Page 24

Marcus dips his head, his lips grazing the sensitive shell of my ear. “I burn for you… I have not tasted nearly enough of you, and I have thought of that kiss every single moment since I last beheld your beautiful face.” A tingling sensation dances along my skin, electrifying every nerve.

He pulls back, shifting with effortless control as he guides my hands to his shoulders, his touch deliberate. I don’t hesitate. Accepting his silent invitation, I splay my fingers wide, pressing into the firm muscle beneath my palms.

A subtle shudder rips through him, so fleeting I might have missed it—if not for the way his grip tightens. His hands settle, heavy on my hips, fingers flexing before he tugs me closer. Closer, until I’m caught in his gravity, until the space between us disappears into something charged, something inevitable.

“Marcus, someone could walk in at any moment,” I say rather pointedly, though I make no move to pull away. His gaze holds me captive.

“I shall not kiss you—not yet, and not here,” he counters, his voice low and sure. Relief washes over me. His restraint feels necessary; I’m all too aware that my inability to push him away is driven by the pull of my body to his. Sure, many women are likely to swoon over his words, but something about this doesn’t feel right.

“But I will return within the week,” he continues, his tone tinged with certainty. “This will afford you ample time to rest, and I would like more of your company—if, of course, you will indulge me.” His words carry a confidence that suggests he has not entertained the possibility of refusal.

He draws back, his eyes still burning with unrestrained longing. “Marcus,” I say, trying to diffuse the tension with humour, “If you stare at me any longer, your eyes are sure to dry out.”

His smile softens, but instead of retreating, he lifts his hands, cradling either side of my neck. His thumbs trace slow, deliberate paths along my jawline, sending another tremor through me.

“I cannot fathom what I have done to deserve the attention of someone as breathtaking as you, Triona,” he states, his voice quiet but brimming with conviction. “But I will not squander another moment pretending you are not what I want. I wish to resume what once was before you left.”

His words land heavily, each one clawing its way past my carefully constructed defenses. This was not the homecoming I’d envisioned—not by a long shot.

I can’t find the words to respond, so I lean into his touch instead, hoping the gesture doesn’t betray the whirlwind of trepidation coursing through me. My heart pounds in my chest, and I manage only the faintest of nods.

He sighs, a sound that carries the weight of some invisible burden being lifted. His arms stay a moment longer, his hands firm yet gentle, before he brushes his lips lightly against my forehead. The touch is brief but tender, leaving a warmth in its wake. His arms fall away, the reluctance in his movements almost palpable.

“I will do whatever it takes to prove that I am worthy of you—and that you are meant to be mine,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a newfound determination. Before I can gather my thoughts, he turns and strides from the room.

As the door closes behind him, the silence presses in. I’m left standing there—heart racing, breath uneven.

The realisation settles over me, cold and inescapable—nothing will ever be as simple as it once was.

8

Night Calls My Name

Triona

Thursday 24 April 1823

Keiss, Scotland

Istand at the cliff’s edge; the wind whispering against my skin, carrying the scent of earth and rain. Below me, the Glen sprawls in quiet majesty, green hills rolling into the horizon, kissed by the golden light of a sun that feels distant, unreal. I know this place. I have walked this land, breathed its air, and traced its rivers with my fingertips. And yet, it is never mine to keep.

I brace myself, but it never softens the blow.

The air shifts. The golden light dulls to a muted grey, then deepens to a suffocating blackness. The warmth on my skin is ripped away, replaced by an unnatural chill that seeps into my bones. The hills tremble, but not from any storm or quake—something beneath them is stirring, something ancient, something insatiable.

Darkness falls.

I don’t need to look to know what happens next. I’ve seen it before—the land choking, its very lifeblood siphoned from the soil, the once-glimmering river turning into a black, writhing thing. But this time, it’s worse. The decay spreads faster, more violently. The trees don’t just wither; they crack, splitting open as if something inside them is desperate to escape. The ground beneath me shifts, no longer solid, no longer safe. It wants to swallow me whole.

A howl rises—not wind, not nature, but something more guttural, something hungry. And then the screams. They are louder this time, more piercing. Not distant echoes, but near, surrounding me. Familiar voices twisted in terror, voices I should know but cannot place. I clamp my hands over my ears, but the sound burrows into my skull like nails dragging through my mind.

This is wrong. This is worse. This is new.

A crushing force clamps around my throat. Invisible hands tighten, suffocating, unyielding. My breath snags, my body fighting against a grip that doesn’t exist. I cannot run. I never can. My limbs are locked in place, my voice stolen before it can even reach my lips. The wind carries my silent screams away, mocking me.

Then comes the sound of hooves.

The deliberate, measured clopping against the ruined earth. A sound I know all too well. A sound that never ceases to send ice through my veins.