“Fer her!” he spat. “Ye’ll nae keep her from me!”
Aidan advanced, silent. The coldness had returned, settling into his bones like iron. He didn’t feel the wound at his arm, the ache in his chest. He felt only the certainty that this man would never touch her again.
Edwin lunged, aiming for his throat. Aidan sidestepped, caught the strike, and brought his sword down in one clean arc. The blade tore through the air, through flesh, through the last breath that left Edwin’s body.
The sound that followed wasn’t a scream—just the dull exhale of something ending.
Edwin staggered, eyes wide, blood pouring from the cut at his neck. His sword dropped, clattering against the stones. He swayed once, then fell to his knees.
He looked up at Aidan, lips trembling. “She… she was mine. She was meant tae be?—”
Aidan drove his blade through his chest before he could finish.
The steel went in deep, through bone, through the last of his words. Aidan leaned close, his voice low enough that only the dying man could hear. “She was never yers. Ye’ll nae speak her name again.”
He twisted the blade once, then pulled it free. Edwin collapsed, the light already gone from his eyes.
For a long moment, Aidan stood there, breathing hard. His hand trembled against the hilt, the adrenaline beginning to drain, but his face remained cold. Around him, the battle had slowed. The MacLeod soldiers hesitated, staring at their fallen laird.
Then someone shouted, “He’s dead!”
The words carried through the courtyard like wind through broken glass. Panic rippled through the enemy ranks. One by one, they dropped their weapons. Some fled toward the forest. Others knelt where they stood, hands raised, faces streaked with ash.
“Hold the line!” Gordon’s voice roared from the gate. “Take their surrender!”
Aidan barely heard him. His heart was still pounding too fast, his vision tunneling on the ground before him, on the man who had nearly stolen everything. He sheathed his sword with a slow, deliberate motion.
The moment the hilt clicked into place, the noise of the world returned—the shouting, the clang of blades, the cries of surrender.
And then he heard her. “—Aidan.”
He turned.
Catherine was standing a few yards away, half-hidden by smoke and shadow. Her gown was torn, the hem soaked and blackened, her hair plastered to her cheeks. She was trembling, one arm wrapped around herself, the other pressed to her throat where Edwin’s blade had been.
She looked at him the way she had that first night she’d arrived at his keep, defiant and alive. She had never looked more beautiful.
He took a step toward her. Then another.
The mud sucked at his boots, blood streaking across the ground where he’d walked. Every muscle in his body ached, but hebarely felt it. The only thing he felt was the pull—the unrelenting need to reach her, to see for himself that she was still breathing.
Her lips parted, as if she meant to speak, but no sound came out. The space between them was small now, filled with everything they’d left unsaid.
He stopped just short of touching her. His voice came rough, quieter than he meant. “Are ye hurt?”
She shook her head, though her eyes glistened. “Nay.”
He didn’t believe her. There was a small cut along her neck, a line of red where Edwin’s sword had grazed her. He reached up slowly, his hand hovering, not yet touching. The heat of her skin met the cold of his fingers.
Something in her breath hitched. Behind them, the last of the fighting faded. Men shouted victory, the clash of weapons turning to murmurs, but it all felt far away. The night, the war, the smoke — none of it mattered now.
Aidan looked at her, really looked at her, and every thought he’d buried since she’d stepped into his life rose like fire through the cold.
He wanted to tell her he’d never known fear until her, that every blade that had ever cut him meant nothing compared to the thought of losing her. But the words caught in his throat. So, he just stood there for a moment, his hand still at her neck, histhumb resting where the blood had been, and let the silence hold what words could not.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The night had gone still. The smoke drifted low over the courtyard, curling in faint gray ribbons that caught the dying firelight. The air was heavy with ash and the sharp tang of iron, the kind of stillness that comes only after chaos. Around them, men moved like ghosts, their voices lowered in the wake of battle. Somewhere beyond the walls, a horn sounded for victory, long and distant, but Catherine barely heard it.
