Chapter 21
Kane
I swallow hard as we all stare at the open gates. This place has been in the MacGallan family for generations. The weight of that history presses down on me as darkness creeps across the valley.
“Let’s move,” Declan says, all business as usual. “We should search the place before it gets completely dark.”
We leave the cars parked outside the gate and proceed up the winding cobblestone drive on foot.
The castle looms larger with each step, its ancient stones almost absorbing what little light remains.
Most of the structure has crumbled away over the centuries—collapsed walls, caved-in roofs, sections reclaimed by nature—but one tower stands defiantly intact against the darkening sky.
“That must be the east tower,” Rory says, pointing. “According to the old plans, it was the most fortified part of the castle.”
“And most likely where anything important would be hidden,” Declan adds.
Kori walks beside me, her eyes wide as she takes in our surroundings. “It’s beautiful, in a haunted sort of way,” she murmurs.
“The MacGallans have always had a flair for the dramatic,” I reply, trying to sound casual despite the tension coiling in my gut.
We reach the main entrance—a massive arched doorway that stands open, its wooden doors long since rotted away.
Inside, what must have once been the great hall stretches before us, illuminated by the flashlights Rory and Declan have produced.
Broken furniture lies scattered about, and patches of sky are visible through holes in the ceiling.
“We should split up,” Declan decides. “Cover more ground.”
“Horror movie rule number one, never split up,” Kat quips, but there’s an edge to her voice.
“Wren and I will check the ground floor,” Declan continues, ignoring her. “Kat and Rory, you take the tower stairs going up. Kane—”
“We’ll check the lower levels,” I finished for him, nodding toward a stone staircase descending into darkness at the far end of the hall.
Declan hesitates, then nods. “Take this,” he says, handing me a flashlight. “And be careful.”
“Always am,” I lie smoothly.
As the others move off toward their assigned areas, I turn to Kori. “You don’t have to come down with me. You could stay with Wren and Declan.”
She shakes her head. “And miss this part of the treasure hunt? Not a chance.”
I smile despite myself. “Your funeral, Airplane Girl.”
“You keep saying that,” she says as we approach the staircase. “Yet here I still am, very much alive.”
“Night’s still young,” I warn, but I’m grateful for her company as we begin our descent.
The stairs are worn in the middle from centuries of use, and I keep my flashlight trained on our feet to avoid a nasty fall. The air grows colder and damper with each step, carrying the musty scent of age and neglect.
“How far down does this go?” Kori asks, her voice echoing slightly in the narrow stairwell.
“No idea. These old places often had extensive cellars. Storage, wine, sometimes dungeons.”
“Dungeons? Seriously?”
“The family wasn’t known for their hospitality to enemies,” I explain, remembering stories my mother told me—stories I now realize were about my actual ancestors, not distant relations.
The staircase finally ends in a low-ceilinged corridor with several arched doorways leading off it. Water drips somewhere in the darkness, a steady plink-plink that marks time like a morbid metronome.
“Which way?” Kori asks, staying close beside me.
I shine my light down the corridor, trying to get my bearings. “Let’s try this one,” I decide, pointing to the nearest doorway.
We step into what appears to be a wine cellar. Empty racks line the walls, and broken glass crunches beneath our feet.
“Someone had a party,” I observe, kicking at a shattered bottle.
“Or looted the place during the abandonment,” Kori suggests, more practically.
We scour the room but find nothing of interest. The next chamber yields similar results—empty storage space with nothing but dust and cobwebs.
“Third time’s the charm?” Kori suggests as we approach another doorway.
This room is different. It’s smaller, with a low stone ceiling and walls lined with shelves. But it’s what’s on the floor that stops us cold—a human skeleton, clothed in the tattered remains of what might have been a uniform, sprawled as if it fell there.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, instinctively stepping in front of Kori.
But she’s already seen it. I hear her sharp intake of breath, followed by another, and another—too fast, too shallow. I turn to find her pressed against the wall, eyes wide and fixed on the skeleton, her chest heaving with rapid, panicked breaths.
“Kori?” I move toward her, alarmed by the blue tinge forming around her lips. “Kori, what’s happening?”
She can’t answer, can only gasp for air that doesn’t seem to be reaching her lungs. Her hands clutch at her throat, and I realize with horror that this is more than shock—she’s having a full-blown panic attack, possibly compounded by her asthma.
