“You hate him,” Callum says suddenly.
Isla turns back.“I hate what he didn’t give me.”
“He saved my life,” Callum says, the words ripping out of him before he can stop them.“He pulled me out of hell.He was present.Patient.Protective.”
“And absent from mine,” Isla fires back.“Your version of him doesn’t erase that.”
“Your anger feels personal,” Callum admits.“Like you’re attacking the man who raised me.”
“That’s because he didn’t raiseme,” Isla snaps.“And I’m done pretending that doesn’t matter.”
They stand there, grief and fury tangling, attraction simmering beneath it in a way neither of them wants.
Callum realizes, with bone-deep certainty, that this is no longer just about property.
It’s about loyalty.
Belonging.
Who gets to claim a man when he’s gone?
If Isla wants war, he will give it to her.
He will not lose the castle.
He will not lose Keir.
And he will not lose himself, even if despising Isla becomes the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.Because all that auburn hair and those expressive emerald eyes are like a calling card, tempting him.Damn, he’d like to kiss her.
Chapter7
Isla MacLaren has always known when a conversation is about to turn ugly.
It begins as a tightening behind her ribs, a shallow breath that refuses to go all the way in.Her mother’s tone shifts, barely, almost imperceptibly, but Isla hears it the way she hears a wrong note in a chord.The warmth drains out.The performance ends.What remains is sharpened, precise, and determined to win.
They are in a sitting room off the main corridor, one of those castle rooms that feels ceremonial rather than lived in.The ceilings are too high.The furniture is too heavy.The air smells faintly of stone and polish, like history scrubbed clean and presented for inspection.
A tray of tea rests untouched on a low table between two sofas.Steam curls upward in delicate threads, as if the castle itself is trying to pretend they’re here for something civilized.
Isla sits on the edge of the sofa, spine straight, hands folded loosely in her lap.Her posture is flawless.Years of lessons have trained her body to behave even when her emotions threaten revolt.Calm has always been her armor.
And yet she knows her mother is furious at her choice.
Alisa paces.
Back and forth across the thick rug, heels clicking softly.She hasn’t sat since they arrived.She hasn’t touched the tea.Her movements are clipped, restless, controlled, like a woman circling a problem she intends to crush.
“This is reckless,” her mother says.“Absolutely reckless.”
Isla waits a beat before answering.She’s learned that timing matters.A response delivered too quickly sounds emotional.Too slowly, and it sounds weak.
“I’m staying,” Isla says, determination layering beneath the two words.
Alisa stops short.Turns.Her eyes narrow.
“No, you’re not.”
Isla lifts her gaze.“The will requires ninety days.”
