Chapter 9
Ciaran walked into the ceremony with Ava at his side.
It was the most unconventional thing, and he could tell from the looks they received.
Surprise rippled through the congregation in a low, visible stir.
A bride and groom entering together was unusual, and the sight of them walking side by side, close enough that her sleeve brushed his now and then, confirmed to every watching eye that something had shifted between them beyond what had been publicly spoken.
Under different circumstances, he might have marked it. He might have even taken some grim satisfaction in the way heads turned and voices dipped.
He did not.
It felt wrong, and they all knew it did.
Their perception of him sat low in his gut, hard and steady. There were a lot of things in the hall he didn’t like, and for some reason, he never knew they would disturb him this much.
He did not like the spacing of the men near the outer edge or the way the wind carried sound away too quickly.
He did not like the simple fact that on a day like this, with his wedding before him and half the clan gathered to witness it, his attention was focused on the terrible things that could happen instead.
Ava shifted beside him when they came to a halt. He was aware of her in the same way he remained aware of his own blade—constantly, without needing to turn toward it.
The altar had been prepared properly, with a clean pulpit and bright yellow flowers placed on both sides of the giant block while the guests stood in neat rows. He spotted faces he knew well—older kin, footmen, maids trying not to stare openly—all arranged beneath the order of ceremony.
It should have looked safe.
It did not.
The wedding thirteen years ago also looked safe, just like this in the beginning.
The priest began to speak before his fears could fester. Ciaran heard the words and let them pass through him without question. He knew the ritual more than anything. He had been to a lot of weddings, after all.
He let the knowledge take over as he did the actions. The joining of hands, the prayers, the cord laid ready. His attention, however, continued to spill to the edges of the ceremony.
He kept track of faces and narrowed in on the ones he didn’t know. He even counted exits and measured the way his guards moved around them.
Beside him, Ava remained as oblivious as ever. He could feel rather than see the tension in her, but he knew it wasn’t for the same reason. He registered her closeness all the same and let the fact that she stood within his reach soothe him.
Soon, the cord was wrapped around their joined hands, and the priest spoke the last blessing. The entire time, Ciaran’s gaze scanned the exits again, until the priest fell silent. Then, almost like he had anticipated, chaos immediately ensued.
A man at the edge of the gathering screamed so loud and collapsed with blood bursting high across his throat. The guests around him lurched backward, and someone shouted. Another voice rose in blind confusion.
And just like that, the wedding shattered.
The priest stumbled sideways with terror written all over his face, but Ciaran did not freeze. He felt almost vindicated in a way, for he had been anticipating this.
“Hector,” he called out to his brother, also his man-at-arms, already moving. “Get the guests inside and bolt the doors. Keep them there.”
Hector sprang into action before he finished speaking, turning at once to the nearest guards.
Ciaran swallowed and looked around as people dashed to the door for their lives. The old nightmare had returned in flesh, but he was no longer the boy trapped inside of it.
He turned to a pale Ava and caught her arm. “Go with them.”
She did not move. Her face had turned deathly white with shock, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond him as if the world had broken too suddenly for sense to reach it.
“Ava.”
“I… I daenae ken how to—” A distant scream cut her off. He felt her flinch.
“Look, I ken this is all very scary, but for now, I need ye to go with them to safety. Do ye understand me?”
Ava swallowed, still unable to move. At least not until he tightened his grip on her.
“Move.”
It was too late. A voice he knew better than he cared to admit cut through the chaos.
“Quite the lovely ceremony, would ye nae say, me Laird?”
Ciaran swallowed and turned around slowly.
It was him. Jack Scott.
He was a bit leaner than Ciaran remembered. He had a fuller beard too, with white streaking the corners. He looked just as deadly as he had thirteen years ago. Just as beastly.
And Ciaran felt the rage he had thought he had buried rush to the surface.
Jack cut through the dispersing crowd toward them, armed and smiling. His gaze fixed on Ava first and then returned to Ciaran.
“Now, ye didnae think I would let this family have a peaceful wedding after what ye did to me lover now, did ye?”
“Jack—” Ciaran coughed. “Whatever the matter is, we can settle it without anyone dying.”
“Oh, I daenae think we can,” Jack responded, his voice thick. “The only way to settle this is if yer bride dies like mine did.”
The words rang in Ciaran’s ears, and the world narrowed to the space between them.
“Seems fair to me, do ye nae think?” A dangerous smile settled on Jack’s face. “An eye for an eye.”