Finley stepped into her space, his shadow swallowing her. He was so close she could smell the damp wool of his cloak and the bitter, sharp scent of his coldness. His voice dropped to a lethal, mocking hiss.
“Ye’ve gone soft, Enya. The Norseman has fed ye well and patted yer head like a hound.” He leaned in, his eyes like flint. “Now ye’ve fergotten the color o’ our faither's blood on the grass.”
Enya flinched. The mention of their father was a jagged blade, meant to twist in her gut and shame her back into obedience.
She waited for the old spark of shared grief to bind them, for the brother she knew to reappear.
But as she looked at his cold, unrecognizable face, the spark didn't come. There was no warmth left in him. The only thing she felt was a devastating, final loss.
“I havenae fergotten,” she whispered, her voice trembling but certain. “But I willnae let his memory be the reason I murder an innocent man.”
Finley’s face contorted, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. “Innocent? There is nay such thing as an innocent Norseman. I will nae bury another Cameron because ye’ve decided tae grow tender fer a Norseman.”
“Tender,” she repeated, her voice gone thin. “Is that what ye think this is?”
Finley’s gaze cut over her face with brutal precision. “I think ye’re wavering. I think ye’re fergettin’ who ye are. Ye are a Cameron, nae a pet fer a barbarian.”
Enya’s hands shook beneath her cloak. She curled them into fists, and her nails bit into her palms, drawing blood. She needed the pain to stay grounded, to keep from screaming.
“I ken exactly who I am,” she said, voice low and burning. “And I’m tellin’ ye the truth, Finley. Harald is nae our enemy.”
Finley’s mouth thinned into a bloodless line. “He will be.”
“Because yewanthim tae be!” Enya snapped. “Because ye need a monster tae justify what ye’re daein’.”
Finley’s eyes went flat. “Ye’re sounding like a traitor.”
The word struck deep. It was the curse she had been carrying in her own mind, now spat at her by the person she loved. It felt like a door slamming shut forever.
Finley took another step, invading her space until the heat of his anger was a physical weight. His face was inches from hers, his eyes wide and unblinking, like a predator’s.
His tone sharpened into a cold, terrifying command that brooked no defiance. “Ye will continue,” he hissed. “Ye will find out what Harald plans. Ye will find where his ships go, and ye will send word. Dae ye hear me, Enya? This is fer our clan. This is fer Faither.”
Enya swallowed hard, the salt of her own fear stinging her throat. Her heart hammered so loudly she could feel the thud of it in her teeth.
She realized then, with a devastating, soul-crushing clarity, that Finley was the storm, not the shield. He was the very thing that would burn her world down if she kept feeding the fire. He ws not her savior.
“I cannae promise ye that,” Enya said. Her voice was quiet, barely a breath, but it held a weight that made the air between them go cold.
Finley went still. He looked at her as if she had suddenly started speaking in a tongue he didn't recognize. The air between them froze, the silence so heavy it felt like it might shatter.
“What?” he asked. The word was slow, hollow, and utterly disbelieving.
Enya didn't answer.
She stepped back, her boots crunching softly on the damp earth, already turning away. Her cloak shifted around her like a shroud, leaving him standing there in the thin, miserable light.
She had gone there looking for a reason to stay loyal, and all he had given her was a reason to mourn.
Enya stopped at the very edge of the trees. She didn't turn around fully; just turned her head enough for her voice to carry through the mist, her breath hitching.
“I’m nae certain I can continue,” she whispered. “I’m nae certain I even ken who ye are anymore.”
Enya walked into the trees. She let the darkness swallow her whole, her tears finally blurring the path. Behind her, Finley remained in the clearing, a silhouette of a man staring at the empty air where his sister’s love used to be, something jagged and final breaking in his wake.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The gates loomed like a jagged jaw against the sky, blacker than the night itself. As the keep’s walls rose to swallow her, Enya felt a phantom pressure against her ribs, as if the stones were already leaning in to crush the breath from her lungs.
