Page 132

Deidre kneels in front of me, her hands resting gently on mine. Her voice is calm but unwavering. “You represent hope, lass. They believe you’re the one to finish what your father started. And that terrifies the people who thrive on control, on silence, on oppression.”

I shake my head, my throat burning with unshed tears. “I don’t even know who my father was! How am I supposed to carry a legacy I never even knew existed? How am I supposed to fight for something I don’t understand?”

The fire in my chest dims, replaced by a sinking weight. My shoulders slump as I sink back onto the bed, gripping the edge to keep myself steady. Guilt creeps in, sharp and unwelcome.

“I’m being selfish,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Acting as if I’m a child, throwing my anger around and… proving your point. I’m sorry.”

Deidre’s hand rests gently on my shoulder, her voice firm but kind. “Triona, you’re not selfish for feeling the way you do. You’ve been handed so much all at once, and no one expects you to handle it perfectly. But let me tell you this… I think you’re handling it as well as anyone could. Better than most, even.”

Her words settle over me like a fragile shield, not quite enough to banish the guilt entirely, but enough to stop it from crushing me. I glance up at her, and she gives me a small, encouraging smile. “You’re showing great strength, Triona. Even if you don’t feel it right now, it’s there. I see it.”

Amelia steps closer, her voice gentle again. “You love fiercely and stand tall in the face of adversity. Knowing where you come from doesn’t change who you are. It adds to it. When you’re ready, I’ll help you find the answers you seek. But only when you’re ready.”

I close my eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. When I open them, the hardness in my chest has lessened, replaced by exhaustion. “I’ll need time,” I breathe.

Amelia nods. “Take all the time you need.”

The sound of footsteps echoes softly down the hall, and I hear murmured voices before the door creaks open. Casey is the first to appear, leaning against the doorframe with his signature smirk firmly in place, arms crossed as if he’s already prepared to break the tension. Callan follows, his broad frame filling the doorway before he steps inside. Bran trails behind, settling on the edge of the chair near the window, his usual humour subdued but still present in the twitch of his lips, as if waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Finn doesn’t appear, his absence lingering like a shadow in the room.

“So, ye’re full Irish then?” Casey asks, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect. “You make much more sense as a person now.”

His grin widens as he expertly dodges the small pillow I hurl at him.

“What?” he says, feigning innocence. “It’s not an insult. It’s practically a compliment! The fiery temper, the stubborn streak, the whole... ‘hell hath no fury like a woman on a mission’ attitude—aye, it all checks out now.”

I roll my eyes, but a faint smile tugs at my lips. He always has a way of cutting through the weight of a moment, leaving something lighter behind. “And here I thought finding out I wasn’t your sister might make you less insufferable,” I quip, tilting my chin up. “Maybe even earn me a little sympathy.”

“Less insufferable? Me?” Casey gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Never. You wouldnae know what to do with a dull brother.”

He steps closer, kneeling in front of me, taking my hand in his. His grin is still in place, but his eyes are earnest. “Besides,” he says, flashing a grin, “I think no less of ye. Ye’re still my favourite sister… Even if you’re more Irish rebel than Scottish lass, blood or not, it doesn’t change a thing. We’ve got your back.”

Callan’s voice rumbles from the corner, quiet but steady. “Aye. Ye’ve always been a Sinclair to me. Most days I forget ye dinnae have the same stubborn blood flowin’ through yer body.”

The lump that rises in my throat catches me off guard, but the love in his tone steadies me, the way only Callan can.

Still, my thoughts linger elsewhere. My gaze flickers to the window, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. “My Da… James,” I murmur, almost to myself. “He told me about Robert once. He never used his name, but said he always had little reminders of him around. Said that reminder grew up to be fiery and stubborn.”

My fingers tighten slightly, memories resurfacing—small trinkets on the mantel, a worn leather journal he never let me read, the way his eyes would cloud over whenever he spoke of loss.

I swallow, exhaling shakily. “And now... I know why.”

My father carried Robert with him, always. In the way he spoke, in the way he grieved. And now I carry him too.

The realisation lands deep in my chest, settling alongside everything else. For so long, I thought I was searching for myself. But maybe… maybe I’ve always known. Maybe I was just waiting to understand.

The weight in my chest shifts—not disappearing, but changing. What once felt like loss now feels like something else.

Purpose.

My voice steadies as I straighten my shoulders. “So, I refuse to let evil win. For all of them. I’ll make a stand and fight back with all that I am.”

I brace myself, waiting for someone to challenge me—to tell me I’m being reckless, that I don’t understand what I’m saying.

But no one speaks.

Casey’s gaze flickers downward, his usual smirk absent. Callan exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as if turning something over in his mind. Even Bran, who never lets a moment sit for too long, watches me in quiet contemplation.

Then—finally—he lets out a slow, impressed whistle. “Well, damn—already plotting vengeance? I’m in.”