This wasn’t a man begging for his life. This was a predator biding his time, counting heartbeats until the moment came.
“Let’s go,” the taller guard said abruptly, shoving his companion toward the door. “Let him rot for a while. See if that loosens his tongue.”
They fled, boots echoing against stone as they scrambled up the stairs. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, and the lock clicked into place with a finality that would have terrified most prisoners.
Murdock sat alone in the flickering torchlight, blood pooling beneath his chair. His breathing remained steady. The pain was there, burning and insistent, but pain was an old companion. He’d learned long ago how to push it aside, to focus on what mattered.
Skye. His daughter was safe in Ainsley. That was all that mattered.
Keith Gilmore would learn soon enough what happened to men who threatened Clan Ainsley. They all did, eventually.
The dining hall was too quiet.
Leona sat across from Keith, pushing venison around her plate. The servants had been dismissed after bringing the food, another one of Keith’s habits that made her skin crawl. He liked having her alone, liked watching her squirm under his gaze.
“Are ye nae hungry, Cousin?”
His voice was pleasant enough, but Leona knew better than to trust it. She forced herself to take a bite, chewing mechanically and tasting nothing.
“It’s delicious. Thank ye.”
“Liar.” He smiled when he said it, as if her discomfort amused him. “Ye’ve barely touched yer plate since we sat down.”
Because every moment at this table feels like sitting across from a wolf.
But she only smiled and reached for her wine cup, her fingers steady despite the tremor she felt inside.
“I’m simply tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Aye, well, ye’d better rest up.” Keith leaned back in his chair, swirling his own wine. “We have much to prepare for.”
Leona’s hand stilled on the cup. “Prepare for?”
“Our weddin', of course.” He watched her over the rim of his cup, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “As soon as the bastard pays, we’ll get married. It’s been six months since yer faither died, Leona. I’ll nae delay it any further.”
The venison turned to lead in her stomach. Six months. Half a year since her father’s heart had simply… stopped. Since Keith had swept in like a vulture, claiming the Lairdship that should have been Rufus’s when he came of age.
Since he’d trapped her with threats and promises and that horrible, knowing smile.
“What bastard are ye referring to that’s nae yerself?” The words escaped before she could stop them.
The room went very, very still.
Keith’s smile didn’t falter, but something shifted in his eyes, something dark and dangerous that made her heart hammer against her ribs. The air itself seemed to thicken.
He rose slowly, setting down his wine with exaggerated care. His boots thudded against the floor as he crossed to her side of the table, each step measured and purposeful.
“What did ye say?”
Leona’s mouth went dry. “I only meant…”
His hand shot out, and his fingers dug into her arm hard enough to bruise. He yanked her to her feet so forcefully that her chair toppled backward, clattering against the stone floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.
“Ye will heed me.” His voice was soft now, dangerously soft. The kind of soft that preceded violence. “Do ye understand?”
She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened like a vise. Pain shot up her arm, and she bit back a gasp, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Keith, please…”
