If You Were Mine
Lachlan’s POV
By the time Lachlan stepped into his chambers, the sky beyond the windows had shifted to deep violet. The scent of candle smoke and fresh linen greeted him like a softened promise. He closed the door quietly, expecting an empty room.
But Isla was already curled beneath the velvet blanket, her body still, her breathing steady.
He froze for a moment, uncertain.
She hadn’t waited for him. And yet—she was here. The same woman whose voice had cracked under fury. Whose eyes shimmered with defiance. Whose fingers had gripped his hand as though trying to pull truth from silence.
He walked closer, footsteps careful on the stone floor.
Her face was peaceful, cheeks flushed faintly from sleep. Loose strands of hair framed her jaw, and her lips parted slightly with each breath. The anger inside him folded in on itself, softening into something more fragile.
This girl... this woman...
She didn’t look like someone who could bring destruction.
Certainly not the kind whispered in ancient warnings.
Not the kind Elspeth had seen.
But prophecies didn’t care about appearances.
He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on her stillness. And the memories came unbidden.
The lake—her body half-submerged in icy water, lips blue, breath fading. He hadn’t thought, only moved. Pulled her free, felt her pulse flutter under his palm.
Then the look she gave him after.
Equal parts disbelief and challenge. Like she'd dare him to be soft again.
The kiss at the ball. That split-second of surrender. Her fingers curling in his collar, her mouth on his—bold and searching. And when they broke apart, dazed from it, he remembered thinking: Maybe fate isn’t cruel. Maybe it brought her to me for a reason.
Then the wedding night. She didn’t look at him, barely spoke. Sat on the edge of the bed like a guest in a stranger’s house. That night had left more questions than comfort.
And still, something about her drew him in.
Something deeper than duty.
Then Elspeth’s voice—the tremor in it as she described her vision. Isla in black robes, chanting in an ancient tongue, eyes glazed with a magic that warped her skin. Her voice echoing across stone, commanding something old and forgotten.
A chill ran through him.
Could someone so soft in sleep one night be a weapon the next?
He peeled out of his armor, tunic following. The ache in his shoulders settled slightly now that the weight was gone. But his mind didn’t settle.
As he pulled back the blanket and lay beside her, a familiar heaviness pressed against his ribs.
He hadn’t been raised to expect tenderness. Affection, in his world, came as reward or ritual—offered when earned, never freely given. Love was not language passed between generals. It was carved in sacrifice, stitched into war councils and declarations.
He’d learned early to hide softness behind calculation.
To bury warmth beneath duty.
But Isla… she unmade that without trying.
She challenged him when he expected obedience.
Held his hand when he didn’t know he needed grounding.
She bled in his arms and still had the strength to ask him if he trusted her.
And he didn’t know what that said about him.
He moved slowly beside her, her body shifting with sleep. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and her warmth spilled into him like a secret.
His hand found her waist—slow, deliberate, aching.
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned into him, her head nuzzling the edge of his collarbone.
And then he saw them.
Tears.
Small, quiet glints at the corners of her eyes. Not fresh—but lingering.
His chest tightened.
Was she crying because of him? Because she’d married someone she didn’t love? Because she feared what this world had made her?
Anger flickered behind his ribs.
But then he remembered her words—carved like a scar:
"I'm your wife. Not some girl you discard when you tire of her."
He breathed deep and folded the emotion away. Tucked it behind the walls he knew how to build.
He pulled her a little closer, the weight of her pressing against his heart like gravity.
Moments passed.
And then she murmured, voice thick and drifting: “I want to go home... I want to go back…”
Lachlan’s heart froze mid-beat.
But there was no lover’s name. No quiet confession of someone else.
Just home.
She was homesick.
The tightness in his spine eased.
She wasn’t running from him—just trying to reach whatever place had once felt safe.
Whatever life she’d had before this one shattered her boundaries.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with careful fingers. “You don’t need to worry about your home. Or your family. I’ll be here.”
His voice barely rose. Just enough for her subconscious to catch it. Just enough to stitch a thread of comfort into whatever dream she was drifting through.
Her body relaxed.
She settled against him fully then, one hand brushing his wrist.
Lachlan lay there for a long time, watching her breathe, feeling the fire from the hearth dim to coals.
He remembered her laugh once—bright, surprised, when he told her Alastair had nearly set a court tapestry on fire trying to summon a warming spell.
Her head had tipped back just slightly. That sound—it had startled him.
Not because it was beautiful, but because it was real.
Unfiltered. Hers.
He hadn’t heard it since.
She had been quiet since the wedding. And now he wondered what parts of herself she had locked away to survive.
Raised in power and precision, he wasn’t taught softness.
But she made him crave it.
Made him terrified of it, too.
Because if Elspeth’s vision was right—if Isla turned dark, turned dangerous—he would have to stand against her. As general. As shield to the kingdom.
And what then?
Would he fight her?
Bury her?
Save her?
He didn’t know.
Only that tonight, she was in his arms.
Not because of war.
Not because of ceremony.
But because it felt right.
And if she were truly his—no prophecy could take her from him.