Taken By the Vicious Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #5)

Chapter 10

10

T he moment the innkeeper handed over a single iron key, Lilith’s stomach sank.

Surely, this had to be a mistake.

Damon, however, showed no sign of concern as he pocketed the key and turned to leave, clearly expecting her to follow.

“Wait a moment,” she blurted, her fingers clamping around the innkeeper’s counter. “Ye’ve only given us one key.”

The stout, old woman peered up at her, her eyes as sharp as a hawk’s. “Aye, one room left, Me Lady.”

Lilith stiffened. “One?”

“One,” the woman repeated slowly as if Lilith were a dimwitted cow.

Lilith opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

That cannae be right.

She had earnestly counted the number of keys that were handed out. There were supposed to be at least three keys left.

Behind her, Damon sighed. “Are ye plannin’ on interrogatin’ the poor woman all night, or shall we get on with it?”

“Och, I’m sorry, did I nae make meself clear?” Lilith turned to face him, hands on her hips. “There is one room. One . Which means we will be sharin’ a space.”

Damon cocked an eyebrow. “Aye. That’s what she said, wife .” His voice lowered. “That’s what she has said twice now.”

Lilith sucked in a breath through her nose, keeping her voice low enough so that only he could hear her. “This is unacceptable.”

Damon clapped a hand on her shoulder, barely hiding his amusement. “Dinnae fash. Come along before ye make a scene, Lady McCallum.”

She slapped his hand away before pushing past him. His amusement was palpable, and it only frustrated her more.

She exhaled heavily and turned her glare onto Damon, who looked far too entertained by the situation.

“I will be sleepin’ on the bed,” she hissed as they climbed up the stairs.

Damon’s smile was obvious in the lilt of his voice, and Lilith rolled her eyes, bracing for his annoying response. “I dinnae mind sharin’ the bed, lass.”

She whipped around with lightning speed. “I beg yer pardon?”

He had halted, obviously expecting her reaction, and then leaned in just enough to make her spine stiffen. “Ye’re me wife, aye? It’s a husband’s duty to ensure that his bride is comfortable.”

“Comfortable?!” Her voice rose an octave. “I’d rather sleep on a bed of nails than next to ye!”

Damon chuckled, brushing past her, swinging the key around his finger. “Suit yerself, lass. But I move a fair bit in me sleep. If ye find yerself tucked up against me, dinnae say I didnae warn ye.”

Lilith made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, half outrage, half something far more dangerous.

Christ above, help me. I’m goin’ to strangle him in his sleep.

“Just try nae to kill me before breakfast—I’m ravenous in the mornings.” Damon’s meaning was all too clear, making her core clench.

Lilith muttered something unladylike under her breath.

As she followed him up the stairs, she took slow, measured breaths. It would be fine. She would just sleep on the opposite side of the bed. Perhaps she could build a barricade of pillows.

Or push him onto the floor in the middle of the night.

Yes. That is an excellent plan!

But when she stepped into the room, her brilliant plan unraveled.

The bed—the one and only bed—was predictably and painfully too small. Unreasonably small. Barely large enough for one person, let alone two—especially when one of them was approximately the size of a full-grown mountain troll.

Damon whistled, strolling past her. “Cozy.”

Lilith swallowed a scream.

The warmth of the hearth could scarcely temper the chill in the air outside. Lilith stood by the window in the room she would now share with her husband, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression a mask of defiance.

Every room was bursting with occupants—soldiers, villagers in need, and the staff Damon had brought from McCallum Keep. She couldn’t fault him for thinking ahead, but being confined to one room with him… it was a battle she hadn’t been prepared to fight tonight, and she was tired. Very tired.

He had this planned the entire time. I ken well enough that he did. He only told me after the fact—another thing he’s kept from me!

She turned to face him, watching as he methodically removed his sword belt and set the weapon by the door. “Ye could have made more of the men share.”

Damon didn’t look up as he rolled back his shoulders, his stance impossibly casual. “It’s nae fair to force more than two men in a room the same size as this one.” He straightened, finally meeting her gaze, his blue eyes steady and unyielding. “Besides, what message does it send if the Laird and his Lady cannae share a room? It’d be an insult to the men who’ve given up their own comfort to stand with us. Nae to mention all the work ye have done to get the village on our side.”

