Chapter One

The night had long since swallowed the road, the carriage’s lanterns casting a flickering light over the uneven path. Deidra sat rigid, one hand gripping the seat beside her as the wheels jolted over loose stones.

They were deep in MacRae territory now. Soon, they would reach the castle where her fate would be sealed in marriage to a man she had never met.

Deidra pressed her lips together, steeling herself against the uncertainty ahead.

She had imagined her wedding day a hundred times.

As a girl, she’d dreamed of lace and lemon cakes, of a groom who’d lift her veil with trembling hands. Later—after the dungeon, after the ropes, after Duncan Allan’s breath slithering down her neck—she’d prayed only for a man who wouldn’t touch her at all.

And she had found him—Niall MacRae.

The Barbarian Laird.

A man who, by all accounts, wanted a wife as little as she wanted a husband.

The carriage jolted over a rut, jerking Deidra from her thoughts. Outside, the Highland moors sprawled under a bruised twilight, the wind keening through the heather like a mourner’s lament.

She pressed a hand to the chilled window, her reflection ghostly against the glass—a woman clad in sensible wool, not satin; a bride without hope, without even a face to put to her groom’s name.

It’s better this way.

No expectations. No disappointments. Just a quiet life as Lady MacRae, where she’d be safe, and—if God was merciful—left alone.

The sharp whistle of an arrow cut through the night.

Deidra barely had time to gasp before the first arrow pierced into the carriage door, its iron head punching through the wood inches from her shoulder. The horses whinnied, the driver roared curses.

Nae again. Dear God, nae again!

Another arrow thudded into the wood near her window—close enough to feel the wind of its passing.

Is this how it ends? Nae at the altar, but sprawled in the mud with an arrow through me ribs?

The carriage lurched violently, tossing her sideways.

“Hold on!” the driver bellowed, snapping the reins again.

Deidra braced herself, knees bruising against the floorboards as the carriage careened faster. Logic warred with instinct.

Should I leap?

Her breath came in ragged bursts, her mind scrambling for control.

A rider surged alongside them, his sword glinting like a silver fang. For one wild moment, she met his eyes through the window—dark, ruthless, hungry. His hand clawed for the door, snapping it open and grabbing Deidra. Fear seized her, paralyzing her on the spot.

A horseman came barreling out of the trees his blade catching the dim light as he drove it into the enemy’s side. The rogue gave a strangled cry, toppling from his horse and letting Deidra go. She fell backwards, her elbow struck the wall, pain radiating up her arm, but she barely registered it.

A hand smashed through the other window, glass exploding inward. A gauntleted fist grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking.

“Ah—!” Pain ripped through her scalp as she was dragged toward the shattered pane. A man’s face, wild-eyed and grinning, loomed in the opening.

Duncan’s face. The cellar. The ropes—

Her vision tunneled, her past flashing before her eyes. She kicked, clawed at his wrist, but his grip was iron.

Then, a shadow blurred past the window, a sword hissed.

The hand in her hair vanished.

Blood arced, splattering the carriage walls. The attacker’s scream was cut short as a second strike crushed his windpipe.

Deidra gagged, scrambling back, her pulse a deafening drum in her skull.

Then the warrior was upon the next man, cutting through them him brutal precision.

Outside, chaos raged.

Horses reared, steel shrieked, and he moved through it like death itself.

More riders emerged from the darkness, clad in armor marked with the MacRae crest. Deidra’s heart pounded as she watched the battle unfold, her unknown savior fighting like a possessed man.

His strikes were swift, ruthless, each motion calculated in its savagery. One of the rogues attempted to flee, but the warrior pursued, bringing him down with terrifying ease.

Deidra could not tear her eyes away from him. He was unlike any man she had ever seen, a force of raw power and controlled fury, his movements exuding a lethal grace.

Who is he?

He fought without a sound. No battle cries, no taunts, just the sickening thud of his blade cleaving flesh, the crunch of bones under his boots. One attacker lunged—the horseman sidestepped, gutting him mid-stride. Another fled—he hurled a dagger into his spine without breaking pace.

Then, a third man, unnoticed, raised a crossbow, aimed at her.

Deidra’s body locked.

This is how I die…>

The horseman moved faster.

