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“I avoid making eye contact with most warriors … some look so desperate,” Ailsa admitted, still not looking in her direction. “It’s hard to bear.”

“Aye,” Kayla murmured. “And we’re just making things worse.”

And they were. Back in Braewall, Kayla had taught her how to channel earth magic, using the rose tattoo on her calf as a conduit, but never like this. At the end of each day, they both felt hollowed out. So many warriors had received multiple enhanced tattoos now. None of them possessed the druidic gift, which meant the power they wielded was volatile, hence the way their eyes glowed silver when they fought.

Kayla had told her it wasn’t a sign of strength, but a warning.

Ailsa dragged a hand over her face. By the Five. There had to be a way to help those enslaved warriors—to free them. She couldn’t let their suffering continue. Every day they remained leashed to the king was a crime. One he’d pay for.

“Ailsa.” Kayla’s voice reached her then. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, she turned and folded her arms across her chest, as if that created a physical barrier between them.

Kayla marked her stance, her eyes shadowing with a familiar hurt. Her jaw tightened then, and stepping close, she reached out and gripped Ailsa by the upper arms. “I’m suffering too.” She bit the words out. “Gods-damn-it. I’d rather die than continue helping that shitweasel.” She then leaned in and whispered, “Listen up, lass … I’ve come up with a plan.”

Ailsa’s heart kicked. “What—”

The scrape of iron echoed through the alcove then, cutting her off.

The two women moved sharply back from each other, watching as the door swung open once more. Had their captors brought supper early today?

The warrior who stood in the doorway didn’t carry a platter of food though.

Maol’s gaze swept over the alcove before coming to rest on Ailsa. The weight of his stare lingered, as it often did, making her skin prickle. Not this bastard.

Two more men stood just behind Maol, fighting daggers drawn.

“I hear you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself, Brèagha,” he greeted her softly.

Ailsa stiffened. She hated the nickname he used with her—‘Pretty’—as if they had some special connection, a shared history. Something about him made her skin crawl. He looked at her as if he couldn’t decide whether to bed or gut her.

His gaze lingered on her mouth. “You’ve still got blood on your lips, lass.”

Ailsa didn’t react, even as she quashed the urge to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.

“What do you want, Maol?” Kayla ground out, stepping in front of Ailsa.

The movement was instinctive, protective, and it made Ailsa frown. Hadn’t Kayla learned by now that she couldn’t keep her from harm?

Maol ignored Kayla, meeting Ailsa’s eye once more over the older woman’s shoulder. “Come, Brèagha … the king would like a word.”

4: THE KING’S OFFER

“PLEASE, EAT SOMETHING.”

Ailsa stiffened, taking in the spread that lay across the table between her and the King of Braewall. There was enough food here to feed six hungry warriors: loaves of fresh bread studded with walnuts, leeks braised in butter, a rich venison stew, hard-boiled eggs, and a round of goat’s cheese. Slaves—men and women marked by iron collars rather than magic—hovered nearby, holding ewers of plum wine, ready to refill their cups when asked.

Niall wasn’t going without.

Casting the king a veiled look, she reached out and ripped off a piece of bread. She then helped herself to a spoonful of stew. Usually, she had a good appetite, but this man robbed her of it.

The king lounged in his chair, peeling an egg.

Ailsa watched his hands. Niall’s fingers were long and nimble—just like his brother’s.

Curse it. She didn’t want to compare this man to Darach. They were nothing alike.

Aren’t they? She hadn’t really known the blade she’d hired at all.