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Through the haze of pain, I try to roll, to curl inward, anything to shield myself, but my limbs betray me. My muscles won’t obey, won’t move fast enough. The world is tilting, slipping, breaking apart at the edges. Colina strikes harder, faster, forcing me down, attempting for harsh words to cut deeper than the blows.

I sob as blood seeps through my clothes, hot and slick. The air stings as it meets raw, open flesh. I shudder, bracing for the next strike. Fire rips across my back, stealing the breath from my lungs.

“Finn isnae yers to take!” she spits, her face twisted in hatred. “Ye tried to slither in like a serpent and take what’s mine! Ye’d be naught but a sullied wench to him—no wife, no standing, no future! What man would keep a woman like ye?”

The words are nearly as relentless as the blows, each one landing with the weight of her twisted resentment. Each hit blurs into a storm of agony.

The pain is all-consuming, and it’s all I can do to keep breathing, each ragged gasp an insignificant victory against the darkness closing in around me.

“Ye willnae get the chance—” Colina’s howl ricochets off the stable walls, her words severed mid-breath. The pain stops, but my body doesn’t believe it. I brace for the next strike, every nerve still flinching, waiting—expecting more. The silence is deafening, my body tense, too shocked to turn, too afraid to hope.

Then, through the pounding in my ears, a voice—low, commanding, and steady—cuts through the haze like a lifeline, slicing the silence clean in half.

“Drop it, now!”

The sound reverberates around me, but I barely register it. My body gives in at last, sinking into the darkness that waits to claim me.

15

Shattered

Finn

Iarrive as the last glints of sunlight illuminate the horizon. Shadows stretch across the property, cloaking everything in darkness, but it’s the stillness, the eerie quiet, that tightens a knot in my gut. Everything feels familiar yet foreign, a place I should feel safe. And yet, something is terribly amiss.

The stable door swings slightly, left ajar, and every instinct in me says to move. Nothing seems out of place at first, but as I get closer, a sound cuts through the silence.

A scream. Her scream.

The sound rips through me, a raw, guttural cry that lodges deep in my bones, freezing my blood before it sends it blazing hot through my veins. Then, the unmistakable snap of a whip cuts through the air, sharp and deadly.

“Triona,” I breathe, the horror already clawing at my chest.

I bolt for the stables, legs pushing harder than they ever have, and every fibre of me trained on getting to her. I can hear the others behind, but I don’t look back, don’t wait for them to catch up. It’s only me and the desperate need to reach her.

I see red. Red like blood, like rage, like the fire roaring through every inch of me as I take in what’s happening before me. Colina’s standing over Triona, whip in hand, poised to strike. Triona—my Triona—curled up on the ground, battered and broken.

I can hardly breathe through the rage twisting in my chest. My hands shake with unbridled wrath as I reach her, snatching Colina’s arm mid-swing. I don’t just grip her wrist—I twist it, relishing the sharp snap of bone beneath my fingers. She screams, a high, piercing sound, but I don’t let go. She lets out a shriek, but I feel nothing—nothing but contempt.

“Drop it, now!” I growl, each word dripping with venom. My grip tightens, and she gasps, her eyes wide with terror. “Or I’ll make sure you never lift anythin’ again.”

She complies, her fingers trembling as the whip slips from her grasp, but I see it—the disbelief in her eyes, as if she never thought I’d dare to lay hands on her. As if she still believed she held any power here. As if the very idea I’d disapprove was unfathomable to her.

“Ye’ll regret every action you took tonight.”

I keep her close, my grip unrelenting, my fingers digging into her arm as she squirms. Let her feel it, let her know she’s at my mercy. When Callan, Casey, Bran, and Eamon come charging in, I don’t hesitate. “Think I broke her wrist,” I mutter, my voice flat, unbothered. The men falter, their eyes flicking between me and Colina, concern flashing across their faces.

Callan’s brow furrows. “What in the hell is goin’ on?”

I tighten my grip on Colina, feeling her tremble beneath my hold. “She whipped Triona. And she wasna done. She’d have kept going—might not have stopped ‘til Triona couldnae breathe anymore.”

Their concern shifts in an instant. Their confusion fades, replaced with something colder, sharper. Bran’s mouth presses into a grim line, Casey’s hand clenches at his side, and Callan’s expression turns lethal. The air thickens with unspoken fury, and their attention now fixes squarely on Colina.

Only then do I throw her toward Callan, watching with grim satisfaction as she stumbles into his grip.

Colina’s eyes dart between us, panic and desperation overtaking whatever madness drove her to this. “But Finn, ye dinnae understand. Ye wurnae supposed to be back yet.” She stammers, her voice weak, pleading. “This was all for ye—”

“Enough!” The word erupts from me like thunder, a raw, primal snarl that reverberates through the stables. Colina flinches, shrinking back, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. The word hangs heavy in the air, a final verdict, sealing her fate.