Lilith pressed her lips into a thin line, knowing he was right, though she loathed to admit it. “Still, ye could have warned me. Ye didnae have to keep it from me— another thing ye have kept from me. And I’m… I’m nae used to this. We havenae…”

Damon stepped closer to her, his movements slow and deliberate. “I didnae plan this. Whether ye choose to believe me or nae, I had nay hand in this. Ye can thank the Savior for that sort of divine intervention.”

Lilith was acutely aware that the distance between them had closed. A piece of parchment could fit between them.

“And,” Damon continued, “I have nay intention of breakin’ me promise to ye. But our evening was interrupted, and I plan to get me time with ye back—in one way or another.”

Her breath hitched as his words sank in, and she couldn’t even think about anything else but the kiss they had been sharing when the news of the attack broke. Her stomach did flips as she fought to control the flush that was creeping up her cheeks.

Lilith wanted to argue, to demand that he find another way, but the truth lingered between them, undeniable. Palpable.

She squared her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll take the bed, ye take the floor.”

Damon kicked off his boots and lay down on the mattress, looking for all the world like he belonged there. “Nah.”

Lilith sputtered. “What do ye mean, nah?”

He turned his head, smirking up at her. “I mean exactly that. Nah.”

She clenched her fists, debating whether she could push him off the bed without injuring herself in the process.

Instead, she grabbed a pillow and hurled it at his face.

Damon caught it effortlessly. “Tsk. Violence already, wife? And we havenae even shared a bed yet.”

“I swear on every ancestor I have, if ye dinnae shut yer mouth, I will stab ye.”

Damon laughed, tucking his arms beneath his head. “Aye, I believe it.”

Lilith seethed. There was only one thing left to do.

She grabbed the blanket, yanked it off him, and stomped over to the hearth, where the hard wooden floor at least promised some distance between her and the infuriating brute she had married.

With a huff, she lowered herself in front of the fire, pulled the blanket around her like a cocoon, and leaned back against the sole armchair.

Damon chuckled softly behind her.

“What?” she snapped, not dignifying him with a look.

“Nothin’, lass. Just thinkin’ about how cold ye’ll get in the middle of the night.”

Lilith scowled at the flames.

This is fine. I willnae share the bed. I willnae get cold.

She would not, under any circumstances, wake up pressed against his stupid, warm, irritatingly solid body.

The silence settled between them, and Lilith pointedly watched the flames lick at the bricks in the chimney until one of the logs snapped in half. It was late, and without thinking, she chanced a look over her shoulder to check if he was asleep.

Their eyes met. His gaze was annoyingly unsurprised, while surprise widened hers without hesitation.

“Are ye ready to come to bed, then?” His rough voice felt like a soft caress down her spine.

She hated how tired she was. She hated how his voice didn’t annoy her—it would make it so easy to be angry with him and defiantly sleep in the armchair. She hated the playful way he was swinging his feet and the ease at which he lay in the bed. The empty space next to him beckoned to her… and she hated how easily she caved in.

“Fine. I’ll stay.” She pushed herself to her feet and immediately pressed her fists to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. “But if ye so much as snore…” she said through gritted teeth, trying to push through the headrush.

“Ye’ll do what, exactly?” Damon asked, a teasing edge to his voice, which was all too close to her. “Kick me out?”

She felt him then, the heat of his body surrounding her. He had moved with such predatory silence while the battled through the headrush, that his new proximity to her set Lilith’s entire body ablaze. Her eyelids were pinned shut as the blood started to settle, her world easing back into stability.

After she was sure she wouldn’t fall, Lilith exhaled and pried her eyes open. It was the small smirk tugging at his lips that made her bite back the snarky remark she had intended to say. He wasn’t mocking her, not really. There was a warmth in his expression that made her stomach twist in a completely new way.

“Ye’re impossible,” she muttered, brushing past him to sit on the edge of the bed.

“And yet,” Damon said, lowering himself onto the arm of the chair by the hearth, “ye’ve agreed to stay with me. That says something, does it nae?”

She refused to answer, instead focusing on untying the laces of her boots. The silence stretched between them again, broken only by the occasional creak of the inn’s floorboards and the distant murmur of voices.

The irony was not lost on Lilith as she glanced over at Damon, who was now staring at the flames in the hearth. Her soft chuckle drew his attention away from the thoughts he was lost in.

