Author: Lyla Rosewood

Chapter One

1667, MacAlpin Castle

“Thank God ye are here!” Aileen MacAlpin exclaimed, her hands already closing around her sister’s gloved ones before Rhona had fully descended from the carriage.

Rhona laughed softly, still breathless from the journey. “Ye sound as though ye feared I might vanish from one mile tae the next.”

“I feared many things,” Aileen replied, her tone composed in the way it always became when fear threatened to show itself. Her gaze dropped at once to Rhona’s belly, unmistakable beneath her cloak. “Ye should nae have come so far, nae in yer condition.”

“Condition?” Rhona teased, squeezing her sister’s hands back. “Ye talk as if I’m ill, nae with child. Dinnae fash, the bairn is stubborn… clearly a MacAlpin. Besides, I couldnae leave ye tae fret yerself intae a shadow.”

Aileen smiled, though it wavered. “Faither will be glad of that news, at least.”

Rhona’s expression softened. “Then take me tae him.”

They moved through the courtyard together.

“He worsened three nights ago,” Aileen said quietly as they climbed the stairs. “The fever spiked. He would nae stay abed.”

“Of course he would nae,” Rhona muttered. “Stubborn tae the end.”

That was all it took. Rhona said nothing more until they reached the chamber. The air inside was heavy with herbs and stale warmth. Alistair MacAlpin lay motionless against the pillows, his once-commanding presence reduced to shallow breaths and greyed skin. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of footsteps.

“Rhona?” he murmured in disbelief.

“I am here,” she said, already at his side. “And ye are going tae lie still, whether ye wish it or nae.”

Aileen hovered near the foot of the bed, watching as Rhona worked. Her sister’s hands were steady and practiced as she checked his pulse, pressing fingers to brow and throat.

“How long has the cough lasted?” Rhona asked with the practiced calm of a healer.

“Several days,” Aileen answered at once. She had not left his side save to fetch water or herbs. “The fever worsened last night.”

“And the markings?”

Aileen hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket, as though it might bite her if she pulled it back. At last, she lifted the wool slowly and almost reverently. Ash-grey streaks marred Alistair’s skin, branching faintly across his chest and arms like the ghost of burned veins. The sight stole the breath from the room. Rhona stilled. The pause was brief but devastating.

“Nay,” Aileen said at once, shaking her head, as if denial might erase what lay before them. “It cannae be.”

Rhona’s jaw tightened. “How many others are ill?”

“Five in the lower glen,” Aileen said quietly. “More along the river.” Her gaze dropped to her father’s hand, which rested thin and mottled against the blanket. “He went tae them all.”

Rhona exhaled slowly, as though steadying herself against a storm only she could see. “Ye ken as well as I dae that this is Ash-Fever.”

The word seemed to drain the room of what little warmth remained. Aileen had suspected it. She had feared it, but so far, she had still been in possession of a tiny shred of hope. Now, Rhona had stolen that from her.

“There must be something,” Aileen said, stepping forward. “A tincture, a purge, something ye have nae yet tried—”

“Aileen.” Rhona’s voice cut her off, gentled by sorrow. “Ash-Fever has ravaged these lands before. Ye ken there is naething I can dae here.” Rhona glanced around the chamber, at the humble stores, the worn tools, the limits of what love alone could mend. “Nae with what we have. The only cure lies beyond our borders.”

Understanding crept in slowly, dread blooming with it. “Where?”

“Clan MacDougall.”

The name landed between them like a door slammed shut, echoing long after the sound should have faded.

“They will never give it,” Aileen said faintly.

“Nay,” Rhona agreed. “They guard that knowledge fiercely. And they have nae forgiven what was lost.”

Aileen looked back at the bed. She wanted to see the man who had lifted her onto his shoulders as a child so she could see over the crowd at the midsummer fair. But that man was gone. In his place was a shadow that had bled himself thin for his people and never once questioned what it would cost him.

“He caught it helping them,” she whispered tenderly, brushing a grey strand of hair from his clammy brow. “He would nae turn away.”

“I ken,” Rhona said softly. “That is why this is cruel.”

Silence stretched. Aileen could hear that silent voice deep down, urging her toward the truth she had already accepted. Then, she straightened, smoothing her hands against her skirts as she always did when emotion threatened to overtake her.

“Then I will go,” she said.

“Nay,” Rhona’s response was as fierce as it was immediate. “Absolutely nae.”

“There is nay one else,” Aileen replied. “Ye cannae travel again, nae like this.” Her gaze befell Rhona’s belly, round with both life and hope. Then, her eyes found their father. “And Faither…” Her voice faltered, but she mastered it. “Faither will nae survive the month without help.”

“The MacDougalls hate us,” Rhona reminded her sharply. “They always have. Ye ken what they will think if a MacAlpin rides intae their lands alone.”

“I ken,” Aileen nodded. Her sister’s fear was real. However, it was still smaller than Aileen’s resolve. “But that daesnae change what must be done.”

Rhona released her arm only to press a hand to her own belly, breathing carefully. “This is nae sacrifice… it is folly.”

Aileen softened at that, reaching out to steady her sister. “Ye came when we needed ye. Ye gave us truth when comfort would have been easier. I am grateful tae ye fer that.”

Rhona’s eyes shone. “Dinnae thank me as though ye are saying farewell.”

“I am nae,” Aileen said gently. “Only acknowledging what ye have already given.”

Aileen turned away from her sister, only to notice that their father had already fallen asleep. He was becoming so weak that even remaining awake for longer periods of time took a toll on him.

“When must ye return?” Aileen inquired of her sister.

“Ian will want me back within the next couple of days. The midwife is already waiting. I cannae linger.”