He leaped onto the carriage step, his bulk blocking the window just as the bolt slammed into his shoulder. He didn’t even stagger.

His hand shot through the air, seizing the attacker’s throat.

A snap and the man dropped.

Silence.

Deidra stared, her lungs burning. Blood dripped from the horseman’s fingers, his breaths ragged, his gaze locking onto hers through the ruined window.

The battle ended as quickly as it had begun. The assailants lay motionless on the road, while the MacRae riders regrouped.

The warrior turned to the carriage, his piercing, blue gaze locking onto Deidra through the broken window. His face was cast in shadow, but his presence alone sent a shiver through her spine.

He said nothing. Not a word of introduction or reassurance. Only a single command, spoken in a voice rough as the Highland winds.

“Bring her tae the castle.”

Deidra’s driver let out a breath and murmured low, “The Barbarian Laird.”

The words lodged in Deidra’s mind.

Was this truly him?

The carriage lurched forward again, but Deidra barely felt the movement. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, willing them to stop shaking, nails biting crescents into her own flesh through the fabric.

Her stomach lurched. She’d expected a brute, a monster draped in pelts and scars. Not this… this towering force of muscle and rage, blue eyes burning like ice set aflame. Every strike of his sword had been brutal, efficient, beautiful in its lethality.

He’s nae human. He’s a storm given flesh.

When he’d grabbed that man’s throat—when she’d heard the snap—something primal in her had trembled. Not just fear. Something hotter. Darker.

And I’m tae be his wife?

The absurdity of it almost choked her.

She’d chosen him for his disinterest, for the rumors that he’d rather bed his sword than a woman. But the man before her now—the way his gaze had locked onto hers through the shattered window—there’d been nothing disinterested in that look. It had scraped her bare, peeled back every layer of pretense.

The pain grounded her—a small rebellion against the numbness threatening to claim her limbs. Outside, the wind wailed like a banshee, carrying with it the peat-smoke scent of distant crofts and the iron-rich tang of blood still clinging to the carriage wheels.

The castle loomed ahead—its torches flickering like the eyes of a waiting beast.

Deidra’s breath fogged the cracked window as she leaned closer, tracing the silhouette of her prison-to-be. Somewhere in those lightless towers, a life she had had to choose waited to claim her.

Her reflection in the glass startled her – a pale ghost with wild eyes, red hair escaping its pins like flames licking at her cheeks. She reached up with unsteady fingers, but changed her mind and let them fall.

What use is propriety now? The Barbarian Laird had already seen her at her worst—wide-eyed with terror. The memory burned worse than shame.

The wheels found smoother stone as they crossed the gatehouse threshold. Castle MacRae rose before her, a shadowy outline cutting through the dull, overcast sky. It was enormous, its ancient stone walls towering like an unyielding bastion against the harsh weather.

The Ballentine Estate had been impressive, but this—this was on an entirely different scale. The spires soared upward, their sharp peaks vanishing into the dense, swirling fog, while the heavy iron-bound gates offered no semblance of warmth or invitation.

I surely hope the house isnae a mirror o’ what just happened.

She had expected a reception—perhaps a cluster of servants awaiting her arrival, a steward to lead her inside, some token of acknowledgment that she was about to become the mistress of this place.

He made it plain as day in his letters he’s got nay interest in me, but surely he’ll want tae meet me, willnae he?

But there was no such gathering. Instead, only a single figure stood near the entrance, half-shrouded in the gloom.

He was a man with silver hair, clad in thick wool, his weathered face lined with age and hard years. He had the stance of a soldier, broad-shouldered and sturdy, and when she met his gaze, she saw nothing but keen, assessing eyes that missed nothing.

“Lady Deidra,” he greeted, his voice a deep rumble like distant thunder. “I am Bhaltair Cameron, Tacksman o’ Castle MacRae an’ right hand tae the laird. We’ve been expectin’ ye.”

His voice held neither warmth nor coldness—it was carefully balanced, deliberate, as though he were quietly assessing her.

Deidra felt the weight of his scrutiny and instinctively straightened her posture, her shoulders pulling back and her chin rising a fraction. She met his gaze with a quiet firmness, determined not to let him see even a flicker of uncertainty.