After a moment of assessing her, and apparently coming up satisfied, he cleared his throat. “Since we’re here, we may as well finish what I had planned.”

Lilith glanced up, arching an eyebrow. “Planned? Ye planned something?”

“Aye? Ye think me plan was to just kiss ye all night?” he snorted, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees.

His innocent smile coaxed a strange noise from Lilith’s throat that she unsuccessfully masked with a cough.

“What was yer plan?”

“I thought we’d take some time to figure out what the other likes—without whiskey. I wish to ken what makes ye happy. I thought it might help us… understand each other better.”

Her skepticism was evident, but she couldn’t quell her curiosity. “And how do ye plan to do that?”

As if the timing itself was under his control, a knock at the door interrupted the tension, and Damon rose with ease before he sauntered toward the door.

A tray of food had been left outside along with a small bag. Lilith tried to examine it from around Damon’s large figure but eventually gave up.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked as he turned around with the tray in one hand and the bag in the other.

Damon tossed the bag at her. “Open it.”

Lilith tentatively opened it and dropped its contents into her open palm. The dice were unlike any she had ever seen before. Far from crude, these were a masterpiece. She brought them up to her eyes to better inspect them.

On one, the numbers were intricate Celtic knots, and the other had small but swirly symbols. The edges of each die were banded in bronze filigree that glinted beautifully in the dim light from the hearth. Lilith tilted her head, squinting at the unfamiliar markings along the edges.

“They’re Ogham runes,” Damon explained, his deep voice softened with reverence. “They’re meant to bring luck to the bearer. Or so me gran told me. These were me grandfaither’s.”

Lilith studied the dice further, weighing each of them carefully. They were heavier than normal, the coolness sinking into her skin subtly. Her thumb traced over the smooth, polished bone surface.

“These are lovely, Damon.”

“Aye,” he said proudly. “Me braither and I used to throw them to settle arguments—they’ve seen more than their fair share of mischief.”

“Are ye tellin’ stories tonight, then? Is that what ye had planned for our second night?”

“Nay, but they’ll serve their purpose tonight, and keep things interesting.”

“So, there is a grand plan involved,” Lilith teased and went to sit in the chair next to Damon. She placed the dice on the table between them.

“Aye, nae just random throwin’,” Damon confirmed.

Her core clenched at the gravel in his voice. It was as if something sinful was about to happen, and yet she found herself on the edge of her seat, waiting to hear more.

She arched an eyebrow, gesturing for him to elaborate. “Go on, then. Enlighten me.”

The tone of her voice was not lost on Damon, who held her gaze for a moment longer, making her heart race wildly.

“Simple enough, lass,” he began, picking up the dice and holding them out for her to see. “Each roll determines what kind of question we ask each other. One die is the category, and the other…” He shook the die engraved with numbers. “It tells us how specific the question gets.”

“Is this a respectable game, husband?” Lilith asked, tilting her head curiously. “Or should I brace meself for roguish behavior?”

His smirk widened. “Roguish? Ye wound me, wife.”

She let out a short laugh. “Fine, let’s hear the rules, then.”

Damon detailed the game quickly but carefully enough for her to understand. It was childish, in a way, and his boyish energy tugged at her heart.

“Right, let me recap. A thistle is a personal question, the stag is about memories. The claymore for likes and dislikes. Cow is for habits…”

“Fire is for secrets,” Damon filled in.

“And if it lands on the sun, it’s a free choice?”

“That’s right, lass. Ready?”

Lilith’s insides shook with anticipation. “Are ye goin’ to play fair?”

“Lass,” Damon said, his tone mock-serious as he placed a hand over his heart. “I’m a man of honor. Ye have me word.”

Lilith nearly snorted with laughter, but she reached for the dice, scooping them up in her hand. “Fine then, let’s see if ye’ve got any honor left, husband. I’ll go first.”

The dice glinted in the dim light as they rolled over each other mid-air before falling back onto the table.

Stag. Three.

Lilith, poised for this choice, boldly asked Damon, “What’s a favorite pastime that ye shared with all of yer siblings?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, a wistful smile spread across his face as he checked the number die before meeting her gaze again. “Level three. Keegan, Melissa, and I used to sneak away from the keep to a hidden glen. We called it the Tree Keep. We’d spend the whole day there, chasin’ each other, climbin’ trees, and darin’ each other to jump into the river.” He chuckled, the sound rich and genuine. “Melissa was fearless. She’d always been the first to jump. Keegan would pretend to scold her, but he’d follow right after. I’d go last, and outdo them all.”