“I thought as much.” Aileen offered a small, reassuring smile. “Then I will ride swiftly.”

Rhona stared at her. “Ye mean tae leave at once.”

“Aye.”

“With nay escort?”

Aileen hesitated, then inclined her head. “Speed is safer than banners.”

Rhona’s breath hitched. “Ye have always been the quiet one,” she said softly. “I fear we mistook that fer fragility.”

Aileen squeezed her hand. “I only learned early how tae endure.”

Rhona pulled her into a careful embrace, holding her as tightly as she dared. “Come back tae us,” she whispered. “Dinnae let their hatred swallow ye.”

Aileen rested her cheek briefly against her sister’s shoulder. “I will come back,” she promised. “With the cure.”

When they parted, Rhona wiped at her eyes and straightened. “Then go,” she urged. “Before I lose the courage tae let ye.”

Aileen nodded once, and gently kissed her father’s forehead, lingering just enough to memorize the feel of his skin beneath her lips. Then, without another word, she walked out, toward the dangerous and unforgiving path ahead as if it had already been chosen long ago.

***

“Hold!”

The word carried across the hillside before Aileen ever saw the men who spoke it. She reined in sharply, her horse snorting beneath her as three riders emerged from the rise ahead, already positioned to block the narrow track. They wore no colors, yet the land itself seemed to claim them with their dark cloaks, unforgiving eyes and bows slung within easy reach.

MacDougall scouts.

Their gazes fixed on her cloak at once.

“Well,” one of them drawled, “if that isnae a MacAlpin riding bold as daylight.”

Another snorted. “Or foolish.”

Aileen slowed her horse but did not turn it. “I seek passage,” she addressed them steadily. “And audience with yer laird.”

“With those colors?” the foremost rider replied. “Ye announce yerself like a challenge.”

“They are all I have,” Aileen spoke boldly. “And I dinnae hide.”

“Ye should,” the second scout snarled. “MacAlpin blood is nae welcome here.”

“I come in peace.”

“That has never mattered between our clans.”

The third rider urged his horse forward until their knees nearly touched. “Turn back… now.”

Aileen looked beyond them, past the narrow track that wound deeper into hostile ground, toward the unseen castle she could feel pulling at her like a tide. Three days of riding had stripped her down to bone-deep exhaustion, yet her certainty remained undaunted.

“I cannae,” she exhaled.

The moment snapped tight.

The nearest scout reached for her bridle. “Then ye will be turned—”

Aileen acted momentarily, kicking hard and wrenching the reins. Her horse lunged forward, her shoulder clipping the scout as she burst through the narrow space between them.

“After her!” One of them shouted. She didn’t turn around to find out which one.

Hooves thundered instantly behind her. She drove her mount downhill, feeling the branches clawing at her sleeves. The blue of her cloak was flashing like a banner she could no longer shed. Arrows sang past her, one close enough to tear wool from her hem. She ducked. Her breath burned in her throat as the scouts gained ground.

“Stop!” the same scout shouted again. “Ye will nae reach the castle alive!”

She did not slow. The land rose and broke beneath her, stone and root conspiring against her flight. An arrow struck the ground ahead, splintering rock and forcing her to swerve. Her horse stumbled, screamed… and fell.

Aileen was thrown clear, hitting the earth hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs. For a moment the world narrowed to pain and ringing silence. Then she heard it again, that thunder of hooves and the sharp shouts of men closing fast. She forced herself upright, feeling her knee screaming in protest, and ran.

Another arrow flew. It was evidently not meant to hit her, but it was close enough that her fallen horse shrieked. The scouts were not trying to kill her now. They were driving her, herding her like frightened game toward the open slope ahead.

The castle loomed into view, its dark stone walls rising from the land like a judgment already passed.

“Stop!” someone shouted behind her. “Ye have naewhere left tae run!”

Her lungs burned. Her skirts tangled around her legs as she ran, tearing free of branches, stumbling but then catching herself with scraped palms slick with blood. The gates were closer now… agonizingly close. It only made her run even faster.

Another arrow struck stone beside her. She screamed, half in fury and half in fear, but she pushed on. Her heart was pounding so violently she thought it might tear free of her chest.

Then, the great doors filled her vision.

“Open!” she cried, slamming her fists against the wood. “Please, open!”

She pounded again, and again, each blow sending pain shooting up her arms. Her voice cracked as she shouted for mercy, for aid, for anyone who would hear her over the thunder of pursuit.

Rough hands seized her from behind. Aileen fought with everything she had. She was kicking, twisting and striking blindly wherever she could, but exhaustion robbed her of her strength. One man wrenched her arms behind her back while another forced her to her knees. Rope bit into her wrists as they bound her hands tight.

“Enough,” one of them growled. “Ye’ve made enough trouble.”

The words burned hotter than the rope biting into her wrists. Shame flared at how easily they had brought her down, how quickly strength and resolve had been stripped away and replaced with dirt and submission. She had not imagined herself kneeling like that, breathless and bound, with her defiance reduced to torn skirts and shaking limbs.

She dragged in a ragged breath, then bowed her head as her hair fell loose around her face, hiding her expression from their satisfaction. Her chest ached and her lungs burned. But beneath it all, was the thought of her father, his stubborn kindness and the way he had gone from door to door in the villages, refusing rest and refusing fear, because someone had to stay when others fled.

She would kneel a thousand times if it meant saving him.

Then, suddenly, the gate groaned. The sound cut through her like a blade. Heavy iron bolts slid free, one by one, echoing across the courtyard with the weight of final judgment. The great doors opened inward, just wide enough for firelight to spill across the stone and gild the edges of the men restraining her.

Everyone went still. The grip in her arms tightened.

