He didn’t know what had happened. He just knew that the sight tore something loose inside him.
“Lachlan.”
Both heads snapped toward him. Kristen’s eyes widened with relief and terror. Lachlan’s narrowed like a man irritated by a late guest.
“Drop the knife,” Neil ordered, his voice low and deadly.
Lachlan pressed the blade a fraction harder, and Kristen hissed. A bead of blood slid down, slow and obscene.
“This was always meant to happen, ye ken that, Braither,” Lachlan snarled. “One of us was always going to die. Might as well be the one who never deserved the lairdship.”
“Ye think ye’re the one who deserves to live?” Neil barked. “After what ye have done?”
“I think it is ye,” Lachlan answered, calm as winter. “Ye and yer cursed line. Faither ruined this clan, and ye followed in his footsteps. I tried to save us. Ye should have lain down and died when ye had the chance.”
“Let her go,” Neil gritted out. “Now. I will hear every lie ye want to spit about me. But if ye touch her again, there will be nothing left of ye to bury.”
Lachlan let out a broken laugh. “Look at ye. Still protecting what is yers, even now. Even after I sent ye to hell five years ago.”
Neil widened his stance. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword until his knuckles ached. “Last chance, Braither. Drop the dagger.”
“I am nae yer braither, ye bastard,” Lachlan snapped.
His arm jerked, the dagger angling for Kristen’s throat.
Neil moved.
Steel sliced through the air as he dove forward, and Kristen twisted to the side. Lachlan’s blade grazed her skin but missed the kill.
Neil’s sword struck Lachlan’s wrist with a crack, and the dagger flew away, clattering across the floor.
Lachlan swore and fell back a step, his hand already flying to his own sword. The bandit gave a low laugh and shifted, the chains scraping the wall. The cell filled with light and shouts and damp air.
They came together with a crash that rattled the bars. There was no choreography or strength to the fight, only the grind of metal and the saw of their breaths.
And five years of rage.
Lachlan struck first, hard and high. Neil caught the blow and shoved, their blades sliding and locking. They leaned into the bind, their faces close enough for their breaths to mingle.
“Ye could have come to me,” Neil said through clenched teeth. “Ye could have spoken plainly. Ye could have asked for a different future, instead of feeding wolves with me name.”
“Yewere the future,” Lachlan spat. “And that, right there, was the problem.”
They broke apart, and Neil cut left. Lachlan parried and answered with a slash that kissed Neil’s forearm. Heat stung, but Neil did not look at it. He let his rage burn clean, keeping his feet and his breath.
Kristen pressed herself against the wall, one hand at her throat, blood marking her skin in a thin, furious line. Her eyes did not leave them.
Lachlan ducked, then dove for Neil’s shoulder. Neil met him in the middle, steel clashing against steel. He shoved forward and twisted his wrist, breaking the lock. Lachlan stumbled, and Neil stepped into the opening without a second thought.
“Wai—” Lachlan called, but it was too late.
Neil drove his sword straight through his chest, and the sound of tearing flesh filled the dungeons.
Thick silence ensued.
Lachlan’s eyes went wide, and for a heartbeat, he looked almost young, almost lost. The sword slipped from his hand and clattered on the stone. His knees buckled, before he fell to the floor, staring at nothing.
Neil stood over him, his chest heaving. “That is for Alex, for the bairns, and for me wife, who ye tried to kill.”
