I stop, facing him with an intensity that would make lesser men cower. "She's mine. That's the only difference that matters."
Callum studies me, then slowly nods. "As you say."
We continue in silence to the hall where my generals have gathered, along with the surviving nobility of the fallen kingdom. They watch me with a mixture of fear and resentment, these lords and ladies who just hours ago pledged fealty to a different king.
I take my place at the front of the room, beside the ancient stone that has witnessed centuries of MacLeod marriages. Soon, it will witness the union of our bloodlines, the absorption of their dynasty into mine.
My generals approach, one by one, to offer congratulations and barely concealed curiosity.
"Is she worth the trouble?" asks Murdoch, my oldest captain. "A conquered bride brings her own problems."
"She's worth it." The certainty in my voice surprises even me.
"Will she fight you?" Another general, grinning with crude suggestion.
I fix him with a stare that wipes the smile from his face. "She's to be your queen. Remember that, or I'll help you remember."
They retreat, chastened, as the doors open. The hall falls silent.
Fiona enters, escorted by her father. She's changed into a white gown, simple but elegant, her hair partly tamed into abraid interwoven with small white flowers. She looks like spring after a harsh winter—life returning to frozen ground.
Our eyes meet across the hall, and for a moment, everything else fades away. There's still hatred in her gaze, still defiance, but something else too. A dawning recognition that we're bound now, she and I, in ways neither of us fully understands.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She was meant to be a conquest, a strategic acquisition. Not this ache in my chest, this need that goes beyond power or politics.
As she walks toward me, head high despite her circumstances, I realize a truth I've been fighting since I first saw her.
I haven't just claimed a kingdom today.
I've claimed my obsession.
three
. . .
Fiona
They dress me like a sacrifice.White gown, flowers in my hair, jewels at my throat that feel like a collar. My father's eyes are hollow when he comes to escort me, his hands cold when they take mine. "Be brave," he whispers, but the words ring false. There's no bravery in this—only survival. My ladies fuss around me, arranging my hair, dabbing perfume on my wrists, avoiding my eyes. They know what I'm walking into. A marriage bed where desire has no place, only conquest. A warrior king who expects to claim me as publicly as he claimed my kingdom. My fingers tremble, and I curl them into fists. I will not let Lachlan Drummond see my fear. I will give him nothing freely, not even that.
"It's time, Princess." One of Lachlan's men stands at my door, his expression carefully blank. Not leering, not pitying. Small mercies.
I take my father's arm, feeling how he struggles to stand tall beside me. They've let him keep his dignity, at least outwardly.No chains, no visible wounds. But the defeat in his posture tells me everything about what this day has cost him.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs as we walk. "I failed you. Failed our kingdom."
"No." I squeeze his arm. "We were outnumbered. Weakened by the winter. It wasn't your fault."
He shakes his head. "A king protects his people, his family. I couldn't even protect my own daughter from becoming spoils of war."
"I'm not spoils," I tell him fiercely. "I'm still me. Still a MacLeod. He can take my hand, but he can't take who I am."
The bravado in my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. What do I know of what Lachlan Drummond can take? The stories they tell of him—of beds stained with virgin blood, of women left broken in his wake—crowd my mind, making my steps falter.
We pause outside the great hall. I can hear the murmur of voices inside, the awkward mingling of conquerors and conquered. My father turns to me, his face etched with grief.
"Fiona." He cups my face as he did when I was a child waking from nightmares. "Whatever happens in there, remember that you are royal by blood and bearing. He can force a crown upon you, but the dignity of wearing it comes from within."
I nod, unable to speak past the knot in my throat.
