Laird of Obsession (Preview)
Chapter One
Glen Moore, Scottish Highlands, Scotland, January 1690
“Easy, lass,” Lady Alyson MacDonald murmured. “There’s naethin’ out there.”
Her mare’s ears flicked softly, picking up something on the wind as they travelled toward Iona Abbey—to stone walls and iron gates and a life where the world couldn’t touch her. Sanctuary. Safety.
The forest pressed close on either side of the narrow road, bare branches reaching overhead like skeletal fingers. Frost clung to everything, turning the world into something crystalline and bitter. Beautiful, if one didn’t look too closely. Beautiful, if one ignored how easily frozen things could shatter.
Like me.
“Birds are restless,” Malcolm, one of her guards, said, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt.
“Aye,” Jamie agreed, his eyes scanning the tree line. “Even the carrion birds ken somethin’s comin’. Me grandfaither always used tae say that when the crows start gatherin’, ‘tis never tae sing ye a lullaby. Means they’re waitin’ fer their feast.”
“That’s the spirit, lad. Keep that optimism burnin’ bright.”
The other men chuckled under their breath at the jest, but Fergus fixed his gaze on Alyson.
Alyson’s fingers found the edge of her cloak, worrying the heavy wool between her thumb and forefinger. The familiar texture grounded her, kept her from drowning in memories that still had teeth.
Five months. It has been five months since Micheal pulled me from that cell. Five months later, and I still wake screamin’, still cannae bear tae have a man stand too close.
Even her brothers—especially her brothers, for they now treated her like something fragile. Their careful distance hurt worse than any wound Campbell had inflicted upon her.
“The abbey will nay doubt offer ye peace, me lady,” Fergus said quietly. “But ye ken what it means, aye? Once ye take those vows—”
“I ken what I’m daein’.” The words came out sharper than intended, and she gentled her tone, her fingers still working the cloak’s edge. “Fergive me, Fergus. I didnae mean tae snap. ‘Tis just… I’m nay longer the person who existed before Campbell. She’s gone. The Abbey will provide safety.”
Her words hung between them because they both knew the truth. Safety came at a price, and she was about to pay for it with the rest of her life.
“Malcom,” Fergus called to one of the younger guards. “How much further tae the crossin’?”
“Another hour, maybe less if we keep this pace.”
They were already well into MacLean territory, and now had to reach the crossing. From there, it was only half a day’s ride to Iona Abbey. Men like Cody Grant couldn’t reach her there with their obsession and their demands.
I’ll be safe behind those walls. Finally, finally safe.
Alyson’s mare tossed her head, nostrils flaring at something on the wind. She stroked the animal’s neck, feeling the nervous energy thrumming through warm muscle and hide. The animal’s coat was damp with sweat despite the cold—another creature who sensed danger before it showed itself.
Behind her, Malcolm’s horse sidled nervously, hooves striking the frozen earth with sharp, rhythmic cracks. Then Iain’s mount joined the restless dance, tossing its head hard enough to make the bit jangle.
Alyson’s gaze swept the tree line. Nothing was moving in the forest, no birds called—even the wind had gone silent, as if the world itself held its breath.
A branch snapped somewhere to the left—sharp as a bone breaking.
Fergus’s head whipped toward the sound, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. Across from him, Dougal did the same, his face going hard as stone.
Then, carried on the frozen air like a whisper, came the distant thunder of hoofbeats.
Fergus’s voice dropped. “I want ye tae stay calm now, me lady.” His one hand dropped to his sword hilt, while the other tightened on the reins with white-knuckled intensity, his body rigid. “But be ready, there’s someone followin’ us.”
Every muscle in Alyson’s body went rigid. Her heart hammered against her ribs hard enough to bruise.
Nay. Nae now. We’re so close…
“Could be naethin’.” Dougal’s hand waited patiently on his sword hilt, belying his words. “What d’ye reckon, Fergus?”
Fergus’s jaw tightened. “Malcolm, Iain—fall back. Eyes on the tree line. The rest of ye, close ranks.”
The warriors moved with silent efficiently, tightening their formation around her. “Blast it! ‘Tis colder than a witch’s—”, Jamie muttered, earning him a sharp look from Fergus that would have been comical in any other circumstance.