Will he nae come tae see me himself?

“I thank ye, Tacksman Cameron.” She tried to keep her voice steady, though the weight of the castle’s presence pressed heavily upon her. “Shall we go in?”

Bhaltair nodded once, then turned on his heel without another word. She followed, her boots clicking against the icy stone, the cold seeping through her soles.

What am I daeing here?

The thought clawed at her, but she dismissed it—she couldn’t afford to second guess herself now. But still, she felt like a fool, standing in this fortress of stone and shadows, chasing a future that was uncertain at the least. Her chest tightened with anxiety, a gnawing sense of dread that had been growing since she’d first locked eyes with her future husband.

This was a mistake. A terrible mistake.

As they entered the great hall, the first thing she noticed was the sheer vastness of the space—and the emptiness.

A fire burned low in the hearth, but it did little to warm the cavernous chamber. Shadows clung to the corners, shifting as if they had weight, and the air itself was thick, the stone walls dark, lined with old banners and antlers. This was a place built for war, not comfort.

This isnae a home.

The hall was not entirely empty—maids and servants lingered in the shadows, their figures partially obscured by the flickering, dim light of the torches lining the walls.

She had come so far, driven by duty and a faint, foolish hope that perhaps this arrangement could be more than just a transaction. But now, standing in this lifeless hall, she felt like an intruder, an outsider in a world that had no place for her

None of them moved to greet her. Instead, they stood still, their eyes fixed on her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Their hushed murmurs wove through the air, soft and insidious, like the tendrils of smoke rising from the crackling hearth.

The weight of their collective gaze pressed heavy on her. It was as if they were waiting to see how she would navigate this unfamiliar territory, as they whispered to each other.

She imagined their exchanges. “Is she daft, comin’ here? She daesnae ken what she’s walked intae. The poor lass.”

Deidra clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to turn and meet their stares head on.

She had heard the rumors long before she set foot on MacRae lands.

The Barbarian, they called him. A man more beast than laird, one who ruled those lands with an iron fist. Some said he was cursed. Others claimed he simply did not care for oaths, nor for a wife forced upon him.

After what she had seen, she knew the truth lay somewhere between. Still, she had gone there to do what duty required of her, not to cower before stories whispered in dark corners.

Bhaltair strode ahead, ignoring the murmurs, his pace unhurried but firm. Near the stairwell, a woman stepped forward. She was fair-haired, her brown eyes steady but wary.

“This is Catriona,” Bhaltair said. “She’s tae be yer maid. She’ll show ye tae yer chambers an’ help ye find yer way about the castle.”

Deidra nodded, her sharp gaze studying the woman before her.

Catriona was petite, her light brown hair catching the faint glow of the torchlight as it framed her delicate features. Her green eyes, though calm and steady, held a quiet intensity that seemed to see far more than she let on. She carried herself with an air of grace and confidence, her posture poised yet unpretentious.

Catriona dipped her head respectfully, her expression composed, but no smile touched her lips.

No one had smiled at Deidra since her arrival, and the absence of warmth only deepened the unease that clung to the air.

“Ye’ll need a keen mind and a strong spirit here, me lady,” Bhaltair added, meeting Deidra’s gaze with something close to warning.

With that, he turned and left, his heavy boots echoing against the stone as he disappeared into the shadows.

Deidra exhaled slowly. The castle was colder than the wind outside.

She turned to Catriona. “Show me tae me chambers please.”

The maid nodded, leading the way up the winding stairwell.

“She daesnae ken what she’s in fer,” she thought she heard.

But Deidra was beginning to suspect she would soon understand.

By the time they reached her chambers, the weight of the castle’s silence had grown oppressive. Deidra stood in the center of the room, her eyes sweeping over the space, as Catriona bowed her head and left her alone.

The fire in the hearth crackled. The room was grand, with high ceilings, thick tapestries, and sturdy wooden furniture, but it felt foreign and stiff, as though the walls themselves were resisting her presence.

She crossed her arms, her gaze lingering on the shadows that danced in the corners, and wondered if she would ever feel anything but an outsider within these stone walls.

