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Was there a part that bored or that you didn't really like in the book?

Even a character, a scene, or anything. You could say no if nothing bothered you.

Which was the part you liked most in the book?

Even a character, a scene, or anything that you enjoyed.

Do you prefer the female protagonist to be: *

• Gentle and soft-hearted
• Fiery, bold, and outspoken

What is your favorite moment in a love story? *

• The first meeting
• The first kiss
• The love confession

Anything else you'd like to share?

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Two years later

The council chamber finally emptied as the last of the men bowed their heads and took their leave, the low murmur of voices fading down the corridor until only the quiet weight of stone and fire remained. Duncan stayed where he was for a moment longer, hands resting on the edge of the table, listening to the echo of boots retreating, letting the tension of leadership ease its grip inch by inch. The meeting had been a long one, filled with talk of boundary lines, livestock disputes, winter stores, and the slow, patient work of peace that followed war, and though none of it troubled him the way danger once had, the responsibility of it still settled deep in his bones.

But when he finally straightened and turned from the table, there was no heaviness in him, only a quiet pull drawing him onward through the castle, toward warmth, toward something waiting that belonged wholly to him.

The corridor outside the council chamber was lit with late-afternoon firelight, the sun already dipping low enough to slant through the narrow windows, and as Duncan walked, the sounds of the keep wrapped around him in their familiar rhythm: a servant’s soft laugh somewhere below, the clatter of wood being stacked near the kitchens, the distant thud of boots in the training yard. This was the sound of a place at ease, of people moving without fear, and each time he noticed it, something in his chest eased in response.

When he reached the solar, he slowed without meaning to, one hand resting against the stone doorframe as he looked inside.

The fire burned low and steady in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room, and near it, seated in the wide-backed chair Duncan had once dragged closer to the flames on a winter night long ago, sat Lorna.

She was turned slightly toward the fire, one hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of her belly, the other holding open a book whose pages were worn soft from use, and in her lap sat their daughter, small and sturdy and utterly absorbed, her dark curls tumbling over her brow as she listened with solemn concentration. Lorna’s voice carried through the room in a low, even cadence, gentle without being sing-song, the words of the story shaped with care, as though she were offering them something precious rather than simply reading aloud.

Duncan stayed where he was and watched, his chest tightening with a feeling so full and sudden it stole his breath.

Catherine leaned back against Lorna’s arm, one small hand curled into the fabric of her mother’s gown, her feet bare and tucked under herself, and as Lorna turned a page, the child leaned forward eagerly, pointing at something on the paper with an excited murmur that made Lorna smile and pause, indulging her curiosity before continuing. The fire crackled softly, the light catching in Lorna’s hair, and as Duncan watched, he felt the familiar, grounding certainty settle over him.

This was the life he had nearly lost before he ever knew he wanted it.

He remembered other fires, other rooms, the way his mother’s voice had once filled a space like this, the way his sister had leaned against her with the same trusting weight, and for a moment the memories pressed close, sharp with their sweetness. But they did not hurt the way they once had. They stood beside the present, not in its place.

Lorna shifted slightly in her chair, her hand brushing over her belly as though adjusting for comfort, and Duncan’s gaze followed the movement instinctively, the quiet awareness of the life growing there stirring something deep and reverent inside him. He had felt the child move beneath his palm only that morning, strong and insistent, a reminder that the world did not simply continue but expanded, that the future arrived whether one was ready or not.

And he was ready. He had never been more ready for anything in his life.

Catherine chose that moment to look up, her gaze lifting past the book, past her mother’s shoulder, and fixing on him with sudden recognition.

“Da,” she said, the word still rounded and imperfect, but unmistakable.

Lorna turned, her eyes finding him instantly, her expression softening into a smile that reached deep into him, as if it knew every version of him that had existed before this moment and welcomed them all.

“There ye are,” she said quietly, closing the book partway but not rising. “We were wonderin’ when ye’d be done.”

Before Duncan could answer, his daughter scrambled to her feet with the determined clumsiness of a child still mastering her own body, slid off Lorna’s lap, and barreled across the rug toward him with her arms outstretched and a delighted laugh bursting free.

Duncan bent without thinking, his arms opening just in time to catch her as she collided with him, her small body warm and solid and utterly trusting as she wrapped herself around his neck.

“There ye are,” he murmured back, his voice rough with something that might have been laughter if it had not been edged with emotion.

He lifted her easily, the familiar weight settling against his chest, and spun once, twice, the room blurring at the edges as her laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained. Lorna laughed too, a soft sound that carried across the space, and Duncan slowed, pressing his daughter briefly against his shoulder before lowering himself to sit beside Lorna near the fire.