Aileen lifted her head. She did not know what waited beyond those doors, whether it was mercy, fury, or something worse, but she knew with aching clarity that her flight was over.

And whatever came next, she would face it… for her father, if for nothing else.

Chapter Two

A man stepped through the main gate with such calm, it made it seem that the chaos beyond the walls did not dare follow him inside. His presence did not command attention so much as settle it. His storm-grey eyes took in the scene in a single sweep: the fallen horse in the distance, the tense scouts and the woman on her knees with her hands bound.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

He did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark brown hair worn long and loose, stirred faintly by the night air. Torchlight caught the hard planes of his face and the old scars that traced his forearms where his sleeves were pushed back. Aileen lifted her head, her heart stuttering at the weight of his attention. She had imagined many things, such as fury and contempt. She had also expected cruelty… anything but the measured calm that felt far more dangerous than anger.

Against all common sense, she had to admit that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. She didn’t even need him to smile to be absolutely certain of that. The fact that he was the enemy somehow only made him even more titillating.

Focus, Aileeen.

“She is an intruder,” one of the soldiers said quickly. “A MacAlpin.”

The man’s jaw tightened at once.

“She crossed the border in their colors,” another added. “Refused tae turn back and fled when ordered. We chased her from the hills.”

Aileen forced herself to straighten despite the rope cutting into her wrists. “I didnae come in hostility,” she tried to explain. “I came diplomatically. I asked fer an audience.”

The word earned a scoff from one of the men, but the man’s gaze had already snapped back to her.

“A MacAlpin rides intae MacDougall lands uninvited,” he said, “and calls it diplomacy?”

“I am Aileen MacAlpin,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Daughter of Laird Alistair MacAlpin. And I came tae speak tae yer laird, nae tae his scouts.”

At the sound of the name, something sharp flashed across his features. It was anger as ancient as the air itself. The air seemed to tighten around him.

“MacAlpin,” he repeated, as though tasting something bitter.

A murmur rippled through the gathered men. Yet his gaze dropped again to the rope biting into her wrists, to the dirt streaking her skirts, because she had been forced to kneel a moment ago.

His expression darkened further as he addressed the men.

“So, ye chased her tae the gates,” he said slowly. “And shot arrows at her horse.”

“She wouldnae stop,” a scout said. “She—”

“Enough.” The word snapped like a lash.

The men fell silent. And that was when Aileen realized that she had been speaking to the Laird Brodie MacDougall himself.

He took a step closer, his presence filling the space between them. Aileen felt the heat of his anger now, not only at her name, but at the way she had been brought before him.

“She is me responsibility once she reaches these walls,” he told everyone. “And ye dragged her in like a wild animal.”

“Me laird—”

“Untie her.”

The command was quiet, but decisive. Aileen’s breath caught as the rope was cut away. Her hands fell to her lap, numb and shaking, but she did not look down. She kept her eyes on him, on the man who had corrected his own men not out of kindness, but because order mattered.

“Come,” he said.

The word, however, was not an invitation. He turned without waiting, his long strides carrying him back through the open doors. Aileen followed him despite the protest of her knee, as guards fell in behind them at a respectful distance.

Aileen felt the weight of every eye upon her as she crossed the threshold. Even the servants paused mid-step. Their whispers were trailing in her wake like smoke. She was acutely aware of her torn skirts, the dirt on her hands, the MacAlpin blue still draped over her shoulders like an accusation. She kept her chin lifted nonetheless, moving forward because stopping would have been worse.

The castle was vast, older than it first appeared from the outside. High stone arches stretched overhead, their carvings worn soft by centuries of hands and smoke. Banners hung from the walls in MacDougall colors, once rich, now faded at the edges. The floors bore deep grooves where generations of boots had passed, and here and there the stone was cracked, patched not with care but necessity.

It was grand, but somehow tired. Wealth had once lived here. Strength still did. But strain lay beneath it all, unmistakable to someone who had grown up watching decline wear quiet grooves into familiar halls.

When they reached his study, the guards halted, and the door closed behind her with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the stillness.

Laird MacDougall faced her again, with his arms crossed over his chest. Up close, he was even more imposing. And even more handsome. Aileen bit her lip to focus on anything else but that.

“Now, ye may tell me,” he started slowly, “what a MacAlpin is daeing on me land and why ye thought it wise tae come alone.”

Aileen did her best to will the tremor from her voice. “I came because I had nay other choice.”

He frowned. “That is nae an answer.”

“Me faither is dying,” she said simply. “Laird Alistair MacAlpin.”

His expression did not soften. Not that she expected it to.

“He caught Ash-Fever while helping our villagers,” she continued. “He wouldnae turn away from them. The sickness has spread, and there is nay cure in our lands.”

He didn’t say anything to that, so she continued. “Ye ken where the remedy can be found, and so dae I.”

He gritted his teeth silently.

“And ye expect it freely.”

“I expect naething,” she corrected him. “I ask.”

Laird MacDougall let out a short, incredulous laugh. “And ye ask as though I owe it tae ye.”

“I ask because lives depend on it.”

“And what,” he asked casually, “dae ye offer in return, tae me, yer faither’s enemy?”

The question landed with deliberate weight. She should have known. Now that she did, the only thing she could offer was a need for a need, in hopes that hers would be the less desperate one.

“What is it ye require?” she asked cautiously.

He moved to the table, resting his palms against the wood. “MacAlpin influence with the king, fer one. Beneficial alliances, protection in council chambers where me name carries little favor.” His eyes flicked back to her. “Coin… fighters… resources.”

She felt as if he were discussing the weather.

Aileen frowned. “I thought ye were wealthy.”

