The man’s grip tightened cruelly, yanking her against him. Pain flared up her arm as his other hand tangled in her hair, jerking her head back to bare her throat.
"Another step and I’ll break her neck," he snarled, eyes wild. "Ye think I’ll go alone? I’ll drag her tae hell with me if I must!"
Liliane gasped, struggling against him, nails clawing at his wrist. The pressure on her scalp burned, fear flashing sharp and cold through her chest.
Tòrr moved with lethal focus, circling, searching for an opening. The man’s breath came ragged, his stance faltering from blood loss, but desperation lent him strength.
When the blade finally flashed, it happened fast. Steel met steel, the clash ringing through the courtyard. The man shoved Liliane aside, turning his fury on Tòrr.
"Ye’ll regret this!" he spat, slashing wildly.
Tòrr met the blow head-on, the force jarring up his arm. Another strike, then another — the man’s movements were frantic, reckless, but strong. They grappled, swords locking, the smell of blood thick in the air.
Then Tòrr twisted, driving his elbow into the man’s jaw before slamming him hard against the wall. The attacker staggered, dazed, just long enough for Tòrr’s blade to find its mark.
The man froze, eyes wide, a strangled sound escaping his throat before he crumpled to the ground.
Tòrr stood over him, chest heaving, rage still burning in his eyes. His gaze flicked to Liliane, shaken but unharmed, and something inside him twisted painfully.
He sheathed his sword with a sharp motion. "Nay one," he said, voice low and deadly, "touches what’s mine."
The man froze, eyes wide, a strangled sound escaping his throat before he crumpled to the ground.
Tòrr stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his blade. For a moment, he didn’t move — only stared down at the fallen man, jaw clenched tight, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering torchlight.
Liliane pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, her whole body shaking. The inn was still, save for the ragged sound of Tòrr’s breathing.
He wiped his blade clean with a sharp motion, the anger still burning behind his eyes. Then, without a word, he turned and strode toward her.
She flinched before she could stop herself.
He stopped short, the movement barely perceptible, but it was enough. Something flickered in his gaze, before he turned away again and went straight for the last man and put his blade at the man's throat, fury and control warring in his expression.
“If ye kill me, ye’ll regret it MacDonald. Our laird wants her back and…”
He never finished. Tòrr’s blade met his throat, and silence fell. Liliane’s breath came in shallow bursts. She could hear her own pulse roaring in her ears.
“He didnae deserve tae live. Ye saw it.” He sheathed his sword with a sharp motion.
Daemon stood near the door, chest heaving, his sword slick with blood. One of the attackers lay dead at his feet. Daemon sheathed his own sword and moved to examine the three bodies. "Well. That was bracin’."
"Are ye hurt?" Tòrr turned to Liliane, and the fury drained from his expression, replaced by concern so raw it made her chest tighten. "Did they hurt ye?"
"I'm fine. Just shaken." But even as she said it, she felt something warm trickling down her cheek.
"Ye're bleedin'." He was across the room in three strides, his hands coming up to cup her face with surprising gentleness. "Where? Where did they hurt ye?"
"It's naethin', just a scratch."
"It's nae naethin'." His thumb brushed carefully along her cheekbone, and she winced. "Christ, they cut ye."
"One of them had a ring. When he grabbed me face, it must have cut me." She stopped, seeing the muscle jump in his jaw. "Tòrr, it's just a small cut."
"They marked ye." His voice was low, dangerous. "They put their hands on ye and marked ye."
"Aye, but ye stopped them. Ye saved me." She touched his wrist, feeling the tension coiled there. "I'm safe now. Because of ye."
"I should have killed that bastard slower." His eyes were still locked on the cut. "Should have made him suffer fer every second of fear he caused ye."
