Prologue

MacLeod Castle, Scotland

Darkness enveloped Lara as she slowly made her way down the narrow hallway, moving as silently as possible to avoid waking the others. She despised the oppressive blackness that clung to the ancient stones of the keep but didn’t dare light a candle. That would draw unwanted attention.

No, better to make her way to the kitchens below by memory alone. There, she could find brief respite in the solitude and enjoy a small piece of cake, with a steaming cup of tea. She’d always had a sweet tooth, even as a young lass. Many a night she had slipped down to the kitchens this way to satisfy her craving for something sweet and warm.

As she descended the winding staircase, she thought she heard footsteps approaching. Who could it be? Had somebody been following her? Heart racing, she quickly hid under one of the long wooden benches, just in time before two figures entered. Holding her breath, Lara pressed herself into the shadows, praying the darkness would keep her hidden. Fear coiled within her as the footsteps drew nearer, and she had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. The footsteps stopped just shy of her hiding place. Lara’s pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to run, to scream, but she remained paralyzed under the bench, praying for them to leave.

“Can you believe our sister is getting married in just a few weeks?” Quinn chuckled. “Who would have thought Lara would be the first?”

A wave of relief washed over her as she realized it was just her two brothers. She surreptitiously peeped from her hiding place out to watch them.

With his long dark hair tied up and his light eyes shimmering with amusement, Quinn, laughed softly. “Aye, our Lara may be wild, but she’s finally settlin’ down. Gregor must be quite a man tae tame her.” His voice was gentle, a contrast to his rough exterior. Lara bristled slightly at the suggestion she needed ‘taming,’ but kept silent as her big brothers carried on.

Quinn continued, his light eyes turning serious. “I’ll admit I had my doubts about the match at first,” he confessed, his imposing height and muscular frame belying the sincerity in his voice. “But Gregor has proven himself an honorable ally. This marriage could be the thing that finally unites our clans against the MacNeils.”

Beside Quinn, Gil nodded in agreement. At twenty-eight, Gil was a handsome man, tall and muscular like his brother. His long dark hair and blue eyes made him a sight to behold. “Aye, with Gregor’s men and resources, we might finally end that bloody feud for good. He may be the best thing tae happen tae the Mackenzies in years, dinnae ye think?”

His hair fell slightly over his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “The feud with the MacDonalds,” he began, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room, “is a finally closed chapter.”

Despite herself, Lara felt a twinge of unease at their words. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the man she was supposed to marry. Gregor was persistent, yes. And he clearly loved her, in his own way—if that was what love should be, of course. But still . . .

Gil’s blue eyes twinkled with mirth as he leaned back, his muscular arms crossing over his chest. “Remember when our wee Lara used tae hide beneath the table whenever guests came over?” he began, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

God’s teeth!

Quinn chuckled, his light eyes dancing with amusement. His hair bounced with his laughter. “Aye, I do. She used tae squeeze herself intae the tiniest of corners, thinking nae one could see her.”

Gil joined in the laughter, his handsome face breaking into a broad grin. “And the best part was, she’d peek out from under the tablecloth, her little eyes wide with curiosity, watching everyone’s feet move around.”

Quinn’s laughter grew louder, his usually cold exterior softened by the shared memory. “And then she’d suddenly burst out from under the table, startling the living daylights out of our guests. I swear, I’ve never seen the old MacNeil jump so high!”

The two brothers roared with laughter, their jovial voices echoing around them. Lara, despite herself, found a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The memory was embarrassing, yes, but also precious. She’d been so young, so innocent then. It had been a simpler time, a time she often longed for amidst the complexities of her present life.

As the laughter subsided, Gil wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Aye, but I suspect our Lara still has a fondness for hiding under tables,” he said, shooting a teasing glance in her direction.

Quinn’s eyes glinted in agreement as he tried to suppress another laugh. “Aye, that she does. It’s a wonder she hasnae taken tae doing that with Gregor’s men around.”

Gil looked towards the door, “If Elsie heard us laughing, she might come tae check on us. Ye ken how she worries.”

Quinn nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes. He turned to Lara, his voice softer but still filled with brotherly affection. “If ye hear footsteps again, Lara, dinnae be afraid. It’s likely just Elsie coming tae see what all the noise is about. Ye ken how she hates tae miss a good laugh.”