“We are… threatened,” he corrected. “Clan Campbell tightens its grip each year. They took MacIver without drawing a blade. Lamont followed soon after.” His voice darkened. “They absorb, they starve, and they call it law.”

She felt a chill. “And ye believe that ye are next.”

“I ken we are,” he confirmed. “I believe alliances shift power and I will nae see me clan swallowed whole.”

“I can offer ye a political alliance,” Aileen said quickly. “MacAlpin support in both Council and in arms. I’m sure that me faither would—”

The sound of his laughter cut her off. It was sharper this time.

“Ye are offering me a political alliance?” He shook his head as he spoke. “Those are easily broken with ink and excuses. I would never trust a MacAlpin oath.”

The words struck harder than she expected. “Ye dinnae ken me.”

“I ken yer name,” he said flatly. “And I ken yer clan’s history.”

Aileen’s brows knit. “What history?”

His gaze hardened into something old. Yet it failed to make him any less handsome.

“Enough tae ken that MacAlpin promises are nae worth the breath used tae speak them.”

She stared at him, feeling unsettled. “I dinnae understand.”

“Nay,” he said quietly. “Ye would nae.”

He straightened, allowing the weight of his authority to settle like stone between them, as if she needed a reminder where she was.

“Ye ask me tae weaken me position fer a rival clan that has already proven it will choose its own survival over mercy.”

Aileen’s chest tightened, and now, there was unease blooming where certainty had once nestled. “If ye ken anything of me at all,” she said carefully, “then ye ken I wouldnae be here if there were any other way.”

He was silent for a moment, his storm-grey eyes traversing every inch of her face, as if he were still trying to decide whether that conversation was worth his time.

Aileen held his gaze, though her pulse thudded painfully in her ears. She had known that moment would come, the turning of the blade and the price named aloud.

“Ye ken me name,” she told him carefully. “And ye said ye ken me name’s past. Then tell me, is there anything I can offer ye in exchange fer the cure?”

He did not answer at once. His eyes were on her at every single moment, refusing to look away. Time stretched thin until he finally spoke.

“Aye,” he nodded. “I ken yer name. And that is precisely why there is only one way fer us both tae get what we want.”

Hope stirred despite her caution. “What way?”

“Marriage,” he said plainly.

The word struck her like a physical blow. For a heartbeat, she could not breathe. It was as though hands had closed around her throat, squeezing the air from her lungs while the room tilted beneath her feet.

Marriage. Here. Like this. As though me life were a coin passed across a table.

She found her voice at last, brittle with disbelief. “Have ye utterly lost yer mind?”

His grin widened, utterly unrepentant. “I am nae the one who rode alone intae enemy territory and made demands.”

“That is nae the same,” she shot back. “Ye speak of binding me life tae yers as though it were a treaty clause.”

“It is a treaty,” he reminded her. “One that cannae be dissolved with ink or excuses. Me name becomes yers. Yer king’s favor follows ye. MacAlpin influence becomes MacDougall protection.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “Ye would cage us both tae secure yer borders?”

“I would bind our clans,” he corrected. “And ensure that neither of us can betray the other without cost.”

Her heart pounded with fury. “Ye would truly force me intae this?”

That was the moment when she no longer saw the merciful man who had treated her with respect in front of his guards, but rather a dangerous laird who would do anything to protect those under his care.

“Force?” he repeated softly. “Nay. I offer ye a choice.”

“A choice between me faither’s life and me freedom,” she said bitterly.

“A choice between reality and sentiment,” he countered. “Ye came here kenning there would be a price. Dinnae pretend surprise when it is one ye dinnae wish tae pay.”

Aileen swallowed, her throat aching. She had crossed mountains and hatred and fear, but she had not imagined that… marriage to a man who despised her name, to a clan that hated her blood.

Anger and resolve warred fiercely within her. “I willnae trade meself like coin,” she snarled.

He didn’t seem the least bit concerned as he replied. “Then ye may leave. I promise ye safe passage back home.”

Aileen understood with sickening clarity that she had reached the most dangerous part of her journey, which was not the chase, nor the arrows, nor the gates. It was that moment where love and sacrifice were being weighed against the last thing she had ever believed truly hers.

Her vision blurred not from weakness, she told herself fiercely, but from the sudden, violent collision of hope and despair. Anger surged first, followed by the knowledge that she was powerless.

But she would not cry, not in front of him.

Her throat burned as she swallowed, her nails biting into her palms as she forced the tears back through sheer will. She had learned that skill early, how to make herself small and how to bear unbearable things without asking to be seen.

But at that moment, it hurt differently. Its cost was her father’s life, weighed against her own.

“There will be nay marriage between us,” Aileen snarled angrily. “Nae in this lifetime.”

His eyes never left hers. “Then, I wish ye strength. Fer hope alone has never saved any of us.”

“I will find another way,” she said, though she did not know how. The words were thin, but they were all she had. “There is always another way.”

He did not laugh this time. She turned before he could reply, before the tears she was fighting so hard to restrain betrayed her. Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last. Her hand closed around the latch.

Her hand closed around the latch.

“Aileen MacAlpin,” he called out her name.

She paused but did not turn.

“Hope,” he added thoughtfully, “is a dangerous thing tae wager against reality.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Then it is well,” she told him without turning to face him, “that hope has carried me farther than fear ever could.”

Fury carried her forward like wind at her back as she slammed his door shut. If this was how he ruled, through fear and leverage, then she would not kneel to it.

There would be another way to save her father. And if there was not, she would make one.

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Chapter One

1647, Fraser Hidden Stronghold

The bowl slipped from Elena’s trembling fingers, crashing against the stone floor with a sound that barely registered above the roar of men’s laughter.