She moved towards the window, pressing her hands against the stone ledge as she gazed out over the rugged landscape. Castle MacRae sat upon a great hill, surrounded by dense forests that stretched toward the horizon. The land was wild and untamed, much like the man she was to marry. A man she had never seen and, by all accounts, cared little for this marriage and even less for the woman bound to it.

The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She had told herself that was what she wanted—no expectations, no romance, only the security the union would bring.

Yet at that moment, standing in the very place where she would live as his wife, a strange unease curled in her belly.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Catriona reentered with an air of quiet efficiency, carrying a basin of steaming water. She placed it beside the large wooden tub that had been set before the hearth.

“Yer bath is ready, me lady,” Catriona said, her voice measured, her expression unreadable.

Deidra nodded and turned from the window. “Thank ye.”

Catriona moved about the chamber with a practiced ease, adjusting the linens on the bed and setting out a fresh gown for the feast.

Though she had been tasked with looking after Deidra, she seemed in no rush to pry or make conversation, and for that, Deidra was grateful. The weight of the day had already consumed her.

After Catriona finished her tasks, she gave a small nod. “I’ll return shortly tae help ye undress.”

Deidra hesitated before speaking. “Have ye served here long?”

“Aye, me whole life.” Catriona’s gaze flickered to her, and for the briefest moment, Deidra thought she saw something there—pity, perhaps. But it was gone as quickly as it came. “Rest while ye can, me lady. It’s best tae be well-prepared fer the feast tomorrow.”

With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving Deidra alone once more.

Deidra undressed, slipping into the warm water with a sigh. The heat did little to soothe the tension in her limbs. As she leaned back against the curved edge of the tub, she let her thoughts drift.

The rumors of her husband-to-be swirled in her mind.

She had heard the stories—of his ruthless skill in battle, of how he had secured Castle MacRae when it looked like his enemies were going to destroy him. A man feared by his enemies and respected by his men.

But what of her—his wife to be? Was there anything beyond the hardened warrior left for her, or had war and duty left nothing behind?

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

I will find out soon enough.

***

The warm scent of lavender and rosewater still clung to Deidra’s skin as she slipped out of her chamber, the hem of her nightgown slightly touching the cold stone floor.

The castle loomed dark and silent around her, the torch sconces casting long, flickering shadows along the walls.

At first, her steps were slow and cautious as she followed the familiar path toward the main hall. She was looking for the kitchens, which were usually nearby. But the castle seemed to have a will of its own, its corridors twisting in ways she couldn’t remember. Faded tapestries and dusty portraits lined the walls, their stern eyes following her as she moved. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of mildew and old iron, as she walked further.

She reached a fork in the corridor. One path led back to the main hall, its torchlight steady and warm. The other was stretched into darkness, its sconces sparse and the flames flickered weakly.

Against her better judgment, she chose the darker path.

The walls were bare and damp, the air biting cold. She pulled her shawl tighter, her steps quickening as the faint sound of dripping water echoed ahead. Passing a shadowed alcove, she thought she saw movement—a flicker in the corner of her eye.

Her heart leapt. She turned, but there was nothing. Only the guttering light of a dying torch and the relentless drip, drip, drip growing louder. She hadn’t meant to wander this far, only to familiarize herself with her new home, but the hush of the corridors, the distant crackling of unseen hearths, and the occasional draft slithering past her bare arms sent a shiver through her.

The castle seemed to breathe around her, its ancient stones exhaling cold and damp into the air. She paused, her hand brushing against the rough wall for balance, and listened. The silence was so complete that she could hear the faint rustle of her own nightgown as she moved.

She heard a sound so faint she almost thought she’d imagined it. A low, guttural groan muffled but unmistakable, like the cry of a wounded animal. Her heart stuttered, and she froze, her breath catching in her throat.

The sound came again, louder this time, raw and pained, as if wrenched from someone’s very soul. It echoed through the hall, bouncing off the stone walls, making it impossible to tell where it originated.

Daes someone need help?

Deidra’s pulse quickened, her mind racing. She should turn back, retreat to the safety of her chambers. But something compelled her forward, a morbid curiosity or perhaps a foolish sense of duty.

She took a hesitant step, then another, her bare feet silent against the cold stone. The corridor ahead was darker, the torches spaced farther apart, their flickering light casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls.

