Isyla deserved to be loved, someone to dote and lay his cloak down for every step she took. That was what she always wanted, as a little girl at least- but now, things were entirely different, a grown woman in love with someone she shouldn’t be. Was it love though? She wasn’t an expert but all the poets seemed to agree that yearning was a painful existence, an infection that kept you breathing in utter agony. She fell back against the door, leaning into the frame.
“I thought that’s what I wanted.” She blinked, fresh warm tears fell down her cheeks. Lord Bolton had cracked the surface of something dark within her, she would be restless in a menial marriage. She needed unhinged fervor and Isyla wanted him more than any other Lord, more than home.
Isyla pushed off the doorframe and straightened herself. “He reminds me of my brothers, so you’ll forgive me if I have taken a liking to him.” she took a step towards him.
“I went behind your back because I was indignant towards you, to myself, for wanting you, a man whose wife was on the doorstep of death, yet I still desired to you- Desire still and I am sorry.” Amber eyes caught his gaze, she dared not relent, not now.
“Please.” she closed the gap. Her quivering hands pawed at his leather-clad chest. “I don’t want Lord Ryswell. It’s not his mantle that keeps me warm at night. I want you Lord Bolton.. Roose.” a hand reached up to touch his warm, stubbled jaw, she was desperate. What little he would think of her now. “Tell me to stop, tell me no and I’ll leave with Lord Rickon.”
Isyla didn’t wish for him to comply with her offering, but it might dispell the pressure of the agony resting inside.
Her mention of his wife gave him pause, but only for a moment. Had it truly only been a fortnight since her death? It seemed to Roose that Bethany had been dead for years.
And the thought that Isyla had felt guilt over pursuing him... tt was just a tiny glimpse into the real Isyla, not the one she hid behind saucy remarks and impertinent looks, but he found it... attractive.
A few days ago, he thought it had been a good idea. Send her off to the Rills, and then he could forget. Move on. Focus on what was important. But seeing her with Rickon .. a mere boy, of all things...
She would not be leaving the Dreadfort.
Her hand was soft and silky on his face and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her senseless. A reward for her honesty.
But then, all of this could have been avoided if she had only been honest from the beginning. If she hadn’t played her little games.
It was easy enough to remove her hands from him, his fingers clenched around her wrists. And it didn’t take much force to push her hands back against the door. He noted with interest the way her chest rose and fell as her breath quickened, and how the little pulse point on her neck fluttered with excitement.
“Thank you for your honesty, my lady.”
A small reward - a tender kiss, his lips only a whisper of a touch upon hers, in contrast to the iron grip on her wrists.
He pulled back to observe her reaction once more with detached interest. “In the future, you will be honest with me from the beginning,” he said, giving her a hard look.
A second kiss - this one because he couldn’t help it - but ruthless, not tender, taking possession of that sweet mouth, tasting and devouring.
He had to step back then. She was too tempting. It was too easy to lose all control.
“As for your desires,” he said, tracing his finger along the neckline of her dress, “we will continue that discussion once our guests have left. I will inform Lord Rickon in the morning that a betrothal will not be possible. Not to him, anyway.”
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