Alyson forced herself to breathe through her nose, to loosen her death grip on the cloak before she tore the fabric.
‘Tis probably naethin’… just travelers. Just—
But Fergus wouldn’t have given orders if it was nothing.
“How long have they been followin’ us?” she hated the tremor in her voice, hated the weakness it revealed.
“Hard tae say,” Dougal kept his gaze fixed on something behind them, something she couldn’t see. His jaw worked as he chewed the inside of his cheek—a nervous habit she’d noticed in him before every raid back at Keppoch. “Could’ve picked up our trail at first light. Maybe before even.”
“How many?”
“Cannae tell yet. They’re smart—keepin’ their distance, stayin’ just out of sight.”
Alyson’s mare began to sidestep, catching her rider’s fear like a contagion. She ran her hand along the animal’s neck in long, soothing strokes, even as panic clawed at her throat.
Breathe. Ye survived Campbell. Ye can survive this.
“Me lady,” Iain’s face had gone pale, making his freckles stand out like bloodstains on snow. “Can ye ride faster?”
Six pairs of eyes turned to her, waiting. These men—barely more than boys, some of them—would die for her. She knew their names, had gotten to know them well on this journey, though she wished she hadn’t. Names made losses real. Names turned warriors into fathers and husbands and sons. Names carved themselves into one’s memory like epitaphs waiting to be spoken.
The sight of them should have comforted her, but instead, it only reminded her of how many men had already died because of her and the knowledge sat like stones in her belly.
“Aye,” she said, straightening her spine. “I can ride as fast as needed.”
“Then we ride.” Fergus spurred his mount forward. “Now!”
They kicked their horses into a gallop. The sudden acceleration made Alyson’s stomach lurch, but her mare responded beautifully—powerful legs eating up the frozen ground, hooves thundering against packed earth. The rhythmic pounding became their battle drum, declaring war against whoever dared pursue them. Wind whipped at Alyson’s face, stinging her eyes, pulling strands of dark hair loose from beneath her hood.
Behind them, other hoofbeats answered. Growing louder. Growing closer.
“How many?” Fergus shouted over the pounding rhythm.
“At least a dozen!” Dougal’s voice carried back. “Maybe more!”
A dozen against six?
The arithmetic was simple, brutal. Even if her guards were the finest warriors in the Highlands—and they were good—those numbers spelled trouble.
The thunder of hoofbeats behind them had become a living thing—hungry, relentlessly closing the distance with every heartbeat. Alyson’s mare stumbled slightly on the frozen ground, then recovered, though it cost her fractions of a second—which could mean the difference between life and death.
Her ears pricked to the creak of leather as someone drew back a bowstring.
Fergus’s face had gone white, his knuckles bloodless on his reins. When his eyes met hers, she saw her own fear reflected there.
“Ride!!” His roar split the air. “RIDE!”
“The trees!” Malcolm pointed toward denser forest ahead. “If we can reach cover—”
An arrow whistled past Alyson’s head.
She felt the breathless whisper of its passage, felt death brushing against her skin like a lover’s caress. The arrow embedded itself in a tree trunk, shaft still quivering. The fletching was dyed red—Grant colors. A declaration of intent.
Then, the air filled with whispers—dozens of them as arrows flew towards them.
“Ride like the devil himself is at yer heels!” Fergus roared.
Alyson leaned low over her mare’s neck, making herself small, and gave the animal her lead. The mare surged forward with a burst of speed that blurred the world to streaks of grey and white and brown.
An arrow struck the ground inches from her mare’s hooves. The animal screamed—high and terrified—and veered sharply. Alyson clung to the saddle, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat, every muscle burning with effort.
Please let us reach the crossin’, please—
Wood splintered nearby—another arrow finding a tree. They were getting too close. Her mare’s sides heaved beneath her, muscles flexing with desperation.
“They’re flankin’ us!” Iain’s voice cracked. “Both sides!”
Fergus wheeled his horse around. For one terrible moment, his eyes met hers—full of apology, full of grief for what he had to do.
“Dougal, Iain, Liam—get Lady Alyson intae the forest! The rest, with me!”