The groan came again, clearer now, and she followed it, her steps quickening despite the dread pooling in her stomach.

What is happening?

Her heart thudded in her chest. She should pretend she had never heard it. But her feet moved before her mind could reason with them.

The corridor stretched ahead, endless and dark, the sconces fewer in number the farther she went. The groan came again, clearer this time. She followed it, step by hesitant step, her pulse roaring in her ears. Finally, she reached a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, with the faint glow of candlelight spilling from beneath its frame.

Deidra hesitated. She ought to turn back. Whatever lay beyond was not meant for her eyes, but something about the sound, the sheer anguish in it, made it impossible to leave. Summoning her courage, she rapped her knuckles against the wood.

Silence.

She knocked again. Nothing.

Swallowing, she placed her palm against the rough surface and pushed. The door creaked open, revealing a room cast in the dim glow of several flickering candles. The scent of burning tallow and something coppery filled her nose. A large wooden table stood in the center, strewn with maps and parchments, a half-drained goblet of wine sitting precariously near the edge. The fire in the hearth had burned low, its embers pulsing red like the dying heart of a beast.

But the room was empty.

Deidra stepped inside, her breath shallow, her fingers curling against her palms. Another groan came, this time from behind her. She whirled around, but there was nothing. Just the stone walls lined with ancient tapestries, their once-vibrant threads dulled with age. And yet…

The sound came again. From the wall itself.

Her pulse pounded. Was there a hidden passage? A chamber beyond the stone? She stepped closer, placing a tentative hand against the cold surface. Beneath her fingertips, the rock was uneven, almost as if…

A sharp intake of breath from behind the wall made her stumble back. The sound was unmistakably human.

Panic clawed at her throat.

Deidra turned on her heel and bolted, her nightgown billowing behind her as she rushed into the corridor. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she ran. The castle’s shadows seemed to stretch and twist around her, the flickering torchlight doing little to dispel the suffocating darkness.

She had no idea what—or who—could have made that sound, and she had no desire to find out. Not like this.

The corridor stretched ahead, darker than before, the stone walls swallowing every flicker of light.

Her mind raced. Had she imagined it? Was it just the creaking of an old castle settling into the night? Or had something—or someone—been in there with her?

The thought sent a shudder through her, but she forced herself to keep moving. Her fingers brushed against the rough stone wall for balance as she rounded a corner, the sensation of being watched prickling at the back of her neck. She froze.

The dim torchlight cast long, warped shadows against the ancient stones. There was no sound—no footsteps, no breath—but the silence was heavy, oppressive, as if the castle itself was holding its secrets just beyond her reach.

A faint, indiscernible noise came from behind her.

Not a footstep, not a whisper, but something that sent a jolt of ice through her veins. Her breath hitched, her pulse a violent thrum in her ears.

It could have been nothing. The wind shifting through the halls, the groan of timber settling beneath the castle’s weight. But the uncertainty clawed at her, destroying the last of her composure.

Panic seized her limbs before reason could take hold, and she bolted. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, shrouded in darkness, the walls closing in with every hurried step. Her lungs burned, her heart pounded, but she didn’t slow—she couldn’t slow.

She stumbled to a halt, gasping for air, but before she could take another step, something—or someone—grabbed her arm.

Chapter Two

A shiver ran down Deidra’s spine and her breath came in quick, startled gasps, her pulse hammering against her throat.

The hand on her arm was firm, steady, undeniably strong. But it was not the pressure that made her lightheaded—it was the heat, the undeniable presence that stole the air from her lungs.

The man beside her stood tall, broad-shouldered, his frame draped in a dark coat that did little to mask the powerful build beneath. His face, half-shadowed in the flickering torchlight, was striking—almost severe.

A strong, chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth set in a firm line. But it was his eyes that held her captive—an arresting shade of sapphire blue, glowing in the dark, pinning her in place as though they could strip away every layer of her composure.

It was him.

This was the man she was to marry—the Barbarian Laird.

Good heavens, he’s… handsome. The thought slipped unbidden into her mind, startling her. She hadn’t expected him to look like at up close—so striking, so utterly commanding.