Lara came out from her hiding place and looked up at him, nodding, her cheeks flushed.

Gil’s deep blue eyes shone with mischief, and Lara couldn’t help but wonder what was running through his mind. He reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his palm spreading through her. “Dinnae be embarrassed, lass. Ye were only a child then, and ye couldnae have known how to behave. Ye’ll do fine when the time comes.”

Quinn smiled down at her, his light eyes filled with pride. “Aye, ye’ll make a fine wife, lass. Gregor is a lucky man.”

Lara’s heart swelled at the praise. She knew they’d be proud of her, but the way they looked at her right then, well, she felt she could take on the world.

“We’d best get down to the tavern. Goodnight, Lara.” Quin nodded towards her, and with that, he and Gil were off, leaving her with their kind words and a bittersweet ache in her heart.

Pouring herself some tea, she listened for any sounds in the keep. Elsie may have heard Quinn and Gil as well and would eventually come to check on her. Lara smiled softly, touched by her sister’s protectiveness. Though they bickered, as all siblings did, she knew Elsie only wanted the best for her.

When she heard light footsteps approaching, Lara chuckled. “Dinnae worry Elsie, it’s only me down here,” she called out gently.

But the hand that suddenly clamped down over her mouth was too large to belong to her sister. Lara’s screams became muffled whimpers as a strong arm wrapped around her, dragging her from the kitchen and toward the outside door.

She fought with all her strength, but it was no use against her attacker’s brute force. Pain exploded in her head, and as everything faded into blackness, all she felt was terror and confusion. Why was this happening? Who wished her such harm?

The last coherent thought she had was a fervent wish that Elsie had come looking for her after all.

Chapter One

Six months later
MacNeil’s castle, Scotland

Darragh MacDonald dragged his weary body through the cold stone halls of the MacNeil castle, the day’s frustrations still simmering under his skin. He was taking on all the clan’s responsibilities while his brother was away, and they were weighing on him like stones. His footsteps echoed through the grand hallways, the sound bouncing off the ancient stone walls, bringing some life to the otherwise quiet castle.

In the dim light cast by flickering torches, the shadows of the castle seemed to stretch and distort, playing tricks on Darragh’s tired eyes. The portraits of the MacNeil ancestors leered at him from their lofty positions, their faces stern and unfeeling. The weight of their gazes was almost tangible, a reminder of the lineage he was obliged to uphold. The MacNeils had always been their greatest enemies, but now, with the laird dead, the responsibility of the leaderless clan had become entirely the MacDonald’s.

His hand brushed against the rough, cold stone as he leaned heavily against a wall. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the damp, earthy scent that permeated the ancient castle, the echo of ages past, of battles fought and won, of lairds and their ladies who had walked these halls before him.

He pushed away from the wall and continued his journey. The castle, once alive and bustling, now seemed more akin to a mausoleum, a monument to the past. The servants had retired for the night, leaving the corridors eerily silent. As he trudged onward, the only sounds were the whisper of his robes against the stone floors and the distant hoot of a tawny owl from the castle’s battlements.

Reaching the imposing wooden doors of the great hall, he paused. The hall, usually a place of raucous laughter, sumptuous meals, and robust debates, was now silent. The long, wooden trestle tables were bare, save for a few forgotten tankards and the remnants of the evening’s feast. The once roaring hearth was reduced to a smoldering pile of embers.

He glanced up at the grand tapestry hanging above the hearth, the MacNeil crest proudly displayed. The castle, the land, the people; they were all his responsibility now. Darragh and his brother Aidan had decided he would take over the MacNeil clan while Aidan dealt with the responsibilities of their own clan. However, it was no easy feat. He despised Laird Keir MacNeil for murdering his parents and for then abducting his sister Lillie and imprisoning her. If it hadn’t been for Ciara, Laird MacNeil’s daughter and now Aidan’s wife, who had helped Lillie escape from the dungeons where she was held, his sister would have probably died as well.

Darragh entered the late laird’s study, a room steeped in history. Old books, their leather-bound spines cracked with age, lined the shelves from floor to ceiling. Dust particles hung suspended in the air, filtering the weak light from the single window. The faint scent of parchment and ink filled the room, a heady aroma that spoke of wisdom and knowledge.