“Clumsy wench,” one of the slavers barked, his meaty hand shoving her hard enough that she stumbled against the rough-hewn table. “Clean it up.”

Elena dropped to her knees without a word, her chains clinking as she gathered the shards. Ten years. Ten years of serving these monsters their ale and their food, of keeping her head down and her mouth shut, of surviving one more day in the Vulture’s hidden stronghold.

The thought of Alistair Fraser—the man who had stolen her name, her life, everything—made her stomach clench, but at least tonight he was absent. No one had seen him for weeks now, and his absence had made the other slavers nervous, their cruelty sharper.

She worked quickly, her movements practiced. The great hall reeked of unwashed bodies and stale drink, the fire in the hearth casting dancing shadows across faces she’d learned to hate. Her wrists bore the permanent marks of iron, her hair—once carefully tended—now hung in a crude, uneven cut that she’d managed herself with a stolen blade.

The scars on her wrists caught the firelight as she moved, raised lines of damaged flesh that would never fade. She’d stopped caring about them years ago. Vanity was another luxury taken from her, along with her surname, her freedom, and any illusion that the world was just.

“More ale!” someone shouted, and Elena rose, moving toward the barrels with the same careful invisibility she’d perfected over the years.

She’d learned to make herself small, unremarkable. To move through rooms like a shadow, to anticipate needs before they were voiced, to never, ever draw unnecessary attention. The Vulture’s favorite, they called her, though the title made her skin crawl. It didn’t mean what the other slaves thought it meant. It meant he watched her more closely. It meant she had to be more careful.

As she poured ale into a filthy tankard, her mind drifted to the children locked in the dungeon below. Three new ones had arrived last week, terrified and crying. Elena had done what she could to comfort them, to teach them the rules of survival in that place, but God, she was so tired of watching innocence die in small, brutal increments.

She carried the tankard to one of the slavers, keeping her eyes downcast as she set it before him.

“The Vulture’s been gone a long time,” he said, his breath reeking of drink. “Maybe it’s time we stopped treating his favorites so special, aye?”

Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her face carefully blank. “I dinnae ken where he is, sir.”

“Didnae ask ye that, did I?” He grabbed her wrist as the main doors burst open with a crash that splintered wood, and Elena’s heart leaped into her throat. The man released her immediately, scrambling for his weapon. Steel rang against steel as armed men flooded into the hall, their battle cries drowning out the slavers’ shouts of alarm.

For one frozen moment, Elena simply stared at the chaos erupting around her. Then her survival instincts kicked in, sharp and certain. Run. Now.

She bolted toward the servants’ entrance, her chains clinking with each desperate step.

Almost there. Just a few more steps to the narrow corridor that led to the kitchens, to the back entrance she’d memorized years ago for moments exactly like this—

Her chains snagged on a fallen chair, and Elena crashed to the floor hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Pain exploded through her knees and palms as she hit the stone. Before she could recover, rough hands grabbed her from behind.

“Got ye,” one of the slavers snarled, yanking her backward by the chains. The iron bit into her ankles, cutting into the permanent scars there, and she bit back a cry. “Ye arenae goin’ anywhere.”

He dragged her across the stone floor, and Elena clawed at the ground, her fingernails scraping uselessly against the rock. They were surrounded by the clash of swords, the wet sound of blades finding flesh, men dying and killing in equal measure. She’d seen violence before, had learned to weather it with detachment, but this was different. This was war condensed into a single room.

Through the tangle of fighting men, she caught a glimpse of one of the attackers—and her breath caught in her throat.

Dark hair. Storm-gray eyes. The sharp line of a jaw she’d know anywhere, even though it was harder now, carved by time and grief into something almost unfamiliar.

No. It couldn’t be.

Her brother had been nineteen when she’d been taken, barely more than a boy, despite his warrior’s training. This man was nearly thirty, weathered by battle and loss, his face bearing the weight of years she hadn’t shared. The resemblance was there… God, it was there in every line of him. But it was impossible. Tristan thought her dead. Her family had given up searching years ago—or so she’d assumed after the first few years had passed with no rescue, no sign that anyone was still looking. She’d made her peace with that truth, had buried it deep where it couldn’t hurt her anymore.

She was seeing ghosts. That was all. The stress of the attack, the desperate hope that rose unbidden despite everything she’d learned about hope’s cruelty—it was making her see things that weren’t there.

Then she saw the man fighting beside him, and her thoughts scattered completely.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with black hair and sharp green eyes that blazed with controlled fury as he cut down a slaver. He moved like a predator—all coiled strength and deadly grace, every motion precise and purposeful. Even in the chaos, even with blood spraying and men dying around him, there was something almost beautiful about the way he fought. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just cold, lethal competence.

Elena couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew her eye even as the slaver dragging her cursed and yanked harder on her chains.

The green-eyed warrior dispatched another attacker, his blade catching the firelight as it arced through the air. His face was set in hard lines, his jaw tight with concentration.

The slaver hauling her chains cursed as one of the attackers came too close, and he released her to draw his weapon. Elena scrambled backward on her hands and knees, her chains grating against stone, her palms stinging where she’d scraped them raw. She tried to get back on her feet, to run again, but a different set of hands grabbed her from behind.

“Get them all below!” one of the slavers shouted. “Now! If we lose the merchandise, Fraser will have our heads!”

“Fraser’s dead, ye fool!” someone else yelled back.

Alistair couldn’t be dead. He was eternal, inevitable, the vulture who’d haunted her nightmares for a decade.

Elena didn’t have time to process it. She was hauled to her feet and shoved hard toward the dungeon entrance. She tried to resist, tried to dig her heels in, but the chains made it impossible to get proper leverage. Another shove sent her stumbling through the doorway and down the stone steps.