“How did ye come tae be here?” His voice was low, edged with suspicion, yet smooth as aged whisky, pouring over her senses with dangerous ease.

Deidra swallowed hard, willing herself to steady her breath. “I—me name is Deidra,” she answered, her voice softer than she intended, betraying the thrum of her pulse. “Deidra Ballentine.”

The moment she spoke her name, his grip slackened, and he took a deliberate step back.

His expression remained unreadable, his features carved from stone, but the intensity of his gaze never wavered. It was as if every ounce of his focus was fixed on her, making her too aware of herself—of the way her heart raced, of the heat creeping up her neck.

Stop it, she scolded herself. This isnae the time.

For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a shadow of something softer in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or even guilt. But it was gone before she could be sure, replaced by that same adamant focus.

He didn’t speak for a few moments, didn’t offer an explanation, but the way he looked at her, the way he seemed to hold himself just a fraction too still, suggested an apology he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—voice.

“Deidra.” He repeated her name as though he was testing the weight of it on his tongue. A pause, then a slight inclination of his head. “Yes, we had an unfortunate encounter before. Forgive me. I had nae expected ye tae wander so far.”

Her mind reeled, struggling to catch up with the whirlwind of sensations that held her captive. Her breath hitched, her pulse racing as if trying to outrun the storm of emotions crashing through her.

He stood before her like a force of nature, his presence commanding. Every line of his posture spoke of absolute authority, of a man who demanded obedience without uttering a word. And his eyes—those piercing, sapphire eyes—cut through her like shards of ice, cold and insistent, yet impossibly captivating.

She should have been afraid. She was afraid, in a way, startled by the intensity of his gaze and the way it seemed to strip her bare, leaving no room for pretense or defense. But beneath the fear, beneath the shock, something else stirred, a pull she couldn’t ignore, a magnetic attraction that defied reason.

She forced herself to break from his gaze, lest she forget to breathe.

She lifted her chin, trying to mask the way her heart thundered beneath her ribs. “What gives ye the right tae handle me so?” she demanded, the tremor in her voice betraying her.

He watched her, his expression unreadable, but there was something darkly amused in the way his lips curled. “Ye need nae worry, lass,” he said, his voice deep, rich, and smooth as aged whisky. “I’ve nay intention o’ grabbing ye again. That would hardly be appropriate, given the deal we’ve made.”

This is the man I’m bound tae marry? The thought sent a strange mix of dread and excitement coursing through her. There he stood, larger than life, impossibly commanding, impossibly… breathtaking. But he was right—they had a deal, a deal that explicitly stated he was not to touch her, ever.

Deidra had never imagined him like that. The tales had spoken of a warrior, of a man hardened by battle and duty, but they had not spoken of the way his presence consumed the space around him.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a strength that was evident in every line of his form. His hair was dark as midnight, tied back in a loose knot, though several unruly strands had escaped, framing a face that was all sharp angles and rugged beauty.

A warmth spread through her, slow and insidious, curling low in her stomach. It was utterly maddening.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to ignore the way her hands itched to reach out and trace the rough line of his jaw, to see if his skin was as warm as she imagined. “Ye should have announced yerself instead o’—o’ manhandling me.”

He smirked, and the way it softened his otherwise imposing features sent another unwelcome shiver down her spine. “And ye should nae be wandering these halls alone. It is a dangerous thing, tae go places ye dinnae yet understand.”

She scowled. “I am nae some reckless child.”

“Nay,” he agreed, tilting his head slightly. “Ye are something else entirely.”

His gaze drifted over her, slow and intentional, and heat prickled along her skin. She did not know if she wanted to step away or press closer—to demand he look at her like that again, to allow herself to drown in the way it made her feel both powerful and weak.

“I—” she hesitated, searching for words, though her thoughts were an unraveled mess. “I lost me way. I thought tae return tae me chamber.”

His gaze flickered to the door behind her, then back to her. “This part o’ the castle is nae often traversed at night.”

“Aye,” she whispered, her voice breathless despite her best efforts. “I gathered as much.”

His lips twitched, just barely, as though amusement warred with restraint. Then, without another word, he turned away, motioning for her to follow. “Come.”

The simple command sent a thrill down her spine.