She gritted her teeth. “All of that was a level-three answer?”

“Aye. Level three, lass. Now, it’s me turn.”

Her eyes followed the dice nervously as they fell onto the table.

Thistle. Five.

“Start with this. Ye press flowers, aye? Tell me about it.”

Lilith stared at the dice, her throat tightening. “It was me maither’s hobby,” she began, her voice quieter now. “She used to press flowers from all over the Highlands, each one tied to a memory. After she passed, I started doin’ the same. It felt like a way to keep her close.”

Damon nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “That’s a fine memory. Though that wasnae a level-five answer, lass. Do ye have a favorite flower?”

She clicked her tongue but then allowed herself a small smile. “Heather. It’s hardy and resilient, even in the harshest conditions. I suppose I admire that.”

“A fitting choice,” Damon said, his tone sincere. “Ye remind me of heather—strong and beautiful, nay matter what ye face.”

Their eyes lingered on each other. It wasn’t the question he asked that made her see him in a different way. It was the way their chairs were so close and yet too far away. The shadows that caressed his face. The chill in the room. His response to her answer had been careful yet natural, as if he didn’t even need to think about it.

Lilith leaned forward and placed a hand on his. Memories of only a few hours ago flashed through her mind, the heat of their kiss, his strength…

What if we kissed again? Does he wish to kiss me again? What if I ask him that…

She grabbed the dice and rolled them.

Before the dice settled, a loud uproar tore through the inn, and within moments, a sharp knock sounded at the door, shattering the tranquility.

“Me Laird. Me Lady,” Finley’s voice called from the other side, urgent and tense. “We’ve received word from Kiel. Brigands.”

Damon was on his feet in an instant, his expression hardening into the mask of a leader as he marched to the door and wrenched it open. “How bad?”

“Nae as bad as Branloch, Me Laird. A few fires, but they were prepared,” Finley replied. “They chased them out of town, and some have followed them. If we leave now, we might be able to intercept them, Me Laird.”

“Send a rider to the castle and have them meet us in Kiel. I’ll be downstairs shortly. Ready the horses.”

Finely grabbed the door handle and closed the door without another word.

Lilith rose, her heart pounding. “What can I do?”

“Please stay here, lass,” Damon said firmly, but the look she gave him made him pause. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he rejoined her in front of the hearth. “It isnae safe on the road, and we ride carelessly, lass. Now, ye get the bed all to yerself.” He smirked.

Lilith shook her head. “Ye cannae joke like that, nae now!”

He cupped her face in his hand gently, and she let herself lean into it. “I’ll return before morning, wife. Try to sleep—we’ve got to put Branloch back together in the morning.”

His hand and eyes dropped, clearly categorizing the dice on the table beside them. When his eyes rose back to hers, they were black as night.

“And, to make it even sweeter for ye, I’ll answer whatever question ye have when I get back.”

He let his forehead rest against hers for a moment before he turned, grabbed his sword, and followed Finley out the door.

The inn erupted into motion as the news spread, the once-sleepy hallways now alive with the clatter of boots and the hum of anxious voices.

Lilith watched them leave Branloch from the safety and warmth of their room. When they were all out of sight, she walked back to the table and grabbed the dice bag, before picking up the dice she had landed right in the center of the table.

Sun. Six.

The cold night air nipped Damon’s face as he tightened his grip on the reins, his mind already racing ahead of the present moment. The rider from Kiel had arrived breathless and pale, his horse foaming at the mouth, carrying grim tidings of yet another attack.

Damon had only just begun to settle matters in Branloch, but there was no time to linger. The safety of Kiel demanded immediate intervention. Before mounting his horse, he turned to Finley, who stood nearby, ever loyal and awaiting orders.

“Finley, go fetch Ryder,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “Tell him he’s to guard Lady McCallum. If Mrs. Bryant’s stubbornness gets in the way, then ye will stay behind yerself. She is nae to be left unprotected.”

Finley nodded sharply. “Aye, Me Laird. Consider it done.”

With that assurance, Damon swung onto his horse, his eyes scanning the shadowed streets of Branloch before landing on the exhausted messenger.

“Ride with me,” he ordered, urging his steed into a gallop.

