Page 156 of Reign

I rose abruptly, lingering in the silence as we both awaited our liege’s decision.

“Of course,” Fitzroy said.

Before departing, he took my hand and planted a kiss against it, as if staking his claim.

Fitzroy smirked, briefly meeting Bash’s eye, before leaving us alone.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Bash’s blank expression roved over me while I struggled to decipher the stone-cold look on his face. I wondered how seeing me in a gown made him feel, while he fiddled with the unlaced string on the front of his tunic, revealing a glimpse of his muscular chest.

“I thought you might never return,” he finally said—it was nice to hear his voice.

“Is that not what you wanted?” I asked, puzzled by his desire to speak—especially after our last conversation when he declared we were no longer friends.

He deeply sighed and shook his head. “I was upset.”

Guilt bubbled within my chest at the thought of having caused him pain.

“I’m deeply sorry for hurting you,” I murmured.

He took a moment to ponder my words before a gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You look pretty.”

“Thank you,” I replied, my cheeks flushing at his compliment.

Stepping closer, he continued, “I spoke to your brother. He told me the only difference between Smith and Niamh is the name—that you’re just as hardworking, hotheaded, and devoted as before you ran away.”

I nodded, knowing Finn was right—despite my efforts, I’d always been Niamh.

“At first, I was angry because I felt deceived. When I believed you were a man, and we were both confused about our feelings, I felt safe knowing we were in the same position. But when I learned that you were a woman, I felt alone.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, edging toward him.

“I’ve learned that I care solely about who a person is on the inside—who you are,” Bash continued, pointing at me. “The skilled blacksmith, the talented witch, and the faithful friend.”

“You still care about me?” I asked, tears welling in my eyes as my bottom lip trembled.

Bash nodded, his brow furrowing slightly as if in pain. “Very much so.”

“I still care for you, too,” I admitted, a yearning ache filling my chest. “I wanted to tell you I’m Niamh, but after you kissed me, I was afraid if you knew you wouldn’t do it again.”

He shook his head. “I would’ve still wanted to kiss you.”

For a moment, I longed to take his face in my hands and press my mouth to his. Yet too much had happened during our time apart for me to leap into his arms as I desperately wished.

“Do you forgive me?” I asked.

Bash reached forward and gently wiped away a tear clinging to my chin. Even the soft brush of his fingertips sent a pleasant tingle across my skin.

“I do.”

“Friends once more?” I offered, extending my hand.

Bash took it tenderly. “Friends,” he replied—and that word stung. “Good night, Smith. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

Bash turned to leave the tent. Though I longed for him to run to me, enfold me in his arms, and promise to never let me go, he slipped out into the low light without looking back—leaving a visceral stabbing in my chest.

As I clutched my aching heart, Fitzroy reentered the tent. I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes—though it was unnecessary, for he offered me no acknowledgment. His face, marked by a dismissive scowl I hadn’t seen in some time, set my stomach churning in anticipation of the brewing argument. Without a word, he seized a bottle of wine from his desk and drank straight from the neck while searching for a goblet.