It was not the word itself, but the way he said it—with an authority that left no room for question, and yet with an ease that was almost effortless. She stepped forward, falling into step beside him, acutely aware of every inch of space between them. Or rather, the lack of it. His nearness was a force unto itself, a magnetic pull that left her thoughts scattered and her heartbeat erratic.

They moved through the dim corridors, their footsteps the only sound save for the occasional flicker of candlelight against stone. Deidra could not stop herself from stealing glances at him—at the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his coat shifted over broad shoulders, the sheer presence of him.

She had never considered herself the sort to be affected by a man’s appearance, so this she could not explain.

“I had thought tae meet ye in a more formal manner,” he murmured at length, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. “Nae chasing ye down a dark corridor.”

Her cheeks warmed despite the cold. “Had I known ye were tae be me escort, I might have reconsidered me course.”

He cast her a sidelong glance, unreadable and yet—intensely aware. “Would ye?”

She hesitated. There was something in the way his voice dipped just so, that made her stomach tighten. A test, perhaps. A challenge.

“Aye,” she admitted, though the truth was more complex. She had fled the shadows of the castle only to find herself ensnared by something far more perilous—him.

“Ye should nae wander alone,” he said, and though the words carried a warning, there was something else there too—something almost possessive of her, despite it not making any sense.

She nodded, though she knew it was a lie.

If given the chance, she would wander again. She would seek the darkened corners of this place, not only for the sake of adventure, but for the chance of encountering him once more like this.

He did not speak immediately. Nor did she. The air between them had thickened, charged with something they both seemed to feel. It was madness, surely. She had known him mere moments, and yet—

Deidra took a steadying breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Something was said about a feast?” she asked, grasping at the change of subject like a lifeline.

He nodded. “Aye. Ye’ll be introduced tae the clan tomorrow, after the wedding. It would be best if ye spent tomorrow preparing yerself, rather than sneaking about the castle.”

Her jaw clenched. “I was nae sneaking.”

He only raised a brow, as if the argument amused him.

Deidra huffed, turning away before he could see the warmth rising to her cheeks. This was infuriating. He was infuriating. And yet, the moment she stepped away, she felt the loss of his nearness like a physical thing.

She had known it would be difficult. A marriage of arrangement was never simple, never easy.

But she had not been prepared for it—for the way his presence made her forget herself, for the way her body reacted without her permission. It was unfair, truly, how a man like him could wield such power without even trying.

And worse, she hated how much she had liked it.

Niall studied her for a long moment, his sharp gaze lingering, as if he saw something in her that she had not yet recognized herself.

At last, they arrived at her chamber. She stopped just outside the door, and so did he—his broad frame filling the narrow corridor as he turned to face her fully. For the first time, she had no choice but to meet him head-on, to truly take him in. And it was almost too much.

The candlelight played wickedly over the angles of his face, casting him in warm gold and deep shadow. He was not just handsome; he was breathtaking in a way that was wholly unfair.

His strong jawline, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the faint stubble that shadowed his face—all of it came together in a way that made her breath catch.

How is it possible fer someone tae look like this?

Her pulse quickened despite herself.

He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before his gaze flicked to the door behind her. His brow furrowed, and a flicker of something—frustration? anger?—passed over his features.

“Who told ye this was yer room?” he asked, his voice low and edged with a sharpness that made her flinch.

Deidra blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone.

“I—I was shown here earlier,” she stammered, her voice wavering slightly. “One o’ the maids brought me here when I arrived. She said it was tae be me chamber.”

His jaw tightened, and he took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Yer chamber,” he repeated, the words clipped. “And who, exactly, gave the order fer that?”

She shook her head, confusion and a flicker of unease creeping in. “I dinnae ken. I thought it was ye—or someone acting on yer behalf. Was it… nae?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze narrowing as he stared at the door as though it had personally offended him.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned back to her, his expression darkening. “This isnae yer room,” he said firmly, his voice like steel.

Deidra’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Oh, I—I dinnae ken. The maid must have made a mistake.”

“A mistake,” he echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. He took another step closer, his towering frame forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

She swallowed hard, her mind racing.

What is wrong with this room? “Dinnae trouble yerself,” he said, though his tone was anything but reassuring.

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floor.

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