The rider fell in beside him, his horse struggling to keep pace with Damon’s powerful black stallion.

The rest of Damon’s men followed closely, their horses’ hooves pounding on the dirt in unison.

As they tore through the night, Damon called over the sound of hoofbeats, “Tell me everything.”

The rider swallowed hard, his voice hoarse from shouting earlier. “They came just an hour ago, Me Laird. A dozen of them—maybe more. Armed to the teeth, and bold as ye like. They tried to set fire to the storage barn, and when they failed, they torched a few cottages instead, and some shops, and set loose the livestock…”

Damon’s jaw tightened. “Were there casualties?”

“Aye,” the rider admitted, his voice heavy. “Four wounded. The fighters in the village did what they could—chased the bastards toward the forest. They’ve got them pinned now, just outside the village.”

Damon’s gut twisted with a mix of fury and guilt. He had known the brigands were a threat, but he’d failed to send reinforcements to Kiel in time. It was his responsibility to ensure the safety of every village under his protection, and now lives were in jeopardy because he hadn’t acted swiftly enough.

The failure cut deep.

“This should never have happened,” he muttered under his breath, but the rider was close enough to hear.

“Ye couldnae have kenned, Me Laird,” the man offered, though there was little conviction in his voice.

But Damon wasn’t interested in excuses. He’d known the risks, and he’d let his focus linger too long on Branloch, leaving Kiel vulnerable. It wouldn’t happen again.

By the time they neared the village, his party had been joined by a group of riders from the castle, led by Tristan Gunn.

The councilman rode at the head of the group, his posture straight and confident. Damon felt a flicker of annoyance at the man’s presence—Tristan’s calm composure grated at his simmering anger—but he tamped it down. The more hands they had, the better.

As they approached Kiel, the flickering torchlight came into view. The villagers had gathered near the outskirts of the village, their faces drawn and pale in the firelight.

Kerry, the village leader, stepped forward to meet them, his weathered face lined with worry.

“Laird McCallum. Tristan,” he greeted, his voice strained. “We’ve done what we could. The brigands are stuck in the forest, but they’ve got good cover. Our men are keepin’ them surrounded, but we’ll need yer help to finish this.”

Damon dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. He extended a hand toward the man, gripping his forearm firmly. “Ye’ve done well, Kerry. We’ll handle the rest.”

Tristan dismounted as well, his movements deliberate and smooth. “What’s the terrain like?” he asked, his tone businesslike. “Do they have an escape route?”

Kerry shook his head. “Nae unless they want to risk crossin’ the river. It’s deep and fast this time of year.”

Damon listened as Tristan continued to question Kerry, his sharp mind working through the details with practiced ease. He found himself begrudgingly impressed. Tristan wasn’t just a councilman—he clearly had experience in matters of strategy and combat.

The three men huddled together, discussing their options. Tristan proposed a plan that was as bold as it was efficient—divide their forces into two groups, one to flush the brigands out of their hiding place and the other to intercept them at the riverbank.

Damon considered the plan carefully, his gaze flicking between Tristan and the other men, nodding in consideration.

The councilman’s confidence was undeniable, and Damon couldn’t ignore the fact that his knowledge of the land and its people far surpassed his own.

Lilith’s earlier words about Tristan echoed in his mind. The councilman had voiced his dislike for Magnus and had the support of the people in Branloch. He was well-connected, and he lived close enough to Kiel to have a good understanding of the weaknesses in its defenses.

If anyone has the means to fund an assassin or stir unrest in the McCallum lands, it is Tristan Gunn.

But now wasn’t the time for suspicions.

Damon clicked his tongue. “I like yer plan, Tristan, but we will need three groups,” he said as he pointed at the makeshift battleground dug into the dirt between them. “The first to flush them out—as ye said—the second to intercept them at the riverbank, and the third to attack them head-on.”

The men hummed in agreement.

“Good. Tristan, ye lead the third group. I’ll lead the first, and we’ll have Craig lead the second. Now, let’s move.”

Damon’s order was all they needed to hear before dispersing quickly.

Tristan looked irritated, but the men still split as planned.

Damon rode with the first group, his blood thrumming with anticipation. The forest was dense and shadowed, the bare branches above weaving a skeletal canopy that blocked the moonlight. His men moved with purpose, their weapons drawn and their eyes scanning the undergrowth.