“Fergus, nay!” But her cry was lost in the chaos as the group fractured. Three warriors surrounded her, urging their mounts toward the tree line while Fergus and the others wheeled back to face their pursuers.
They’re goin’ tae die because of me.
They rode through undergrowth, the mare heaving beneath her. Dougal led them, his broader mount clearing a path through bracken. Iain brought up the rear, constantly looking back. Liam stayed close to her left, his sword already drawn.
The thunder of pursuing hoofbeats grew louder again. Closer. Accompanied by shouts in rough Highland voices that made her skin crawl with fear.
“There!” Liam pointed toward a break in the trees. “If we can reach the ridge we—”
His words ended in a strangled gasp. An arrow sprouted from his shoulder like some obscene flower. He pitched forward, somehow staying mounted even as blood began to soak through his shirt.
“Keep goin’!” Liam’s face had gone grey, but his voice remained steady. “Dinnae stop fer—”
Warriors burst through the trees like demons conjured from nightmare. They came from both sides at once, horses crashing through undergrowth with terrifying speed. Alyson caught flashes of tartan bearing Grant colors, of grim faces and drawn weapons, before chaos descended.
They’ve come fer me!
She kicked her mare forward, desperate to break through. A massive hand shot out and seized her reins. Her mare reared, hooves flailing at empty air, and this time, Alyson couldn’t hold on.
The world tilted and she felt herself falling, felt that sickening moment of weightlessness, then hit frozen earth with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. Sharp pain exploded through her shoulder, her hip, radiating outward in waves that made her vision blur.
Get up. Get. Up. GET UP!
But her body wouldn’t obey. She lay there gasping—vision swimming, ears ringing with more than just the impact.
“Got her!” someone bellowed triumphantly.
Through the haze of pain, Alyson saw boots approaching—heavy, deliberate. A shadow fell across her, blocking out what little light filtered through the canopy.
Memories slashed at her. Horrible ones she’d fought so hard to escape.
Rough hands grabbed her arms, hauling her upright. Alyson thrashed weakly, but whoever held her was far stronger. The world slowly stopped spinning, but the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth—she must’ve bitten her tongue in the fall.
Dougal lay motionless on the ground, his blood staining the ice-covered earth in a growing pool of crimson. His eyes stared at nothing, already glazed over. Iain knelt nearby, disarmed, with a sword at his throat. Liam had finally fallen from his horse—but whether he was unconscious or dead, she couldn’t tell.
They’re dead because I needed protection. Because I couldnae just stay put.
Her fingers found the edge of her torn cloak, rubbing the fabric frantically.
“Well now,” the man holding her—a scarred brute with cold eyes—grinned down at her. “His lairdship’s goin’ tae be very pleased.”
Alyson tried to speak, but terror had stolen her voice. All she could manage was a weak shake of her head, her fingers still working the cloak’s edge like a talisman against evil.
“Och, dinnae fash yerself, lassie.” His breath was hot and rank against her face. “We willnae hurt ye and spoil yer weddin’ night.”
Weddin’?
The word cut through her paralysis like a blade through silk.
“Nay,” she managed. “I’ll never—”
“Ye’ll dae as yer told.” He yanked her closer, making her stumble. “Ye’ll pay the debt the MacDonald clan owes Laird Grant!”
He shoved her, and turned around as another warrior approached—older, grey streaking his beard. “Bind her. We need tae move before—”
A rock struck him square in the temple with a wet, meaty sound.
The grey-bearded man staggered, blood trickling down his face. It ran into his eye, and he pawed at it with one hand, cursing in Gaelic. For one single heartbeat, everyone froze in shock.
I cannae believe I actually hit him!
“Ye wee bitch!” the scarred man lunged toward her. “Ye’ll regret—”
She drove her foot up between his legs with every ounce of strength she could muster. His agonized howl split the air, and Alyson ran.
She didn’t know where she was running, didn’t care. She simply picked a direction and ran with single-minded desperation, branches whipping at her face, roots threatening to trip her with every step.
Her cloak caught on a thorn bush, but she tore it free and kept going. Her lungs were on fire, her legs screaming in protest, but she kept pushing forward.
Behind her, they shouted, crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit.
