"That word," she says, her voice dangerously soft, "is not one you want to direct at your queen, Lord Aiden. Not if you value your tongue."
The threat, delivered with such quiet certainty, sends a ripple of shock through the hall. This is not the gentle princess they remember, but a queen grown into her power.
Aiden's face contorts with rage, his hand moving to his belt. "If you will not be rescued," he spits, "then perhaps you're no longer of use to the eastern territories at all."
Everything happens at once. Aiden draws a dagger from his belt, lunging toward Fiona with murderous intent. I vault over the side of the dais, sword fully drawn now, but I'm too far to intercept him in time. Guards shout, nobles scatter, and chaoserupts as the hidden weapons of Aiden's men suddenly appear in their hands.
And Fiona—my beautiful, surprising wife—steps inside Aiden's reach rather than away from it, the small dagger I insisted she carry appearing in her hand as if conjured from air. She's not skilled enough to wound him, but she manages to deflect his strike, buying precious seconds until I reach them.
I pull her behind me with one arm while the other brings my sword up to meet Aiden's second attack. Steel meets steel with a clang that echoes through the hall, now alive with the sounds of combat as my guards engage the traitors in our midst.
"Get to safety," I tell Fiona, already focused on the fight before me. "Now!"
But she doesn't run. Instead, she places herself back-to-back with me, her dagger held in a reasonable approximation of the defensive stance Callum taught her. "Together," she reminds me, her voice tight but determined. "We fight together."
There's no time to argue. Two more of Aiden's men have broken away from the main fighting to target us directly. I engage one, my sword meeting his with practiced efficiency, while keeping a desperate awareness of Fiona behind me.
The clash of weapons, the shouts of men, the controlled chaos of battle—all of it fades to background noise as I focus on one imperative: protect Fiona. My blade finds its mark again and again, ruthless in its precision. But for every enemy that falls, another takes his place, drawn to the prize that is my queen.
A cry of pain from behind me sends ice through my veins. I spin to find Fiona clutching her arm, blood seeping between her fingers as she retreats from a grinning attacker. Without thought, without hesitation, I throw myself between them, taking a blow meant for her across my shoulder. Pain lances through me, but I barely register it, focused only on eliminating the threat to my wife.
"Lachlan!" Fiona's voice, high with fear, cuts through the haze of battle rage.
I turn in time to see Aiden moving toward her again, a sword in his hand now rather than the dagger. His eyes are fixed on her with murderous intent, seeing her as the embodiment of his thwarted ambitions.
Something in me snaps. Not the controlled battle fury I've known all my life, but something deeper, more primal. I move without conscious thought, my body placing itself in the path of Aiden's blade, my sword driving forward in a thrust aimed at his heart.
We meet in a collision of steel and flesh. His blade slices along my ribs, a burning line of pain that tells me he's drawn blood. But my strike is truer, my rage more focused. My sword finds its mark, sinking deep into his chest, the light in his eyes extinguishing as he realizes his failure.
As he falls, the fight seems to drain from his supporters. One by one, they throw down their weapons, sinking to their knees in surrender as my guards surround them.
I turn to Fiona, my heart pounding with fear I've never known in battle. "Are you hurt?" I demand, my free hand reaching for her, cataloging her injuries with frantic haste. "How badly did he wound you?"
"It's just a scratch," she says, though the pallor of her face belies her words. "You're the one bleeding onto the stones."
I glance down, noticing for the first time the spreading stain on my tunic. "It's nothing," I dismiss, though the burning pain suggests otherwise. "I need to get you to safety, to have your wound tended?—"
"Lachlan." She places her hand on my cheek, forcing me to focus on her face rather than her injury. "You took a sword for me. You were willing to die to protect me."
"Of course I was." The words come without thought, a simple truth that needs no elaboration. "I would die a thousand deaths to spare you a moment's pain."
Something shifts in her expression, a tenderness that steals my breath even as blood loss makes the edges of my vision dim. "That," she says softly, "is love."
The hall spins around us, darkening at the edges. The last thing I see before unconsciousness claims me is her face, fierce with determination, as she calls for help in a voice that brooks no disobedience.
I wake to the familiar scent of herbs and the less familiar sensation of being confined to a bed not of my choosing. My chamber—our chamber—comes into focus slowly, the fire burning low in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls.
"Don't you dare try to sit up."
Fiona's voice draws my attention to the side of the bed, where she sits in a chair pulled close, her face etched with weariness and relief in equal measure. Her arm is bandaged, a spot of red showing through the white linen.
"Your arm," I begin, my voice rougher than expected.
"Is fine. A scratch, as I said." She leans forward, her uninjured hand reaching for mine. "You, on the other hand, have been unconscious for nearly a day. The physician says you lost a great deal of blood."
Memory returns in fragments—the audience, Aiden's attack, the desperate fight. "The traitors?"
"Dealt with." Her expression hardens momentarily. "Those who survived the battle have been imprisoned awaiting your judgment. Callum has secured the castle and dispatched riders to the eastern territories to ensure no further rebellion awaits us there."
