The Warm Before the Storm
Isla’s POV
Morning crept through the curtains in soft streaks of silver, casting the cold stone walls in pale light. For once, Isla hadn’t woken shivering. Warmth wrapped around her like a shield—not just from the thick blankets, but from whatever comfort had cocooned her through the night.
She blinked slowly, disoriented at how rested she felt. No dreams of arrows. No echoes of pain. Just a quiet hum in her chest that felt… safe.
Then her memory stirred.
Last night.
She’d said things. Honest things.
She’d told Lachlan she wanted to go home.
And he hadn’t pulled away.
Her hand slid across the sheets.
He was still beside her.
Isla shifted gently, careful not to wake him. He lay on his back, chest rising in slow rhythm, face turned toward her. Unfamiliar shadows softened him in sleep—his jaw unclenched, brow smooth, the tension she was used to seeing melted away.
And he was handsome.
Embarrassingly so.
Rogue noble meets armor catalogue. Maybe even better than a TV star. The kind of face that’d grace the cover of an “Untamed Hearts” book, the one your best friend warned you not to get attached to.
She swallowed, heart ticking faster.
He had a scar above one brow she hadn’t noticed before—a thin line like a careless brushstroke. Her fingers moved before she could stop them, brushing hair away from his temple with the faintest touch.
His hair was softer than she expected.
Lachlan’s eyes opened.
She yelped, hand snatching back like she’d touched fire.
But he only blinked at her, slow and warm. “Good morning.”
Isla pulled the blanket over her face, cheeks lighting up like a warning flare. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—” Her voice muffled into cotton.
“You were staring.” His voice was still rough with sleep, like gravel laced with velvet.
“I wasn’t—”
She peeked through the blanket’s edge to find him sitting up, broad shoulders bare, sheets pooling around his waist.
Isla bit her lip and promptly ducked again.
Her heart thudded like it was trying to escape.
Gods, she needed to get a grip.
Or at least wait until he wasn’t shirtless and haloed in sunlight.
She stayed hidden until she heard the quiet sound of fabric sliding—his tunic being pulled over his torso. Not until she was sure he was dressed did she lower the blanket and risk a glance.
He stood at the edge of the bed now, adjusting his belt with a practiced motion.
Then he turned to her, serious once more.
“I have to leave soon,” he said.
Isla sat up slowly, instinctively clutching the blanket tighter around herself. “What do you mean?”
“The king declared war. I’ll be leading the campaign.”
The words landed like a gust of cold wind against her skin.
“Oh,” she said. Her voice was calm, but the inhale beneath it wasn’t.
He sat beside her again, eyes scanning hers. “They’ll keep you safe here. The palace is warded. You’re guarded.”
She nodded, swallowing against the tightness in her throat.
That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the feeling building in her chest—the dull ache that grew sharper every time she looked at him. She didn’t want him to go. Not just because he’d protected her. Not just because he was the only thread that tethered her sanity in this foreign world.
But because she’d started to care.
More than she’d wanted to.
“I could use the time,” she said, lifting her chin. “My father sent me books. Magic theory and language studies. I haven’t opened them yet.”
That part was true. She hadn’t dared until now.
War was dangerous. But downtime was dangerous too. It gave the heart room to wander.
He nodded, though his eyes didn’t leave her face.
Then Isla frowned slightly. “What about the Mating Ceremony?”
Lachlan’s expression darkened just enough for her to notice.
“It’s been postponed,” he said simply.
Her breath caught. “But we’re married.”
“Yes.”
“Is that... allowed? To delay something that’s required?”
He hesitated. “The council agreed it was best to wait. You need time. And the ceremony… it’s symbolic. It doesn’t change what you already are.”
His voice was steady, but there was something restrained in it. Not anger. Not indifference.
Just distance.
Isla looked down at her hands.
She had assumed they’d move forward. That, despite everything, this bond—this strange gravity between them—would be given the chance to settle and take form.
But apparently not.
“Did you make that decision?” she asked quietly.
His reply didn’t come right away.
Then: “I requested it.”
That stung. More than it should have.
“Oh.”
She looked away, trying to swallow the awkward lump rising in her throat.
Lachlan didn’t speak again. Not immediately.
Instead, he reached out, taking her hand gently. His fingers were warm, rough from swordplay but careful as they wrapped around hers.
“I’ll come back,” he said.
Something in his tone shifted—more vulnerable than command, softer than promise.
She looked up at him then, her brows knitting together. “You better.”
His lips lifted slightly. The smallest smile.
For a moment, silence held between them.
And despite everything—despite the war, the ceremony, the shadows of things they weren’t saying—Isla leaned into the warmth lingering from the night before.
She watched him next as he finished dressing. Tunic, belt, outer cloak. The movement of hands that had killed, saved, and shaken hers with tenderness.
War.
The word alone scraped across her thoughts like splintered glass.
She didn’t know what a battlefield looked like in this world—how blood spilled, how magic warped bone, how a body like his might not come back.
And if he didn’t?
What happened to her?
Would she be trapped in this realm forever?
Would book Isla fade?
Would both versions of her—real and written—remain fractured?
She hadn’t opened the spellbooks her father sent. Not yet. But what if they held something? Some kind of tether or pathway? Some clue hidden between arcane ink and ancient warnings?
The mating ceremony could be a key. Or it could be a cage.
She rubbed at her wrist absently, where the binding mark still shimmered faintly beneath her skin.
“Is the war because of me?” she asked, voice quiet.
Lachlan glanced over. His jaw twitched. “Your name was tied to the assassin’s arrow. The kingdom can’t overlook that.”
She nodded slowly, absorbing it. A confirmation. Still not a full answer.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Depends on how deep Dracona reaches.”
That wasn’t an answer either.
But he stood straighter now. Like he was already halfway to the battlefield.
Isla bit her lip.
“Will the Mating Ceremony happen when you return?”
That stopped him.
His back stiffened. His hands clenched slightly at his sides.
“I don’t know,” he said after a beat.
“But isn’t it important? You said it was symbolic, but—what if it matters more than we think?”
She was trying to understand.
Trying to fill the hollow without making it ache worse.
But something flickered behind his eyes. A shadow. Resistance.
He didn’t want to explain.
Didn’t want to mention the prophecy.
Didn’t want to confess that he’d seen her robed in black in someone else's vision.
“I’m only asking,” she offered carefully. “You don’t have to—”
“I don’t know,” he said again, sharper.
He turned from her fully now, grabbed his sword from where it rested against the chair, and slung the scabbard over his back.
He hesitated at the door.
Not for long.
Then he left—without another word.
The only sound he gave her in parting was the slam of the chamber door behind him.
And Isla stared at the space he’d just vacated, the echo of his presence clawing at her chest like a second heartbeat she didn’t ask for.