The voice didn’t need to speak again; I could feel his satisfaction curling through my chest like smoke. A command rested between us—unspoken, but heavy.
Claim her.
Her red strands. Those haunting eyes. They forged themselves into my mind like a disease, feverish and consuming. The sensation punched straight into my gut.
My head snapped up. Instinct moved before thought—I sniffed the air.
Yes.
She smells good, doesn’t she?
A tremor ran through me. My legs began to move before my mind caught up.
The best, I told the beast.
My chest vibrated—low, resonant, impossible. The sound wasn’t human.
The beast purred in satisfaction.
Chapter 8
Euphemia
The sweat trickled down my back, but I ignored it and kept scrubbing. This was the work I liked—order, rhythm, a task I could master with my own two hands. The old Laird—God rest him—had let the house decay for years. The scale of it still shocked me; four floors if I counted the cellar, twelve bedrooms, endless corridors. Wasteful. No one needed this much space.
But the bones of the place were beautiful.
Carved wooden panels richer than anything I’d ever seen. Corniced ceilings with delicate patterns curling into every corner. Solid furniture that had stood so long it felt part of the stone itself.
All of it ignored by its new Sassunach master, I was sure.
I grunted, scrubbing harder. My hair was damp beneath the cap, sticking to my temples. Flora had given the three of us uniforms—grey dresses, white caps and aprons. After properly washing them, they weren’t half bad.
A heavy footfall sounded behind me.
I froze.
Then… nothing.
Had it stopped? Or had I imagined it?
I lifted my head slightly, listening.
Silence thickened the air.
I shook it off and shuffled along the floor, moving to the next section. Flora was supposed to be keeping an eye on the staff downstairs; I’d made it clear the rugs were to be beaten and swept by midday, then freshened with soap suds before drying. The place needed a proper cleansing from top to bottom.
My mind ran through the remaining tasks. The top floor would need to wait until Uncle Callum repaired the roof; he couldn’t start until the right timber arrived. Everything was slower here—repairs, deliveries, news. We’d make it work.
I leaned my weight forward to scrub a stubborn patch—when the air behind me shifted.
A presence.
Not a sound this time, but something… else.
A prickle along the back of my neck.
Not fear, not quite.
