Rage unlike anything he had ever known tore through Kieran’s chest.
“Sebastian!” he bellowed, surging forward.
Men moved to intercept him, desperate now, realizing too late what was at stake. Kieran barreled through them, shoving shields aside, knocking one man off his feet with sheer momentum, ducking another’s swing without breaking stride.
Behind him, Elijah saw the shift.
“After him!” Elijah shouted. “Daenae let him reach the trees!”
But Sebastian was quick—quicker than Kieran had given him credit for. He dragged Lydia behind him, using her as cover, keeping men between them as he retreated. Lydia stumbled, nearly falling, and Sebastian yanked her upright with cruel force.
Kieran’s vision tunneled.
He could see nothing but her: her bound hands, the panic in her eyes, the way she struggled to keep pace.
Hold on. Just hold on.
He broke through the last cluster of men separating them, his boots pounding, his sword raised, and Sebastian finally came to a halt. But this time, he drew his dirk, pressing the cold steel against Lydia’s throat.
Lydia was shaking. Mud streaked her gown, her wrists were bound cruelly behind her back, but her eyes, wide and bright with fear, never left Kieran.
“Kieran,” she said.
The sound of her voice nearly undid him.
“Let her go,” Kieran said, stopping several paces away. His sword was still in his hand, his arm steady despite the rage burning through him. “This ends here.”
Sebastian laughed softly. “Does it?”
Two men stepped out from behind the trees at Sebastian’s signal, flanking him like obedient hounds. Both were armed, alert, their eyes flicking between Kieran and the hostage they held.
Sebastian leaned closer to Lydia’s ear. “Ye see, me laddie,” he said conversationally, “this is the problem with ye. Always chargin’ forward. Always believin’ strength alone makes a laird.”
Kieran took another step forward, but the dirk pressed closer to Lydia’s throat.
“Och,” Sebastian chastised. “Careful.”
Kieran stopped instantly, teeth grinding.
Sebastian smiled, pleased. “Good. Ye do listen when properly motivated.”
“What do ye want?” Kieran demanded.
Sebastian’s eyes glittered with fury. “To be heard.”
He straightened, still holding Lydia tight, and spoke with the bitter relish of a man finally unburdening himself.
“I should have been laird,” Sebastian said. “After yer faither died, the council should have turned to me. I had experience, loyalty, vision.” His lip curled in distaste. “Instead, they chose a grievin’ boy.”
Kieran’s grip tightened on his sword. “They chose the rightful heir.”
“Rightful?” Sebastian scoffed. “Yer faither squandered our coffers on women and wine. He ruined us. I cleaned up his mess for years while ye were still learnin’ which end of a blade to hold.”
“And yet,” Kieran said coldly, “I rebuilt this clan. Nae ye.”
Sebastian’s eyes darkened. “Aye. And I watched ye do it. I watched ye grow stronger. I watched me chances slip away.” His voice dropped low, his baritone rumbling through Keiran’s chest. “So I adapted. I made sure ye never had an heir. One accident is tragedy. Two is misfortune. Three?” He shrugged.“By then, even the most loyal to ye began to wonder if the problem was ye.”
Kieran’s chest burned, grief and fury tangling into something feral.
