The washroom door exploded inward with a crack that made everyone freeze.
Tòrr filled the doorway, with Daemon a half-step behind him. The fury blazing in Tòrr's eyes was so raw, so absolute, that Liliane felt intense fear for her capturers.
"Get yer hands off me wife," he growled, even though his voice was deadly quiet. "Now."
"This daesnae concern ye, MacDonald." The man holding her arms tightened his grip. "We're just collectin' what belongs tae our laird."
"She belongs tae me." Tòrr's hand moved to his sword hilt. "And ye've got three seconds tae release her before I paint this room with yer blood."
"Three against two," the man in front sneered. "Daesnae look like those odds are against us."
"I assure ye they are." Daemon's blade whispered free of its sheath. "Because ye just laid hands on our lady, and that's a death sentence."
"One," Tòrr said, taking a step forward.
The man holding Liliane jerked her in front of him like a shield. "Stay back! We'll hurt her if we have tae!"
"Two."
"Our laird wants her returned, and we're nae leavin' without her."
"Three."
Tòrr moved.
Liliane had seen him fight in the training yard, had watched him spar with practiced efficiency. But this, this was something else entirely. This was violence stripped of all pretense, raw and brutal and utterly terrifying.
His sword cleared its sheath in a blur of steel. The first man, the one who'd threatened to strike her, barely had time to raise his hands before Tòrr's blade took him across the throat. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as he dropped, gurgling.
"Great Highlands gods!" The man holding Liliane yanked her tighter against him, one arm locking hard around her ribs as his free hand shot toward the hilt of his sword.
Pain flared where his grip bruised her, her breath knocked short as his stance shifted, using her like a shield between himself and any attacker.
Liliane struggled, panic flooding through her as steel rasped free beside her ear. Through the tangle of her hair, she watched as Daemon engaged the third attacker, their blades clashing with sharp, ringing strikes.
"Ye made a mistake," Tòrr said to the man now facing him alone. "A fatal one."
"We're just followin' orders!"
"Then ye'll die followin' orders." Tòrr's sword moved in a controlled arc, forcing the man back against the wall. "Who sent ye? Was it Munro?"
"I dinnae ken." The man tried to duck sideways, but Tòrr anticipated it, his blade catching him across the ribs.
"Wrong answer."
The man screamed, blood blooming across his shirt. "It was Munro! He sent us tae retrieve his daughter durin’ the festival! Said there'd be too much chaos fer anyone tae notice!"
"He was wrong." Tòrr's voice was ice. "I always notice when it comes tae me clan or me wife."
Behind them, Daemon finished his opponent with brutal efficiency, the man's body crumpling to the floor with a wet thud.
"Two down," Daemon said, breathing hard. "One tae go."
Liliane barely had time to draw breath before the wounded man lurched upright, blood streaking his side. His hand shot out, seizing her wrist.
"Stay back!" he barked, dragging her toward him.
"Let her go!" Tòrr’s voice cut through the din like thunder, his sword raised.