Just a wee bit further. Just—
A deer jumped in front of her, and Alyson startled and veered sharply left, her ankle twisting in a hole. She went down hard, palms scraping against sharp stones that bit deep.
Ye have tae get up. If they catch ye—
Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Alyson rolled onto her back, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared up at the warrior looming over her.
She opened her mouth—to scream, to fight, to do something…
But darkness was already creeping in at the edges of her vision, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion and terror and the weight of too many nightmares made flesh.
The last thing she saw before the world went black was the man’s face –all predatory malice wrapped up in harsh lines.
And then, nothing.
Chapter Two
“We need tae move before MacLean’s men find us.”
The rough gravelly voice dragged Alyson back to consciousness, like a fishhook through flesh. Pain throbbed behind her eyes, and when she tried to move, rough hemp bit into her wrists as someone yanked her arms behind her back.
Nay… this cannae be happenin’ again!
“Should we gag her?” Another voice said, younger.
“Aye. But dinnae hurt her… much,” he chuckled. “His lairdship wants her intact.”
Alyson forced her eyes open despite the persistent pounding in her skull. Grant warriors surrounded her, their faces grim with purpose. She sat propped against a tree trunk, head still spinning. She peered through the bare branches overhead, noticing that the sun had climbed higher—how long had she been unconscious?
Her ribs ached where she’d hit the ground. Her palms stung from scraping against stones. But worse than any physical pain was the suffocating weight of anxiety pressing down on her chest, stealing her breath.
The smell hit her next—leather and sweat and something metallic that might have been blood. Old blood. These men had killed recently, and the evidence of it clung to them like a shroud that made her stomach churn.
The surrounding forest was eerily quiet now—no birdsong, no rustling leaves… just the harsh breathing of the men and the thundering of her own pulse in her ears. Frost clung to the shadows where sunlight couldn’t reach, making everything look sharp edged and dangerous.
Count, Alyson.
One… two… three…
But the numbers scattered like birds before a storm, refusing to stay in her fractured thoughts.
“Glad ye could join us, lass.” The scarred man crouched before her, his smile making bile rise in her throat. His breath reeked of ale and rot, and up close, she could see the puckered tissue that ran from his temple to his jaw—some old battle wound that had healed poorly. “Gave us quite a chase, ye did. But it’s over now.” He cackled.
“Over?” she repeated hoarsely. Her tongue felt thick, her throat raw from screaming. She met his gaze and held it even as her fingers clutched frantically at her skirts. “Ye think draggin’ me before Grant solves anythin’?”
“Aye. Solves everythin’.” He said, reaching toward her face.
Alyson jerked back hard enough to crack her skull against the tree trunk. Stars burst across her vision, but she’d rather split her head open than let him touch her.
The bark bit into her scalp through her loose hair—when had she lost her braid? The memory flickered—the chase, branches tearing at her, her hair coming undone as they’d ran wildly through the forest.
The scarred man laughed. “Och… his lairdship’s goin’ tae enjoy ye!”
Never.
But her voice had fled. The rope bit into her wrists painfully—too tight, too familiar—her breath faster, shallower, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision again.
Nay. Breathe! Ye survived Campbell, ye can survive this.
She pressed her fingers harder into her skirt, concentrating on the texture—rough wool. Real.
But her heartbeat wouldn’t slow. Each breath came shorter than the last, and she could feel panic clawing up her throat like something living and desperate.
“Steady now,” one of the younger warriors muttered, though whether to himself, or her, Alyson couldn’t tell. His hand trembled slightly on his sword hilt. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty, with a sparse beard that looked more hopeful than genuine. His eyes kept darting to the trees nervously.
Good. At least I’m nae the only one.
The scarred man stood, brushing frost from his knees. “Get her on her feet. We’ve wasted enough time chasin’ this wee bird through the woods.”
Rough hands hauled her upright. Her legs nearly buckled, muscles screaming in protest. The world tilted dangerously, and for one terrible moment, she thought she might throw up right there. “Where…” she managed, her voice strained, “where are me guards?”
The silence that followed said enough.
They’re probably all dead because of me.
“Dinnae ye fash yerself about them,” the scarred man said. “Only thing ye need tae concern yerself with is pleasin’ his lairdship.”