The heavy wooden desk, scarred by time and use, stood as a testament to the many MacNeil lairds who had sat behind it, pondering over the fate of their clan. Darragh ran a hand over the surface, feeling the grooves and indentations under his fingertips.

Suddenly, the distant sound of running troops echoed through the castle. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath hitching. Darragh froze, a wave of panic surging through him. The sound triggered the by now well-known reaction in his body, sweat running down his back, clammy hands, and the sense of being outs of his own body, a constant, cruel reminder of the battles he’d fought, of the friends he’d lost.

His mind cast him back to a different time, a different place. The roar of cannons, the clash of swords, the screams of the dying; they all came rushing back to him. The study, the castle, it all faded away, replaced by the haunting echoes of war.

All this was followed by a feeling of dizziness that had more than once caused him to lose consciousness. Darragh clutched the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He forced himself to draw in a deep breath, trying to ground himself. He concentrated on the feeling of the cold stone under his feet, the rough grain of the wood beneath his hands.

He wasn’t on the battlefield. He was in the study, in the castle. But the echoes of the past still rang in his ears, a ghostly cadence that sent chills down his spine.

The panic began to recede, ebbing away like the tide. The castle came back into focus, the smell of parchment and ink replacing the stench of gunpowder and blood. The sound of the running troops grew fainter, the echoes dying away, leaving him in the silence of the study.

Darragh took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm amidst the cacophony outside. His heart continued its wild drumming, but he willed it to slow, to steady. He’d survived worse situations, he reminded himself. He’d faced death and lived to tell the tale.

With a grimace, Darragh pulled off his shirt, the fabric catching on the rough edges of his numerous scars. The chill of the castle seeped into his exposed skin, but he barely noticed, his attention fixated on the ugly marks marring his body. They were a mosaic of pain, each scar a story of survival, each one a testament to his resilience.

His reflection in the antique mirror on the wall haunted him. The man staring back at him was a warrior, a survivor. His eyes, once bright and full of life, now bore the weight of his past. His body, once unmarred, was now a canvas of pain.

The light from the flickering torches danced across his skin, highlighting the raised lines and jagged edges of his war wounds. He traced a particularly long scar with his fingers, the memory of the blade that left it still vivid in his mind. The pain, the fear, the desperation; it all came rushing back.

Yet, staring at his reflection, Darragh felt a flicker of pride. His scars were not just reminders of the horrors he’d endured. They were badges of honor, proof of his strength and his courage. He’d faced the worst that life could throw at him and emerged victorious.

With a final glance at his reflection, Darragh pulled his shirt back on, covering his scars, although they would always be there, still a part of him. He carried them with him, a constant reminder of his past, of his battles, of his survival.

The tumult outside grew louder, but Darragh was unfazed.

He sifted through the papers on the laird’s old desk, discovering documents detailing the brutal war between the MacNeil Clan and the MacLean Clan, a feud that had claimed too many lives. He scanned the faded ink, the reports of battles lost and won, of men who had died far too young. Each document was a piece of the bloody tapestry of their shared history.

A gasp escaped his lips when he read about how Laird MacNeil had kidnapped Laird MacLean’s wife and then murdered her. Now things made more sense, at least he could better understand his former enemy, Harris MacLean’s, reasons for acting as he did. As he set the papers aside, he thanked the heavens the feud was now a part of history, no longer a threat to his clan or the MacNeil Clan.

The dusty tomes lining the shelves beckoned to Darragh like sirens of lore. He trailed his fingers along their cracked spines, tempted to pull one out and unfold its ancient secrets. But his attention snagged on an ornate glimmer peeking out from the shadows.

Darragh nudged aside a pile of books, releasing a puff of dust that danced in the slanted sunlight. Before him stood a metal handle, intricately forged with swirling vines and leaves. It glinted with promise, out of place amid the faded leather covers surrounding it.

Unable to curb his curiosity, Darragh grasped the handle. It was cold and heavy in his palm. He gave it an exploratory tug, and to his surprise, the entire bookcase creaked and swung open, leading into unfathomable darkness.

