Finley stopped a few feet away, looking down at them with a thin, mocking smile that didn't reach his eyes.
His gaze settled on Enya first, lingering with a proprietary, chilling focus.
"Well, look at the state o’ ye," Finley said and it made the hair on Harald’s neck stand up. He took a slow step forward, the leather of his boots creaking. "Me traitor sister, huddled in the hay like a common farm-wench."
The way he spoke to her—as if she was a piece of discarded parchment rather than his own blood—made Harald’s stomach twist. It was a level of calculated, twisted cruelty.
"I expected more from a woman who managed tae bed the Hawk o' Lewis," Finley continued, his lip curling in a sneer. He gestured vaguely toward Enya's tangled dark hair with a gloved hand. "Who sold her soul tae this...beast."
He spat the last word with a glance toward Harald, but the insult didn't register.
Enya didn't flinch. Despite the dirt on her face and the ropes biting into her skin, she sat up as straight as her bonds would allow. She looked at her brother with a scathing, bone-deep weariness.
"Ye’re a lunatic, Finley," she said, her voice steady and sharp as a glass shard. "Ye’ve burned villages, endangered children, and now ye’re playing at being king in a shed that smells o' rot." She paused, her eyes narrowing as she delivered the final blow. "It’s pathetic."
Finley’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes darkened, the pupils dilating until they were twin pits of ink. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the torches. Slowly, he stepped into the circle of her space, his movements fluid and serpentine.
"Pathetic?" Finley whispered, the word a soft, poisonous hiss. He reached out a gloved hand, his fingers hovering inches from her throat in a gesture that was both a caress and a threat.
Harald’s muscles bunched, his heart hammering against his cracked ribs. "Keep yer filth off her, Cameron," he rumbled, his voice a low warning. "She’s already seen what ye are. All theposturing in the Highlands willnae change the fact that yer own sister looks at ye and sees naething but a coward."
Finley didn't turn. He kept his gaze on Enya, his thumb finally grazing the underside of her jaw, forcing her to look up.
"She looks at me and sees her reflection," Finley countered, his voice dripping with a cruel, intimate knowledge. "Dinnae ye, Enya? Ye think this Norseman loves ye? The moment his people start whispering o’ yer curse—as always, sister—he'll remember exactly whose blood runs in yer veins."
Harald lunged as far as his ropes permitted.
A guttural snarl vibrated in his chest, but he could only watch in silent agony as Finley’s fingers brushed Enya’s shoulder. He flicked a single piece of straw from her wool cloak with a terrifying, gentle precision.
"Nay, little sister," Finley whispered, leaning down until he was inches from her face. The intimacy of the gesture was sickening; it was the way a man might comfort a child. "He daesnae love ye."
He straightened up then, his eyes snapping to Harald’s with a look of triumph so pure it was haunting. Harald felt a cold sweat break across his brow, his mind racing. It wasn't just the physical threat; it was the way Finley spoke to Enya—as if he owned her history, her mind, and her very spirit.
"Touch her again and I’ll tear yer throat out wi’ me teeth," Harald growled. His eyes were fixed on Finley, his gaze steady and freezing.
Finley turned his attention to Harald, let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He crouched down so he was eye-level with the laird, his expression one of amused condescension.
"And what will ye dae, Laird Alvsson? Bleed on me boots? Ye’re a man o’ iron, I’ll give ye that. But even iron snaps."
Finley stood up, pacing a slow circle around them, his hands clasped behind his back. "Ye think this is about a ransom? Or a simple grudge? Nay. This moment is... ideal. Perfect. While the laird and his new bride are absent, me men are already moving tae yer keep."
Harald’s heart went cold, the blood in his veins turning to slush. Finley wasn’t just hoping for this outcome; he was already savoring it like a vintage wine.
"Think o’ it, Alvsson," Finley continued. He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, intimate whisper that felt like a spider crawling into Harald’s ear. "The confusion in yer gates."
Finley leaned in, his eyes bright. "The folk will ask: How did their mighty laird, the Hawk who sees all, allow himself tae be snatched from his own woods? They’ll wonder if the lady led him there. They’ll question if the man they trusted is as weak as the woman he was foolish enough tae marry.” Finley closed his eyes, breathing in, before continuing. “Trust is a fragile thing in these islands, Harald. It's built o' belief. Once it cracks, the people dinnae fight; they hide. And then, they turn on ye."
"Me people are stronger than yer lies, Cameron," Harald spat. He threw the words like stones, his voice a jagged rumble of defiance. But the weight of his position—that old, familiar ache of being the solitary guardian of a thousand souls—gnawed at his insides with fresh, sharp teeth.
He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach and felt the weight of every life in the village pressing down on him in the dark.
"Are they?" Finley tilted his head. "When they see their villages in ashes and their laird missing, they willnae look fer strength. They’ll look fer a scapegoat. And there sits yer lady—the sister o’ the man who burned them. The damage is already done, Harald. By the time ye see the sun again, yer lands will be mine."
Finley looked back at Enya, his expression shifting to one of chilling delight, his eyes sparkling with cold brilliance.
"And ye, Enya... ye’ll get tae watch. Ye’ll watch as the world ye tried tae build turns tae ash. Ye deserve even less after turnin’ against me."
Enya lunged forward as much as the ropes would allow, her face pale and sweating, her mismatched eyes wide with a desperate, frantic pleading. "Finley, stop this! Let him go. Take me—take me back tae the mainland, lock me in a cell, dae whatever ye want—but leave the island be! Think o' what ye're daeing tae yer own name!"