Then, a hand clamped around her throat, fingers pressing against her windpipe—not quite choking, not yet, just a promise of what could happen if she tried to scream. The touch caused every muscle in her body to lock tightly, going rigid as her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, blurring at the edges.
“Ye be quiet as a wee church mouse now, ye hear?” He snarled in a whisper, his breath hot and sour against her face. “Such a shame that such a bonnie lass almost ended up at a nunnery—”
An arrow took him through the eye.
He jerked back with a wet, choking sound, his hand falling away from her throat as he toppled sideways into the frozen leaves.
And for one impossible moment, everything went silent, the entire world holding its breath. Alyson stared at the fletching—red feathers, still quivering slightly as blood pooled beneath the man’s body, steaming against the frozen ground.
“Bàs no Beatha!” A war cry tore through the forest.
Death or life.
It came from everywhere at once—primal, and fierce enough to halt the blood in Alyson’s veins. The Grant warriors went absolutely rigid, heads snapping toward the sound. She could see it in their eyes—the knowledge that they were already dead.
Then, chaos erupted.
Warriors poured from the trees like a sudden storm—a dozen at least, weapons drawn, faces carved from ancient Highland stone and fury. But the man leading the group was the one who made her forget how to breathe.
He stood taller than any man she’d ever seen, built like the standing stones of the old places—broad and immovable and pure masculine energy. Dark hair whipped around a face all harsh angles and unforgiving lines. The sword in his hand looked as natural on him as if it was an extension of his arm.
Even through terror, even with death skulking the ground around them, Alyson couldn’t help but notice things she had absolutely no business noticing, like the way his shoulders filled his leather jerkin with an ease that spoke of natural strength rather than practiced posturing. Or the controlled precision in every single movement—the grace of a predator who’d never once questioned his place at the apex.
And he was looking at her like she was the most interesting thing in that blood-soaked clearing.
The man’s about tae kill everyone and here I am noticin’ how bonnie he is? I’ve lost me mind entirely!
His blade sang through the air. The grey-bearded man released Alyson and fumbled for his weapon, but death had already found him. Steel flashed once—brutal and efficient—and he crumpled without a sound.
Hot blood sprayed across Alyson’s face and neck.
She stumbled backward, bound hands making her clumsy, barely keeping her footing. Around her, the clearing had become a slaughterhouse. The newcomers fought with surgical precision—not a single wasted movement, no hesitation. Steel sparked against steel. Men shouted. The coppery stench of blood thickened the winter air until Alyson could taste it on her tongue.
What followed was less battle than execution.
The Grant warriors tried to form a defensive line, but it was like trying to hold back an avalanche with one’s bare hands. The newcomers cut through them with brutal efficiently. Once of the younger Grant soldiers tried to run, and an arrow took him in the back. He went down screaming, clawing at the shaft protruding from his chest.
The scarred man was skilled, but the dark-haired giant dismantled him with terrifying ease. Three parries, two feints, then his blade swept up inside the man’s defense, slicing him open from groin to throat in one fluid motion.
The brute’s eyes went wide. He looked down at the ruin of his body, back up at the warrior’s impassive face, and collapsed. The sound he made—wet and gurgling and utterly wrong—would haunt Alyson’s dreams for weeks to come. Her fingers found the edge of her torn sleeve, pressing into the fabric frantically even as nausea rolled through her.
Dinnae look. Dinnae look at what’s spillin’ ontae the ground.
But she couldn’t look away. Some distant part of her knew she should close her eyes, turn her head, but she remained frozen in place—watching as the dark-haired warrior pulled his blade free and stepped over the body like it was no more significant than a fallen branch.
His movements were economical, almost beautiful. There weren’t any flourishes, no wasted energy. Just pure, controlled violence delivered with certainty. This was a man who’d killed before and would certainly kill again without hesitation.
Should I be terrified, or grateful?
Around them, the last of the fighting sputtered out. Bodies littered the frost-covered ground, steam rising from their wounds in the cold air. The warrior wiped his blade clean on a dead man’s plaid, his expression carved from Highland granite. His gaze swept the clearing with cold assessment. The remaining Grant warriors fell quickly—outnumbered, outmatched, dying on Highland steel before they could mount any defense.