Darragh’s heartbeat quickened, thudding against his ribs. What mysteries lay shrouded in this clandestine passage? He grabbed the closest lamp, and, steeling himself, Darragh stepped into the shadows, the bookcase grinding shut behind him. Lamp in hand, wary yet undaunted, Darragh delved into the unknown. With a fortifying breath, he followed, one step at a time.

Chapter Two

Six months later
MacNeil’s castle, Scotland

Lara traced the cracks in the stone walls with her eyes, counting each one for the thousandth time. The dim torchlight never changed, marking the endless passage of identical days trapped within these featureless walls. The cell seemed to grow smaller each day, the walls closing in as Lara’s hope faded. Insects crawled among the cracks in the damp stone, feasting on mold and fallen crumbs. Water dripped constantly from the ceiling, pooling in a moldy puddle by the waste bucket in the corner.

Lara spent her days perched on the edge of the thin mattress, too exhausted to move yet unable to sleep. Her skin had grown pale from lack of sunlight, her thin frame weakened by the meager rations she was given. The guards’ jeers and slurs rang in her ears, chipping away at her crumbling resolve.

On her worst days, Lara imagined clawing at the stone walls until her nails cracked and bled. Only the memory of open skies and green hills kept her tethered to consciousness, though the memories seemed to fade with each passing day.

There was nothing but the bed and a few tattered books. Most of the guards were callous, following orders to keep her imprisoned, but one older guard had shown her kindness. Lara noticed how he stealthily slipped her the books, glancing furtively up and down the hallway before shutting the cell door quietly behind him.

His voice was hushed as he muttered, “Something tae keep your mind busy. Dinnae let the others see.” Lara handled the fragile pages with care, gently smoothing out folded corners and wiping dust from the worn covers. They were her only escape from this place, transporting her to faraway lands and adventures through their pages.

Slowly Lara rose from the bed and walked cautiously to the massive door. She placed her ear against the cold metal, listening for any sign that the guards had noticed her movement.

Silence.

She slipped her hand under the thin mattress and withdrew a worn copy of a book she had read so many times the spine was falling apart.

As she sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, chapters and characters floated through her mind, briefly transporting her from the prison cell. Lara devoured every word, committing passages to memory like a mantra to ward off the oppressive solitude. A familiar loud clang interrupted her reading. The slot at the bottom of the door swung open, and a metal tray was shoved through, carrying the day’s meager meal.

Lara shoved the book under her thin dress and pressed it against her stomach, trying to hide the bulge with her arms. As she stood to collect the food tray, the guard’s suspicious gaze raked over her. Lara’s heart hammered as she met his eyes briefly, hoping her fear did not show. Lara breathed an inward sigh of relief when he didn’t seem to suspect anything and moved to eat, desperate to remain invisible to the guards watching her imprisonment.

The guard grunted. “Hurry up in there, would ye? I dinnae have all day.”

Lara ate as quickly as she could, hunger gnawing at her belly.

The guard’s nightstick rapped loudly against the cell door. “Quickly!” he barked.

Lara stiffened at his harsh tone and quickly swallowed the last mouthful of bread. Her hands trembled as she slid the tray back through the slot, a faint quaver in her voice as she muttered, “Here, sir.”

The guard scoffed. “Bet ye’re missing yer cozy hills and bagpipes. Too bad ye’ll be rotting in here forever.”

Lara balled her hands into fists, her bitten nails digging into her palms. She bowed her head to hide the tear welling in her eye, determined not to give in to her sorrow.

The guard sighed irritably. “Ach, quit yer moping.” With that, he slid the slot shut and stalked away, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Lara was left alone in the chilling silence once more, the guard’s harsh words stinging. Curling up on her thin cot, she pulled out the tattered book again and began to read, hoping its pages would offer more kindness than the guard had shown.

After a few pages, she heard a tiny scratching sound. A small rat scurried out from a crack in the stone wall and stopped to nibble on some crumbs on the floor. Lara froze, not daring to move or make a sound. She hated rats, with their beady eyes and twitching noses. But she knew any noise could scare it into attacking her.

The rat looked up and saw Lara staring at it. It tilted its head curiously then went back to eating. Lara slowly turned the page, trying to focus on her reading and ignore the tiny rodent.