Their daughter wriggled in his arms, still energized, pointing toward the book with insistent babble, and Duncan adjusted his grip, settling her more securely against him as he leaned back, one arm braced comfortably, the other resting across her small back.

“Were ye listenin’ well?” he asked her, his tone solemn enough to make her pause and nod emphatically.

“Story,” she said proudly.

“Aye,” Lorna said, reopening the book and shifting slightly so she could lean more comfortably against the arm of the chair. “A very important one, apparently.”

Duncan watched her as she spoke, the gentle curve of her smile, the ease in her posture despite the weight she carried, and he felt again that surge of gratitude so fierce it bordered on ache. He had learned, in those past two years, that happiness did not arrive all at once, that it came in moments like this, unannounced and ordinary and devastating in their beauty.

Lorna resumed reading, her voice filling the room once more, and Duncan listened, though the words themselves mattered less than the sound of her speaking them, the cadence steady and sure. Catherine fidgeted for a while, her attention wandering, small fingers tracing the edge of Duncan’s sleeve, then his hand, then settling at last against his chest, where she rested her head with a sigh that carried the unmistakable weight of fatigue.

Duncan felt the moment it happened, the way her body softened, the tension slipping free as sleep claimed her without ceremony.

He adjusted only enough to support her head more comfortably, his hand sliding up to cradle her back, and he glanced at Lorna, who had noticed too, her lips curving into a quiet, knowing smile even as she continued reading for another page, then another, before finally closing the book with care.

“She’s out,” Lorna murmured.

“Aye,” Duncan said softly.

The fire popped gently, the room settling into a hush that felt sacred rather than empty, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. Duncan watched the rise and fall of Catherine’s breath, felt the warmth of her against him, and thought of the man he had once been, the one who had believed peace was something earned only through vigilance, never through rest.

He had learned otherwise.

Lorna shifted slightly, her hand finding his knee, her thumb tracing a small, absent pattern there as she looked at him, her gaze thoughtful.

“Dae ye ever think about it?” she asked quietly.

He did not need to ask what she meant.

“Aye,” he said after a moment. “More often than I expected.”

She nodded, her eyes dropping briefly to their sleeping child before lifting again. “Sometimes I look at her,” she said, “and I cannae quite believe she’s real. That this is.”

Duncan leaned back a little further, careful not to disturb the weight in his arms, and exhaled slowly. “I think about the night MacTavish came,” he said, his voice low but steady. “About how close everything came tae breakin’ apart before it ever had the chance tae be whole.”

Lorna’s fingers tightened on his knee for a moment, then eased. “And yet here we are.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Here we are.”

He turned his head to look at her fully, taking in the familiar lines of her face, the strength that lived beneath her gentleness, the way her presence still grounded him as surely as the land beneath his feet. “I’ve led men intae battle,” he continued quietly. “I’ve stood in places where fear ruled every breath. But naethin’ has ever terrified me the way the thought o’ losin’ this daes.”

She did not flinch from the truth of it. She met his gaze, her own steady and clear. “That fear is part o’ the love,” she said. “It always was.”

Duncan considered that, then nodded slowly. “Aye. I think ye’re right.”

They sat like that for a long while, the quiet stretching comfortably between them, until the fire burned lower and the light shifted, painting the room in deeper gold and shadow. Duncan shifted at last, careful and deliberate, and Lorna rose to help him, taking their daughter gently into her arms and settling her against her shoulder.

“I’ll put her down,” Lorna said softly.

Duncan watched them cross the room together, watched the care with which Lorna moved, the way she murmured something low and soothing as she carried their child toward the adjoining chamber, and when she returned a short while later, her expression peaceful, he reached for her hand without thinking, drawing her down beside him once more.

She leaned into him easily, her head resting against his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her, his hand settling over her belly, feeling the subtle movement beneath his palm.

“Soon,” he murmured.

She smiled. “Soon.”

Outside, the sky deepened toward evening, the first stars beginning to emerge, and Duncan sat there holding the woman who had changed his life and the quiet certainty of everything they had built together.

He had once believed that survival was the highest victory a man could claim, but now he knew better. Peace, love, the slow unfolding of a life shared and safeguarded, the sound of laughter by a hearth and the weight of a child asleep in his arms, these were the things worth fighting for, worth protecting, worth living long enough to see through.

And as the fire burned low and the castle settled into night around them, Duncan MacInnes held his family close and knew, with a certainty deeper than any vow, that he had finally come home.

The End.

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