“Your inhaler—where is it?” I ask urgently, but she shakes her head, her eyes wild with fear.
Shit. We’re nowhere near a hospital, and I have no idea how to handle this. Acting on instinct, I grab her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at me instead of the skeleton.
“Breathe, A stór. Look at me and breathe,” I urge, the Gaelic endearment slipping out as if I called her that every day.
Her eyes find mine, but her breathing doesn’t slow. If anything, it’s getting worse; her gasps are becoming more desperate. This isn’t working.
“I got you.” I pick her up in my arms and head back to the stairs. I brush my lips against her forehead as I murmur, “Let’s get you out of here.”
I climb as quickly as I can, finally emerging into the great hall where the air is fresher. But she’s still struggling, her face now alarmingly pale. Without hesitation, I head outside, where night has entirely fallen and a light mist has begun to fall.
The cool, damp air should help, but she’s too far gone in her panic. Desperate, I do the only thing I can think of—I sit down on the wet grass in front of the castle and lie down, pulling her down with me.
“Feel me breathing,” I instruct, exaggerating my own breath. “In and out. Slow and steady. You’re safe, A stór. I’ve got you.”
I rub circles on her back as a gentle rain begins to fall, soaking our clothes and hair. Gradually, painfully, her breathing starts to sync with mine. The desperate gasps give way to deeper, more controlled inhalations.
“That’s it,” I encourage, continuing to stroke her back. “Just like that. You’re doing great.”
We lie there for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, the gentle rain washing over us as her body relaxes by degrees against mine.
Finally, she shifts slightly, turning her head to look at me. I aim the flashlight at her face and see that her color is better, though her eyes still hold remnants of fear.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be,” I say firmly. “Are you okay? Was it your asthma?”
She shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t my asthma. I just panicked when I saw the body.” Then she asks, “What does that mean? What you called me—A stór?”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s Gaelic. My mother used to say it when I was upset.”
“But what does it mean?” she presses, still making no move to get up.
I hesitate, then say, “It means ‘my treasure.’”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I rush to explain, “It’s just an expression, you know? Like ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart.’ It doesn’t—”
“Thank you,” she interrupts softly. “For helping me. And for the treasure thing.”
We stare at each other, rain misting between us, and something shifts in my chest—something warm, something that has everything to do with this woman before me.
I don’t know who moves first. One moment we’re staring at each other in the rain, and the next my lips are on hers.
The kiss is gentle at first, tentative—a question more than a demand.
Her lips are soft and rain-damp beneath mine, and when she doesn’t pull away, something wild and reckless ignites in my chest.
My hand finds her face, cradling her cheek as the kiss deepens.
She tastes like rain and fear and something sweeter—something that feels dangerously like hope.
I shouldn’t be doing this. She’s vulnerable, still recovering from a panic attack, still technically married to a cheating bastard.
And I’m... well, I’m a mess of epic proportions with a family drama straight out of a spy novel.
But I can’t stop. Not when she’s kissing me back, her fingers tangling in my wet hair, pulling me closer as if I’m oxygen and she’s still fighting for breath.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, reflecting the moonlight that’s breaking through the clouds. For once in my life, I have no idea what to say.
“Well,” she finally whispers, “that wasn’t in the treasure hunt brochure.”
A laugh escapes me, unexpected and genuine. “No refunds, I’m afraid.”
She smiles, and her face transforms, chasing away the last shadows of panic. “Wouldn’t dream of asking for one.”
The moment stretches between us, rain pattering softly around us. I should probably say something meaningful, something to acknowledge whatever just happened, but before I can form the words, a shout breaks the silence.
“Kane! Where the hell are you?”
Declan’s voice echoes across the castle grounds. Reality crashes back like a bucket of cold water.
“Down here!” I call back, reluctantly pulling myself to my feet and helping Kori up. “You’re sure you’re okay?” I ask her quietly.
She nods, though her eyes betray uncertainty. “We should probably...”
“Talk about this later,” I finished for her. “Yeah.”
Declan appears at the castle entrance, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. “What are you doing out in the rain? We found something.”
“Kori had a panic attack,” I explained, not bothering to mention the kiss. “There’s a skeleton in the lower level.”