She tried to catch herself, but her chained ankles tangled and she fell hard, tumbling down the last few steps and landing in a heap at the bottom. Pain exploded through her shoulder and hip, and for a moment the world went white. She tasted blood where she’d bitten her tongue.

In the darkness, small voices whimpered.

“It’s all right,” Elena said, pushing herself up despite the pain radiating through her shoulder. Her eyes adjusted to the dim torchlight and she saw the huddled forms of children pressed against the far wall. “Stay quiet. Stay taegether.”

She limped over to them, her chains dragging, and gathered them close.

The youngest, a girl of perhaps six with matted blonde hair, clung to Elena’s tattered dress with white-knuckled fingers. Elena smoothed her hair with gentle motions.

“What’s happenin’?” one of the boys whispered, his voice cracking with fear. He was maybe ten, with haunted eyes that had seen far too much.

“I dinnae ken,” Elena admitted, because lying to them would be cruel. “But whatever it is, we stay here. We stay quiet. Understand?”

They nodded, pressing closer together.

Above them, the sounds of battle continued. Screams and steel and the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Elena tried not to imagine what was happening there, tried not to hope that the attackers were winning because hope was dangerous and she couldn’t afford it.

Then the sounds changed. Footsteps thundered on the stairs. Many feet.

“Away from the door,” Elena said. “Behind me. Now.”

The dungeon door exploded inward with a crash that made the children scream.

Men poured through—slavers and attackers alike, their battle spilling into the confined space like water through a broken dam. Elena pressed the children harder against the wall, making herself as small as possible while trying to shield them with her body. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.

Steel flashed in the torchlight. Blood sprayed across ancient stone, painting it darker. The metallic smell of it filled the air, mixing with sweat and fear and the acrid scent of smoke from somewhere above.

A slaver fell near her feet, his throat opened in a red smile, his eyes already glazing over. Elena didn’t look at his face. She’d learned years ago not to see them as human, because that made it harder to endure, harder to survive.

She heard a slaver’s voice, high with panic and rage. “The girl! Get the Vulture’s favorite before these bastards—”

Two of them broke away from the main fight, pushing past the attackers with desperate determination. They were coming for her specifically. Elena’s stomach dropped.

She shoved the children harder against the wall and grabbed a broken piece of wood from a shattered crate that had been in the corner. Her hands closed around it, splinters biting into her palms, and she swung it hard as the first slaver reached for her.

The wood connected with his face with a satisfying crack. He reeled back, cursing, blood streaming from his nose. “Ye little—”

But the other one grabbed her arm and twisted until she cried out, her makeshift weapon clattering to the floor. His fingers dug into her flesh.

A blade flashed in the torchlight, and suddenly the slaver holding her was falling, his grip releasing as steel burst through his chest from behind. Blood sprayed hot across Elena’s face and neck. The slaver crumpled to the ground, and Elena stumbled backward.

The man with the black hair and green eyes stood before her.

Up close, he was overwhelming. Taller than she’d realized, broad-shouldered and solid, his presence seeming to fill the entire dungeon. His sword was bloody, his chest heaving with exertion, and his face was streaked with grime and blood. His green eyes blazed with intensity.

Something in Elena’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t understand, a visceral reaction that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he looked at her—not with pity, not with lust, but with something that looked almost like recognition.

His face was all hard angles and sharp lines, shadowed with stubble that emphasized the strong line of his jaw. His green eyes were the kind that saw everything, missed nothing. His black hair was tied back, though strands had come loose during the fighting, falling across his forehead.

He was handsome in a rough, dangerous way that made Elena’s breath catch. It wasn’t the polished beauty of noblemen she’d known in her youth, but something rawer, more real. The kind of face that had seen violence and survived it, that carried the weight of hard choices and harder consequences.

“Alistair Fraser is dead,” he said. “This is over. Ye’re free.”

Elena stared at him. Free. The word didn’t make sense. It was a concept from another life, a fantasy she’d stopped entertaining years ago. Freedom wasn’t real. It was a lie people told themselves to make the cages more bearable.

“I dinnae believe ye,” she whispered.

His green eyes softened slightly. His stance remained alert, protective. Around them, the sounds of battle were dying down. The clash of steel gave way to the moans of wounded men and sharp commands. But he didn’t look away from her.

“I ken it’s hard tae believe,” he said, and there was something in his voice, an understanding that went deeper than simple sympathy. “But it’s true, lass. Alistair Fraser is dead. We killed him weeks ago. This”—he gestured to the carnage around them without taking his eyes off her—”is just cleaning up what’s left of his operation.”

Weeks ago. The Vulture had been gone for weeks, and Elena had thought… what? That he was simply conducting business elsewhere? That he’d return with new victims, new horrors? She’d been preparing herself for his return, steeling herself for whatever fresh cruelty he’d devised.

“He’s truly dead?”

“Aye. I watched him die meself. The bastard got exactly what he deserved, and then some.”

Behind the green-eyed warrior, the sounds of battle had almost completely died away. She could hear victorious shouts now, the clash of swords giving way to the business of securing the stronghold and tending to the wounded. His men, she realized. They’d won.

“Who are ye?” Elena asked, studying him more closely. He wore no colors, no clan insignia, just practical fighting leathers and a well-worn sword belt. But there was authority in the way he carried himself, in the way other fighters moved around him with deference, seeking his approval or awaiting his commands.

“Brian Gunn,” he said, lowering his sword slightly though he kept himself positioned between her and the door, between her and any potential threat. “Second-in-command tae Laird Tristan MacRae of Jura. We’ve been hunting Fraser’s operations fer years.”

Jura.