The animal finished its meal and started wandering around the cell, investigating Lara’s few belongings. It ran across her blanket then climbed up the bedpost out of sight.

Lara could hear the rodent scurrying above her, sending dust raining down. Her heart pounded as panic crept in. What if it fell on her face while she slept? She thought of the guard’s cruel words and shuddered at the thought of calling for help.

Gripping her book, Lara prayed the rat would leave on its own. She tried reading again but couldn’t focus, anxiously listening for any movement above her. Lara strained to hear the guards’ whispered conversation outside her cell. Snippets of words drifted through the small door slot.

“. . . murdered nearly a week past. Keir’s dead.”

“Violent death . . . a MacDonald I heard.”

The guards moved out of earshot, and Lara sank back on her thin bed, clutching the rough blanket.

So, Laird Keir MacNeil was dead. That snake who had tormented her during her long captivity, depriving her of food and water for days, laughing as she weakened and begged for mercy. The cruel glint in his eye as he inflicted every minor punishment he could devise was carved on her heart.

The rodent scurrying in the corner now went unnoticed. All Lara felt was savage glee that Keir was dead, that his reign of terror over her had at last been brought to an end, albeit not by her own hand.

Curling up on the thin mattress, Lara allowed herself a moment of vicious satisfaction. Keir was gone, and for now that was enough.

Lara pressed her ear to the cell door, listening as the two guards argued in hushed tones outside.

“Without the Laird, who’ll tell us what tae do with the lass?” one guard asked.

“Damned if I ken,” replied the other. “I’m nae acting without orders, that’s for sure.”

They fell silent, and Lara retreated from the door, cursing her confinement. Even with Keir dead, she remained trapped, the guards too fearful to release her without orders from above.

Lara paced the tiny cell, fingers tracing the rough stone walls as she had countless times before. Though Keir NacNeil’s demise brought her satisfaction, it changed nothing about her circumstances. Her freedom remained as elusive as ever.

The guards began conversing again. “She can rot in there for all I care,” said one. The other chuckled darkly.

Lara balled her hands into fists. What little hope she’d gained from her captor’s death faded as the guards’ callous words reached her ears. They would not release her out of decency or pity, but only when commanded from above.

With a sigh, Lara sank down on the thin mattress. She closed her eyes and fell into a light slumber. She was awoken by a sound.

She stared blankly at the stone ceiling above her, not moving an inch as the heavy wooden door slowly creaked open. The grating sound of iron hinges turning echoed off the bare walls. Lara continued gazing upward, eyes half-lidded. She knew with dull certainty it was only the guards, come to bring her meal of stale bread and greasy meat.

The footfalls that entered the cell were heavy, booted—the tread of a large man—yet at the same time surprisingly stealthy. There was no reason to stir, no point in engaging with her captors beyond what was absolutely necessary. So, Lara remained still upon the bed, hands folded limply across her stomach, as the steps drew nearer. She did not so much as turn her head when the figure almost reached her bed.

Then, a pool of light broke through her closed eyelids, forcing them open. Squinting against the unaccustomed glare of what she made out to be an oil lamp, Lara’s heart clamored in her chest as she struggled to make out the stranger’s features. She could tell only that he was tall, with a muscular build. His face was obscured in shadows. But then he held the lamp higher, and his face was revealed in detail. Lara’s pulse quickened, and she gasped at the sight which met her eyes.

A fearsome warrior stood before her, tall, broad chested, occupying most of the cell, and looking as if he could break her in two with one hand. She scampered backwards, seeking protection against the wall, panicking as she took in the intruder’s long, curling fair hair that fell beyond his shoulders and was knotted by a leather thong. Thick, stray locks the color of ripe wheat fell over a pair of gleaming black eyes that were fixed upon her.

For such a frightening figure, his features were surprisingly boyish, his lips firm and well-shaped, the planes of his face angular and perfectly symmetrical, with a strong chin beneath dark stubble. Yet she saw that his handsome looks were somewhat marred by a tracery of scars, clearly marks of past battles, that seamed his face.

Lara recoiled, her back pressing against the cold stone wall. This fearsome stranger was clearly no liberator. She trembled uncontrollably as he approached her where she cowered on the rotten straw, his hulking frame seeming to fill the cell.