Then, those amber eyes found her. And she realized, she was both.
They reminded her of whisky held up to the firelight—amber with flecks of gold and brown. Even terrified, even covered in another person’s blood with her hands bound and her world crumbling, Alyson couldn’t help but notice the strong lines of his body—pure coiled energy and controlled violence. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and how his presence seemed to warp the very air around him, making everything else fade into insignificance.
He’s the most dangerous and most bonnie thing I’ve ever seen.
And he’d just saved her life.
The warrior crossed the clearing toward her. His boots made no sound on the frozen ground—a predator’s silence that sent fresh shivers down her spine. Alyson fought every instinct screaming at her to run, to cower, to make herself small. Instead, she took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, meeting his intense gaze even as her pulse hammered in her throat.
I willnae cower. Nae again. Nae ever again.
He stopped an arm’s length away. Up close, he was even more imposing—all bulk and silent authority that radiated from him like heat from a forge. His eyes travelled over her face, her torn cloak, her bound wrists. Something flickered in his expression—there and gone too fast to name.
“Can ye stand?” his voice matched the rest of him—rough and uncompromising, like gravel grinding under boot heels.
I’m already standin’, ye great ox.
Alyson thought she detected something else beneath the harshness, something that sounded almost like concern, but her legs were trembling so badly she wasn’t certain how much longer that would remain true. She locked her knees, wiling her body to remain upright.
“Lass. Look at me.”
Her chin lifted before she could stop herself, some stubborn part of her refusing to run, even now.
Up close, his face was all harsh planes and sharp lines—the face of a warrior who’d seen too much death and dealt too much of it himself. But there was something else underneath.
Then, their eyes met.
And Alyson MacDonald realized with perfect, terrifying clarity that her life was about to change forever.
“Me laird.” A broad-shouldered warrior approached from the left, his sword still dripping. He had dark hair streaked with silver at the temples and a long scar across his jaw that gave him a roguish appearance despite the blood spattered across his face. “The area’s clear. Nay sign of reinforcements.”
The towering man didn’t take his eyes off Alyson. “Tristan!” his voice cut through the clearing like a blade. “Check the tree line. Make certain we’re alone.”
A younger warrior peeled away from the group—lean and wiry, with black hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. He moved through the trees with the confidence of a man half wild, disappearing into the forest without a sound.
Around them, the other warriors were already at work. One kicked through the bodies, checking for survivors—though from the efficiency of their attack, Alyson doubted they’d find any. Another gathered fallen weapons with practiced ease, sliding them into a leather pack.
“Kenneth!” Boyd called to a grizzled warrior with a silver beard. “Get the horses. His lairdship will want tae move quickly.”
“On it.” The older man jogged toward the trees, his gait slightly uneven—an old injury, perhaps.
Alyson’s mind struggled to process it all. The systematic way they moved. The easy authority in their laird’s voice. These weren’t raiders or bandits—these were trained warriors, disciplined and deadly.
And their laird was still watching her with those unsettling amber eyes.
“Ye’re bleedin’.” His voice was quieter now, though no less commanding.
She touched her temple and her fingers came away red. She hadn’t even felt it—it must have happened when she’d cracked her head against the tree. “‘Tis naethin’.”
“‘Tis blood, lass.” He reached toward her face, then stopped himself, his hand hovering in the air between them. For a moment, something almost like uncertainty crossed his features. “May I?”
The question caught her off guard. After everything—after being dragged and bound and threatened—this stranger was asking permission to touch her?
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they tilted her face to the side, examining the wound with clinical efficiency. That close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint white scars that marked his hands. A warrior’s hands, but steady. Careful.
“Shallow,” he pronounced. “It’ll bruise, but ye’ll live.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone—barely a touch, there and gone—before he stepped back.
The warrior called Tristan emerged from the trees, shaking his head. “Clear fer now, but Grant’s men willnae be far. They’ll have heard the fightin’.”
“Then we dinnae linger.” The laird turned back to Alyson, and for the first time, she saw something that might have been concern flicker in those amber depths. “Can ye ride?”
“I…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again, lifting her chin with as much dignity as she could muster. “Aye. I can ride.”
“Good. Ye’re comin’ with us.”
It wasn’t a request.
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