The name hit Elena like a physical blow, stealing what little breath she’d managed to recover. Her home. The island she’d been taken from a lifetime ago. The place she’d stopped letting herself think about because remembering only made the cage smaller, the chains heavier.

“Jura,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.

Brian’s eyes sharpened, and she saw the moment he made the connection. “Ye’re from Jura?”

Before Elena could answer—before she could even begin to process what it meant that her brother’s second-in-command was standing in front of her—another figure appeared in the doorway.

The man she’d thought looked like Tristan stood silhouetted against the torchlight from the stairs, his sword hanging loose in his grip, his chest heaving. His storm-gray eyes swept the dungeon—cataloging the freed children, the dead slavers, the green-eyed warrior standing protectively in front of a woman he didn’t yet recognize.

Then those eyes landed on Elena, and the world stopped.

Every muscle in his body went rigid. His face drained of color, going white beneath the grime and blood. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, clattering against the stone floor with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the sudden, terrible silence.

“It…” His voice cracked, breaking on the single syllable. “It cannae be.”

Elena’s world tilted sideways. She knew that voice. She’d heard it in her dreams for ten years, had clung to the memory of it during the worst nights, and had eventually forced herself to forget it because remembering hurt too much. She knew those eyes, even if they were set in a face that had hardened into something both familiar and strange.

He wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t her mind playing tricks.

It was her brother.

“Elena?” Tristan MacRae, her brother, her family, the person she’d thought she’d never see again, took a stumbling step forward. His voice was raw. “Elena, is it truly ye?”

Chapter Two

“Dinnae touch me.”

The words came out sharper than Elena intended, but Tristan froze mid-step, his hand still outstretched. The hurt that flashed across his face made her chest ache, but she couldn’t let him close the distance between them. If he touched her, if he tried to embrace her like the sister he remembered, she would shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Elena, I—” His voice cracked. “I thought ye were dead. We all thought—”

“I was dead,” she said flatly. “The girl ye kenned died ten years ago.”

Tristan flinched as if she’d struck him. His hand dropped to his side, and for a long moment they simply stared at each other across the blood-stained dungeon floor—two strangers wearing the faces of family.

“We need tae go,” Brian’s rough voice cut through the tension. He hadn’t moved from his protective position between them, and Elena was grateful for it. “Now. Before any of Fraser’s men regroup.”

Tristan nodded numbly, still unable to tear his eyes from Elena. “Can ye walk?”

“Aye.” Elena straightened her spine, refusing to show weakness even though her shoulder throbbed and her legs trembled. She’d survived ten years in hell—she could manage a walk to a ship.

“What about the bairns?” She gestured to the children still huddled behind her.

“All of them come with us,” Brian said firmly. “Everyone we found. Nay one gets left behind.”

Elena turned to the children, keeping her voice calm and steady. “Come on, then. Stay close tae me. Dinnae look at the bodies. Just keep yer eyes on me back and follow where I go.”

They organized quickly, the freed captives—children and women alike—clinging to Elena’s tattered dress or staying close behind her as they moved toward the stairs. Brian led the way, his sword still drawn, while Tristan fell back to guard their rear. Elena kept herself in the middle, acutely aware of her brother’s presence behind her but unable to look at him.

The great hall above was a slaughterhouse. Bodies sprawled across the floor, blood pooling between the stones. Elena didn’t look at the faces as she guided the children through the carnage with steady hands and soft words.

When they finally emerged into the night air, Elena stopped dead.

The sky. Stars scattered across black velvet, the moon hanging full and bright. The smell of salt and sea instead of blood and fear. She’d almost forgotten what freedom tasted like.

“Elena?” Tristan’s voice was gentle, uncertain.

She ignored him, tilting her face toward the stars and breathing deeply. Behind her, the children pressed close, and she gathered them.

“The chains,” she said quietly, not looking at anyone in particular. “Can someone remove the chains?”

Brian knelt before her without a word. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. Elena held still, watching as he examined the locks on her ankles. His hands were careful, never touching her skin more than necessary.

The first chain fell away with a soft clink that sounded like salvation.

He worked the second lock, his black hair falling forward to shadow his face. Elena found herself studying him. The strong line of his jaw, the concentration in his green eyes, the way his shoulders moved beneath his fighting leathers. There was something enthralling about his quiet competence, the way he accomplished tasks without fanfare or expectation of gratitude.

The second chain fell free.

Elena stared down at her scarred ankles. Permanent bands where iron had rubbed for years. Her breathing went ragged, and for a moment the world tilted sideways.

“Thank ye,” she whispered.

Brian rose to his feet, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter. “It’s naething.”

But it was everything.

***

The ship rocked gently beneath Elena’s feet as they sailed away from the stronghold. She gripped the railing, watching the dark mass of land disappear into the night. Around her, freed captives huddled in small groups, wrapped in blankets. Everyone looked shell-shocked.

Elena understood the feeling. Her mind felt fractured, unable to reconcile freedom with the reality she’d known for a decade.

She kept her distance from Tristan. Her brother stood at the bow alone, his shoulders tense, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He kept glancing back at Elena, his expression a complicated mix of hope and uncertainty, but he didn’t approach.

Elena was grateful for that.

“Ye should go tae him,” Brian said, appearing at her elbow.

Elena turned to find him leaning against the railing. “I dinnae ken what tae say tae him.”

“How about ‘thank ye fer spending ten years hunting the man who took me’?” There was no judgment in his tone, just rough honesty. “Or ‘I’m alive’? That seems tae be goin’ over well with the rest of us.”

Elena’s lips twitched. “Ye have a strange sense of humor.”

“Aye, well, I’ve been told I’m nae exactly cheery company.” He paused. “He thought ye were dead, lass. Fer ten years. Give him a moment tae adjust.”