He reached out a massive hand, bent, and grasped her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes, his touch surprisingly gentle. Lara choked back a scream, her mind flooding with visions of the unspeakable violence this disfigured giant could inflict upon her helpless form. As she stared up at him, heart hammering wildly, she realized with dread that her nightmare was only just beginning.

Lara’s breath froze in her lungs. Was he here on MacNeil’s orders, to drag her to some new torture?

The man let go of her chin and stood up. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Are ye all right, lass? What are ye doing here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Lara’s eyes snapped wide in surprise at the gentle tone. She studied the scarred face hovering over her, noting the concern in his dark eyes. He was younger than she expected, perhaps only a few years her senior.

“Can ye stand? Here, let me help ye.” He extended a hand cautiously, as if afraid she might startle and flee.

Lara hesitated, then placed her palm in his, allowing him to gently assist her to her feet. His hand was huge and calloused, made for war, but the grip was tender, as if he was mindful of her frailty.

“What’s yer name?” he prompted when she remained silent.

“Lara,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from lack of use.

As the stranger helped her stand, Lara acted on pure instinct born of horror and desperation. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she wrenched away from him and made a frantic bolt for the open cell door. Freedom was so close, just a few strides away.

But the strange man moved with startling speed, catching her arm before she could escape. She cried out in dismay and whirled on him, claws extended to rake his face.

He captured her delicate wrists in his hands, firmly yet gently. “Easy, lass, I’ll nae hurt ye,” he rumbled. Though he could have easily overpowered her, he did not force her compliance.

Chest heaving, Lara stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. She trembled in his grasp like a captured bird. Slowly, he released her hands and stepped back, showing he did not intend to restrain her.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice low and soothing. “I only wish tae help ye leave this place, but if ye run off, the guards will likely catch ye. Now, ye must tell me why ye’re here.”

Lara hesitated, wavering between trust and fear. There was concern in the man’s scarred face, and his touch had been free of malice. Perhaps she had mistaken his intentions. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

“Ye need nae be afraid,” he murmured.

Lara sagged in defeat. Even if she managed to slip past this stranger, she knew the guards outside would recapture her at once. For now, the only hope of freedom lay in listening to what he had to say. And maybe telling him the truth about what had happened to her. But not just yet.

“Why should I trust ye?” she asked, eyeing him doubtfully.

The stranger paused and nodded slightly. “Ye have nae reason to as of yet.” He shifted his massive frame, causing Lara to flinch back instinctively.

“Please, be at ease,” he rasped. “I mean ye nae harm. My name is Darragh, and I’ve come tae set ye free.”

Lara hesitated. Is he sincere? No, I cannae trust him. If he’s saving me as he claims, he’ll surely want something in return. Most likely gold, a ransom from me faither no doubt. “And at what cost are ye saving me?” she challenged him. “What do ye gain from me escape?”

A flash of irritation crossed Darragh’s face before he schooled his features, but it was enough to confirm Lara’s suspicions that he was hiding something. “I gain nothing,” he replied. “I simply wish tae help one in need.”

Lara studied his brutal visage, taking in the hard lines of his jaw, the mesh of scars covering him, and the thick, muscular arms clearly accustomed to inflicting violence. She thought of the cruelty of her captors and how unlikely it seemed that this scarred brute had come to save her merely out of kindness.

As Lara remained silent, Darragh took a step towards her, causing her to flatten herself against the wall. His massive frame filled the door of the tiny cell until she felt like a helpless rabbit in the sights of a hulking predator ready to pounce.

“Come,” he beckoned, extending a hand.

Lara eyed his hand warily, not missing how his tight grip could easily crush her fingers. Though he promised freedom, everything about him spoke of menace and deceit. Lara thought of the guards’ taunts and blows, and wondered if this stranger’s intentions were any less cruel.

His reassuring words swam in Lara’s head like lifeless fish, devoid of meaning. Freedom was an illusion, an empty promise meant to tease her fraying senses.

Yet when she searched his scarred face for any sign of deception, she saw only a guarded sincerity. Perhaps he was not trying to fool her but had his own secrets to keep. Her panic began to subside, to be replaced by a flicker of hope.

“But why are ye freeing me?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Because nae one deserves tae be trapped like this,” Darragh replied.

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