one
. . .
Fiona
I watchthem come with the rising sun at their backs, these northern warriors with their gleaming weapons and battle cries that chill my blood. My fingers grip the cold stone of the parapet until they ache, but I don't look away. I can't. The man leading them—a giant astride a massive black stallion—is Lachlan Drummond, the warrior king who has conquered every territory from here to the highlands. And now he's come for us, for me. My stomach twists with dread, but I straighten my spine. I am Princess Fiona MacLeod, daughter of kings, and I will not tremble, even as our walls begin to fall.
"My lady, please! You must come inside immediately!" My lady-in-waiting tugs at my sleeve, her voice pitched high with terror.
I shake her off, my eyes locked on the approaching army. "Not yet."
The wind whips my hair across my face, golden strands caught in my lashes, but I refuse to blink. I need to see itall, to burn every moment into my memory like a brand. Our kingdom—my father's pride, our people's sanctuary—is about to be conquered by a man known for his ruthlessness. A man who leaves nothing but submission in his wake.
The first crash against our outer gates sends a vibration through the stone beneath my feet. Our soldiers, too few after the winter sickness ravaged our ranks, rush to reinforce the walls. Their faces are grim, determined. They know what I know—we cannot win this battle. Not against him. Not against the armies he's raised through conquest and blood.
Another crash. The wood splinters. I can hear it from here, a sound like bones breaking.
"Princess Fiona!" It's my father's voice now, desperate. "Come down at once!"
I turn to find him on the stairs, his crown slightly askew, his face pale with the knowledge of what's to come. He's aged a decade in the past month, since the first messengers brought word of Lachlan's approach. We both knew this day would arrive. The brutal warrior king has been consuming the smaller kingdoms one by one, and ours—weakened by plague and poor harvests—was always going to be next.
"Father—" I begin, but the words die in my throat as a tremendous roar rises from below.
The outer wall has fallen.
I race down the stairs, my skirts gathered in white-knuckled fists. My heart hammers against my ribs, a desperate animal seeking escape. I follow my father through the corridors of the castle that has been my home for all my twenty-two years. Servants rush past with frightened faces, carrying whatever valuables they can save. Guards stride with purpose toward the inner courtyard, where they'll make their last stand.
Their last stand before Lachlan Drummond.
"What do we do?" I ask my father as we enter the great hall. The room buzzes with panicked activity—lords and ladies gathering, knights strapping on armor, my father's advisors arguing in frantic clusters.
He turns to me, his eyes hollow with defeat. "I have one last duty to perform. To protect you, to protect our people." He takes my hands in his, and I'm shocked to feel them trembling. "Fiona, my lioness. You must be strong now."
"I am strong," I insist, though fear claws at my throat. "I always have been."
"Then be strong enough to survive what comes next."
Before I can ask what he means, the great doors to the hall crash open. A knight staggers in, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead. "They've breached the inner gate! They're?—"
His warning is cut short by the appearance of mounted warriors behind him. They thunder into the hall, their horses' hooves striking sparks from the stone floor, their swords dripping red. And at their center, a figure that seems hewn from the very mountains themselves.
Lachlan Drummond.
He dismounts in one fluid motion that belies his massive size. Six and a half feet of muscle and menace, clad in dark leather and steel. His face is partially obscured by a beard, but I can see the hard set of his jaw, the cold appraisal in his eyes as they sweep the room. When they land on me, something shifts in their depths—a flicker of interest, of hunger, that makes my skin prickle with warning.
My father steps forward, placing himself between me and the conqueror. "Drummond. You've won your victory. Name your terms."
Lachlan doesn't answer immediately. He removes his gloves with deliberate slowness, never taking his eyes from my face. Iforce myself not to shrink under his gaze. Instead, I lift my chin and stare back, letting him feel every ounce of my hatred.
"My terms," he finally says, his voice a deep rumble that seems to vibrate through the floor and into my bones, "are simple. Complete surrender. Your title, your lands, your castle—all mine now." His gaze intensifies. "And your daughter."
The room falls silent. I hear nothing but the ragged pace of my own breathing.
"No." The word escapes me before I can stop it.
Lachlan's mouth curves into something that might be a smile on another man. On him, it's a predator's assessment before the killing bite. "No?" He takes a step toward me. "You misunderstand, Princess. I'm not offering you a choice."
My father's hand tightens on my arm. "Surely we can reach a different arrangement. A tribute, an alliance?—"
