something that definitely wasn't fear. "I suspect," he said softly, "that disappointment will be the least of our concerns."

The words sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with temperature. Because they sounded less like reassurance and more like promise—or possibly threat. As if whatever lay ahead would be many things, but predictable wasn't among them.

"Come," he said, extending his hand toward me. "Let me show you to your chambers. You'll want to rest before dinner."

Your chambers. Not the guest quarters or your room for tonight. Chambers, plural, suggesting permanence rather than temporary accommodation. The kind of language used when someone was establishing residence rather than enjoying hospitality.

I looked at his outstretched hand for a moment that stretched like eternity. Long fingers, elegant despite obvious strength. Nails that were perfectly manicured but somehow suggested they could be other things when necessity demanded. A palm that looked like it had known both gentleness and violence.

Take it, urged some reckless part of my mind. Take his hand and see what happens.

Don't, countered rational thought. Once you accept his touch, you're accepting everything else that comes with it.

But standing there in that impossible hall, with torchlight dancing across features that belonged in dreams and nightmares alike, I found myself reaching out before conscious decision caught up with instinct.

His fingers closed around mine with careful control—warm skin that carried that wild scent more strongly, strength held in perfect check, touch that managed to be both possessive and reverent. For a moment we simply stood there, connected by nothing more than joined hands, while something electric passed between us that had nothing to do with the strange magic that permeated this place.

I know you, his touch seemed to say. I've been waiting for you specifically, not just anyone who might fulfill a bargain.

I know you too, my pulse whispered back. I've been dreaming of you for weeks without understanding why.

The moment stretched until it felt dangerous, until the very air between us seemed charged with possibilities I wasn't ready to name. Then Kieran lifted my hand, and for one heart-stopping instant I thought he meant to kiss it.

Instead, he simply held it a moment longer than propriety dictated, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a caress so subtle it might have been accidental. But the way his eyes darkened, the way his breathing seemed to deepen, suggested nothing about the touch was unintentional.

"Welcome home, Catherine," he said quietly, and the words hit me like physical blows.

Home. Not welcome to my home or welcome to the castle. Just home, as if this place—this impossible, beautiful, terrifying place—was where I'd always been meant to end up.

As if I'd been coming here my entire life without knowing it.

The thought should have terrified me. Should have sent me jerking my hand free and demanding explanations for presumptions that went far beyond the bounds of any normal arrangement.

Instead, it sent warmth flooding through my chest that felt dangerously close to relief.

I am home, some traitorous part of my mind whispered. Finally, impossibly, I'm home.

Kieran released my hand then, stepping back just far enough to restore the illusion of proper distance. But his eyes remained fixed on mine, and the heat in them suggested our careful dance of politeness was nothing more than prelude to something far more complex.

"Come," he said again, his voice rougher than before. "Your chambers await."

I followed him toward the grand staircase, my hand still tingling from his touch, my mind reeling with questions I didn't dare voice aloud.

What have I walked into? What is this place? What is he?

But underneath the confusion and wariness was something else—a recognition that went deeper than rational thought, older than fear.

Mine, it whispered. He's mine, just as I'm his.

The certainty was terrifying in its intensity, inexplicable in its completeness.

And absolutely, undeniably true.