"Finley," Harald said, his voice dropping into a register so flat and calm it was chilling. "Let her go. This is between us. She is nae part o' yer war."
"She’s the only part that matters!" Finley said with fury. “She chose ye over me, her own blood!”
He pressed the blade harder. Enya felt a thin sting of pain, followed by the slow, sickening crawl of warm and wet blood, sliding down toward her collarbone.
Harald didn't hesitate. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his hands held open and empty.
"Take me," Harald said. The words were absolute. It was a total, unconditional surrender. "Kill me here. If ye want a sacrifice tae start yer war, let it be the laird. Let her walk tae the woods, andI will stay. I will give ye me life willingly, Finley. Just... move the blade."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"Harald, nay!" Enya screamed, the sound tearing from her lungs, vibrating against the steel at her throat. "Dinnae say it! Ye have tae lead the keep! Dinnae ye dare give yerself tae him!"
She struggled, ignoring the bite of the knife, her eyes locked on Harald. He looked at her then. The expression on his face was one of such profound peace that it terrified her more than Finley’s madness.
"Me life is naught if I have tae live it without ye, Enya," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. He stepped another inch forward. "I am yers. Dae ye understand? Finley... take the trade."
Enya’s heart felt as if it were being shredded. The irony was a bitter weight: she had spent her life afraid of being a burden, afraid that her curse would destroy those she loved. And here he was, the most powerful man she had ever known, ready to discard his life just so she could keep hers.
"Ye’re a fool, Alvsson," Finley hissed, his eyes darting between them, sensing the power of a bond he could never comprehend. "A weak, sentimental fool."
Enya stared at Harald, her vision blurring at the edges. Her scalp was screaming from the tension of Finley’s grip, and the hot, iron-scented blood was still tracing a slow path down her skin, but all she could feel was the weight of Harald’s sacrifice.
Nay, please God, nay.
She wanted to scream at him to stop being so damn noble, to remember the keep, the people, the land that needed its laird. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't worth the trade. She was just a shadow he plucked from the mists.
But she couldn’t speak; she could only gasp against the cold bite of the blade.
"How touching," Finley mocked, his voice a jagged, manic vibration against the back of her head. "A tragic end fer a tragic pair. I think I’ll take that trade, Alvsson. I’ll take yer life, and then I’ll take hers anyway, just fer the spite o’—"
The door burst open.
"Drop the blade!"
The roar belonged to Leo, a sound so thunderous it seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards.
He flooded the room like a tide of iron, three of Harald’s house-guards at his heels. Their swords were drawn and gleaming with a cold light in the sudden flare of torches. The small, rotted barracks was suddenly far too crowded; the air, once thin and stagnant, became a pressurized weight of steel and impending death.
Enya felt the sudden, jagged shift in the atmosphere—a lurch of hope so violent it made her knees almost buckle. The balance had shattered in a heartbeat. Finley’s men outside had been silenced, and now his escape was a wall of Norse men.
She felt the hand in her hair tremble. The force of it yanked her scalp away from her skull, a sharp, white-hot fire that radiated from the crown of her head down to the base of her spine.
"Back!" Finley shrieked, his voice ascending to a high, hysterical pitch that scraped against Enya’s ears. "I’ll kill her! I swear tae the Saints, I’ll open her throat!"
Enya’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against the steel. She braced herself for the final slide of the blade, her breath catching in a sob she couldn't release. She looked at Harald, expecting him to freeze, expecting the world to stop.
But Harald moved with a silent fluidity that made Enya’s head swim.
The look on his face, a mask of such absolute rage, made her blood run cold even as a spark of primal relief flared in her gut. The gods themselves wouldn't be able to stand in his way.
Finley made a desperate, clumsy move—but Harald was a whirlwind. He caught Finley’s wrist in a grip that sounded like dry wood snapping. A strangled scream tore from Finley’s throat as the knife clattered to the floor.
Before Enya could even process that she was free, Harald had shoved her toward Leo and lunged for her brother.
Harald used his hands.
He drove Finley into the rotted wall with a force that made the timber groan. He caught Finley by the throat, his massive handnearly meeting around the man’s neck, and slammed him down into the dirt and hay.
