Another clash of steel rang out below, followed by a shout that raised the hair along her arms. Selene’s hand hovered over thedagger, trembling. Fear warred with something else – a defiant spark that refused to be smothered.
If they came for her, she would not meet them empty-handed.
She drew the dagger free from its wrapping and rose slowly, her pulse pounding. The light weapon felt inadequate in her hand. Her gaze swept the chamber, alighting on the hearth. With a sharp tug, she pulled the iron poker loose, its weight solid and cold in her grasp. It was crude, ungainly — but if it came to it, she would do damage with it.
Her heart pounded as she moved to face the door armed with iron and steel.
Locked in for her own safety, Kenneth had assured her.
Yet as the noise swelled and the castle seemed to shudder around her, Selene understood the truth with chilling clarity. She was not safe at all. She was merely waiting.
She took up a position facing the door, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring. The dagger in her right hand trembled despite her grip, its narrow blade glinting in the glow from the fire. In her left, she clutched the iron poker she had torn from the hearth, its weight awkward but reassuring. Those were only weapons she had found that felt even remotely capable of keeping death at bay.
The sounds from outside were distant but unmistakable – the clang of steel on steel, the muffled roar of men shouting orders, the distant warning of the bagpipes. Each sound sent a fresh spike of fear through her chest.
Kenneth.
Her breath hitched as she pressed her back against the cold stone wall. She prayed – not with the measured words she had once learned as a girl, but with a desperate, formless plea born of terror. Please. Let him be alive. Let him be standing. Let him win.
She had known, the moment the pipes began to wail, that something had gone wrong. This was not a skirmish on a distant shore. It was not some misunderstanding at the gates. This was violence inside the keep itself – an invasion. Her mind raced, cataloguing what little she’d heard of such things. They would come for the women. For leverage. For ransom.
For her.
The thought tightened her grip on the dagger until her knuckles burned. She forced herself to breathe, shallow and fast, though her vision swam at the edges. She had no illusions about her chances. She was not trained, not strong, not prepared for men who lived by the sword. But she would not make it easy for them. She would not go quietly.
Her heart was hammering so hard she feared it might burst from her chest. The blood rushed in her ears as she swayed, kneesthreatening to buckle. She planted her feet wider, grounding herself, clutching her puny weapons as though they might anchor her to that moment.
The sounds grew closer.
Men’s voices echoed down the corridor, rough and urgent, boots pounding against stone. The noise surged like a wave, rolling inexorably toward her door. Panic flared sharp and bright, nearly stealing her breath.
Still gripping the dagger, she lurched forward and shoved the small writing desk against the door. The wood scraped loudly across the floor, the sound outrageously loud in the quiet of her chamber. She braced it with her shoulder, chest heaving.
Dear God, they were coming closer.
A heavy fist slammed into the oak door, rattling the hinges. Another blow followed, then another, each strike sending a jolt through her body.
A voice barked from the other side, coarse and impatient. “Open up, or we’ll break down yer damned door.”
She stepped back, shaking, and raised the dagger despite the way her arm burned with the effort. In her haste to shove the desk against the door she’d lost the poker.
Terror threatened to drown her, but beneath it something fierce sparked to life.
“No,” she whispered. Then louder, her voice stronger, “No!”
Wood cracked beneath the next blow. The desk shuddered, skidding an inch across the floor.
She threw her weight against it just as another strike landed. The third hit sent the desk lurching violently, nearly knocking her off her feet.
Her heart was pounding so loudly she could scarcely hear anything else. Her breath came in ragged gasps as the final blow smashed through what remained of the door. Splinters flew, the desk was shoved aside as if it were made of straw, and the men surged into the chamber.
“Help me!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. But who would hear? The men were fighting out of earshot.
She slashed wildly at the first man who reached her, the blade catching him across the arm. He shouted and staggered back, blood darkening his sleeve. But the second man was already on her, his grip iron-hard as he seized her wrist and wrenched the dagger away.
She kicked and shoved, clawing at faces, striking with the poker until it was torn from her grasp. She fought with everything shehad – teeth, nails, desperation – a cornered wildcat with no path of escape.
Her desperate resistance lasted no longer than mere seconds.