It didn’t take them long to find the brigands. The clash of steel and the shouts of battle broke the stillness of the night, and Damon charged into the fray without hesitation.

“Hold the line! Push them toward the clearing!” he barked, his voice carrying over the din.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tristan fighting with a precision that caught him off guard. The councilman’s movements were swift and calculated, each strike landing with deadly accuracy. Damon felt a strange sense of recognition as he watched him.

What are ye hidin’, councilman?

There was something about his technique that reminded him of the assassin who had attacked him in the keep. The calculated strikes, the fluid movements—it was too much of a coincidence. The thought unsettled him, but he forced himself to focus on the battle at hand.

But that moment of distraction cost him.

A brigand lunged from the shadows, his blade arcing toward Damon’s unprotected side. Damon turned just in time to parry the strike with the flat of his claymore, but he underestimated the attacker’s speed. The brigand pivoted, his second blade slashing in a wide arc. Damon felt the searing pain before he realized what had happened—a sharp, fiery line shot across his back as the brigand’s blade bit into flesh.

He staggered backward, a hiss of pain escaping through gritted teeth. The world narrowed down to the immediate threat, his claymore swinging instinctively to block another strike.

His attacker pressed the advantage, but Damon quickly recovered, his anger flaring like a beacon in the dark. With a ferocious roar, he drove his claymore forward, catching the brigand in the chest. The man crumpled to the ground with a gurgle.

Blood seeped from the wound on Damon’s back, soaking into his shirt and dripping down his sides. The pain was sharp and unrelenting, but he forced himself to stay upright, his focus shifting back to the battle. The last thing his men needed was to see their Laird falter.

Christ… Lilith is goin’ to be in a state…

Tristan appeared beside him, his face grim. “Ye’re hurt, Me Laird.”

“It’s nothin’,” Damon growled, waving him off. He didn’t have time for concern—not now, when the fight was still raging. “Focus on the brigands.”

Tristan hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if he wanted to argue, but another attacker barreled toward them, forcing him to turn his attention back to the fight.

Damon pressed on, ignoring the searing pain in his back. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through him, but he refused to let it slow him down. The brigands were faltering, their lines breaking under the combined assault of his men.

The fight was over. The brigands, surrounded and outnumbered, had little choice but to surrender. When the last of the brigands were subdued, Damon finally allowed himself a moment to breathe, letting the men finish the job. His chest heaved, and sweat mingled with the blood that soaked his back. The pain had dulled to a persistent throb, but he knew the wound needed tending.

Tristan approached him again, his sword sheathed and his expression unreadable. “Ye should sit down before ye keel over.”

Damon shot him a glare. “I’m fine.”

Tristan arched an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the bloodstained fabric at Damon’s back. “Aye, because bleedin’ out is what we call fine now.”

Damon ignored the jab, his focus shifting to the brigands being rounded up by his men. But even as he watched the aftermath of the battle, his thoughts returned to Tristan. The man’s skill in combat, the way he had let one brigand escape, and the unsettling similarity to the assassin’s fighting technique—it all gnawed at his thoughts like a splinter buried deep under his skin.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught the attention of all of them. A body flipped over on the ground, and one of the attackers broke free, darting toward the river in a desperate attempt at escape. Some of the men started to give chase, but Tristan raised a hand to stop them.

“Let him go,” he ordered, his voice calm but firm.He shrugged, his sword still in hand, his voice growing louder. “Let him deliver a message to his master. Tell him that McCallum lands are secure and that they shouldnae come back.”

Damon’s jaw tightened, but he relented, sheathing his sword. “And ye think that’ll stop them?”

“It’ll give them pause,” Tristan replied evenly. “Besides, these brigands arenae local. Nay. These men are from the lowlands, likely hired for this.”

The implication hung in the air, and Damon’s mind raced. If the brigands were hired, then someone had to be behind the attacks. And the more he thought about it, the more Tristan’s calm demeanor and strategic mind seemed to fit the profile of someone who could orchestrate such chaos.

As the men began to gather the prisoners and secure the area, Damon couldn’t shake the unease that settled over him. Tristan was hiding something—he was sure of it.

He stood at the edge of Kiel, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the first light of dawn was beginning to creep over the hills. “Better get back now,” he said with finality.

His men stretched and then mounted their horses.

She’s goin’ to be furious.