“I thought I was dead too. The girl he knew… she is dead. I’m nae her anymore.”

Brian was silent for a long moment. When she glanced at him, she found him watching her with something that looked almost like understanding.

“My cousin,” he said finally. “Maisie. She was taken by slavers eight years ago. I’ve been searching fer her ever since.” He paused, and she could see the desperate hope warring with dread in his expression. “Did ye ever… in yer time there, did ye meet a Maisie Gunn?”

Elena’s heart sank. She’d seen that hope before. It was in the faces of family members searching for lost loved ones. It always ended the same way.

“Nay,” she said softly. “I never met anyone by that name. I’m sorry.”

The light in Brian’s eyes dimmed, but he nodded stiffly. “Aye. Well. It was a long shot.”

They stood in silence, the wind whipping Elena’s short hair around her face. He looked like a man carrying the weight of the world, and she recognized that burden because she’d been carrying her own version for years.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Jura. Tristan’s lands. He and his wife have established a center there fer people like ye… Those who’ve been freed from the slavers. Ye’ll be safe there.”

Jura. Her childhood home. The thought made Elena’s stomach churn with a complicated tangle of emotions she couldn’t name.

“And ye? Where will ye go?”

“Me faither has summoned me back tae Clan Gunn. There’s trouble with our neighbors tae the north. Raiders, possibly backed by rival clans. I’m needed there.”

Elena’s chest tightened. She barely knew this man, but the thought of going to Jura without him, of facing her brother’s expectations alone…

“How long have ye been fighting slavers?” she asked, desperate to keep him talking.

“Since Maisie was taken. Tristan started his crusade after he lost ye.” He glanced at her. “Ye were the reason he started all this.”

The weight of that settled over Elena like a shroud. Her brother had spent ten years dismantling slave networks because of her. Because he’d thought her dead and wanted vengeance. And now she was alive, and what was she supposed to do with that?

“I cannae go tae Jura,” Elena said suddenly.

Brian’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I cannae.” The words tumbled out faster now. “Dinnae ye understand? Me braither… he’s going tae expect me tae be the girl he lost. He’s going tae want me tae go back tae being a laird’s daughter, tae wear fine dresses and smile and pretend that the last ten years didnae happen.”

“Elena—”

“And I cannae be that person anymore. I dinnae even remember how. He has a wife now. He daesnae need a broken sister who’ll only remind him of his failure.”

“It wasnae his failure,” Brian said, his voice hard.

“Tell that tae the guilt I saw in his eyes.” Elena turned to face him fully, gripping the railing behind her. “Please. Let me come with ye. Tae Clan Gunn.”

Brian’s eyes widened. “That’s… lass, that’s nae possible.”

“Why nae?”

“Because yer braither would never allow it. Ye’re his family. He’s been searching fer ye fer a decade—”

“And now he’s found me. He kens I’m alive. Isnae that enough?” Elena heard the desperation in her voice but couldn’t stop it. “I dinnae want tae be locked in a castle again, even a safe one. I dinnae want tae be watched and pitied and treated like I’m made of glass.”

“So ye want tae come tae Gunn lands, where we’re preparing fer possible war?” Brian’s tone was incredulous.

“I want to go somewhere where there are nay expectations. I want tae dae something. Tae be useful. Tae matter.” Elena lifted her chin. “I can work. I can help. I’m nae useless.”

“I never said ye were. But Tristan—”

“Will say nay. I ken that.” Elena took a breath. “But maybe… maybe if ye talked tae him. Found a way tae convince him that this is what I need.”

“Ye’re asking me tae help ye run away from yer own braither?”

“I’m asking ye tae help me choose me own path fer the first time in ten years. Please, Brian. I cannae… I cannae go back tae being caged. Even if it’s a golden cage.”

Brian’s green eyes searched her face. “He’ll say nay” he warned.

“Then we’ll have tae be convincing.” Elena surprised herself with a small smile. “Ye seem like a man who’s good at getting what he wants.”

“Ye’ve known me fer all of an hour, lass. That’s quite the assessment.”

“I’ve had ten years tae learn how tae read men quickly.” The smile faded. “It’s a survival skill.”

Brian’s expression darkened. “Aye. I suppose it would be.”

They stood there as the ship cut through dark water, and Elena felt the first tiny spark of something hopeful. This man with his battle-worn face didn’t look at her with pity. He didn’t try to tell her what she needed or who she should be.

He just listened.

“I’ll try,” Brian said finally. “But I’m nae promising anything. It is a very unusual situation, bringing the unescorted sister of a laird under me protection tae me castle. If he says nay, then ye’ll accept it with grace. Understood?”

Elena nodded, though they both knew it was a lie. She’d spent ten years learning that sometimes survival meant breaking promises, even to yourself.

“Understood,” she said.

Brian pushed off from the railing. “Get some rest, lass. We’ve a long journey ahead.”

As he walked away, Elena found her gaze following him. She took in the breadth of his shoulders, the controlled power in his movements, the way he stopped to speak gently to one of the frightened children before continuing toward Tristan.

She didn’t know why she’d asked that particular man for help. Perhaps because he’d been the first to free her chains. Perhaps because he understood loss in a way her brother, now that he had found her, could not.

Or perhaps because when his green eyes had met hers, she had not seen pity.

Only recognition.

Elena turned back to the dark water, her fingers ghosting over the scars on her wrists. Across the deck, she could see Brian approaching Tristan, could see her brother’s expression shift from confusion to concern as they spoke in low voices.

She didn’t let herself hope. Hope was dangerous.

But for the first time in ten years, she let herself want something beyond simple survival.

And even that was dangerous.

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