Epilogue
One month later…
Soft, golden light slanted through the curtains, warming the tangled furs of their bed. Spring had finally come to Lewis.
Enya lay still, barely breathing. Her head rested on Harald’s chest, his heart beat a steady, thundering rhythm beneath her ear. Safe. Safe. Safe. It was the only clock she needed now. The only sound that mattered in a world that had once been so loud with screams.
She traced a faint, jagged scar on his ribs. Her touch was light, a silent caress for every wound he had taken.
She felt a new kind of weight within her. It was a shimmering secret tucked deep beneath her ribs. A new flame. The feeling was so fragile it made her ache. Her eyes stung with a sudden, happy heat. She pressed her face closer to his skin, memorizing the scent of him—salt, woodsmoke, and home.
Harald shifted, his breath hitching as he transitioned from sleep to the waking world. His arm tightened around her waist, hauling her flush against his heat.
"Ye’re awake," he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that she felt more in her own chest than her ears. "And ye’re thinking. I can hear the gears grinding from here, Enya."
"I am nae thinking," she lied effortlessly, her lips twitching into a dry smile against his skin. "I was merely wondering if the great Hawk o’ Lewis was ever going tae wake up, or if I’d have tae run the perimeter meself today."
Harald let out a low, vibrating chuckle that shook them both. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his beard scratchy and warm. "Ye go, then. I’ll stay here. The bed is warm, and the lady is… remarkably tolerable today."
"Tolerable?" Enya arched a brow, though he couldn't see it. She felt a surge of that fierce heat that always flared when he touched her—a mix of protective love and a vulnerability that still frightened her. "I’ll have ye ken that I am the highlight o’ yer existence. Without me, ye’d be back tae scowling at walls. "
"Aye," he whispered, his tone suddenly losing its edge of humor and turning into something raw. He pulled back just enough to look at her. His dark eyes searched hers with that worshipping focus she had grown to crave. "I would be."
She looked at him, and for a heartbeat, the air in the room felt thick with everything she hadn't said. The secret inside her leaped, a pulse of pure joy.
"Harald," she whispered, her voice catching. She reached up, her palm framing his jaw, her thumb brushing the rough stubble there. "There is... something I need tae tell ye.”
His brow furrowed, his gaze instantly sharpening with that familiar, protective intensity. "What is it?"
She opened her mouth, the truth trembling on her tongue, but the words were snatched away.
The sharp, rhythmic hammer of hooves shattered the silence. Then came the blast—a shrill, brassy horn that tore through the morning air like a jagged blade.
"The king’s men," Harald muttered, the soft light in his eyes vanishing as the laird returned. "They’re early."
Harald was moving before the sound had even faded.
"They’re annoying," Enya corrected, rolling out of the furs with a groan. She caught sight of herself in the polished silver mirror—hair a wild thicket, eyes bright with a mix of lingering sleep and sudden nerves.
"If it’s Henry, I swear tae the Saints, I’ll give him a piece o' me mind he willnae soon forget," she muttered, tugging a comb through a knot. "If he so much as breathes a rude word in this hall, I’ll have him wishing he’d stayed in the south with his silks and his scented water.”
"Dress, love," Harald said, though a ghost of a smile touched his lips as he pulled on his tunic. "We’ve a prisoner tae hand over."
Harald moved with the efficiency of a soldier, his presence filling the room as he buckled his belt. Enya watched him, her heart still full of the secret she hadn't shared, before turning to her own task.
They moved in a silent, practiced dance of leather and wool, armoring themselves for the world outside their door. By the time they descended the spiral stairs, the soft warmth of the bed was a memory, replaced by the cold, biting reality of the keep.
The great hall was drafty, despite the roaring hearth. Enya stood beside Harald, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Outwardly, she was the picture of a composed lady—chin tilted, spine a rigid line of defiance. Inwardly, she felt every nerve ending was exposed.
The heavy doors creaked open, and in walked the royal convoy. At their head was Lord Henry, in a flamboyant velvet doublet. He stepped in with overdone elegance.
"Laird Alvsson! Lady Enya!" Henry called to them. He bowed low.
"We are delighted ye survived the trip, Henry," Enya said, her voice smooth and dry. She caught Harald’s hand twitching by his side and knew he was fighting the urge to toss the man back into the sea.
Henry blinked, sensing the bite beneath the words but unable to pin it down. "Quite! Aye! Now, regarding the business o’ the Crown—"
He was interrupted by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on the stone stairs.
Leo emerged first, his face a mask of grim duty. Behind him, two guards dragged a man in heavy chains.
Finley.
The silence that fell over the hall was absolute.
Enya felt the air vanish from her lungs. Her brother looked nothing like the man he had been. His clothes were rags, his face was gaunt, and the arrogance that had once fueled him seemed to have curdled into something sour and small.
As they reached the center of the hall, the guards jerked the chains, forcing Finley to halt. For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Enya looked at him. Despite the kidnapping, despite the blade he had held to her throat, a sudden, treacherous wave of sorrow crashed over her.
She remembered him as a boy—the way he used to pull her through the fields, promising they’d always be together.
He had been her only friend in a world that called her cursed.
She took a small, involuntary step forward, her eyes searching his. She was looking for a spark of the brother she had loved. She was ready to offer a silent goodbye, a shred of pity, a final nod to the blood they shared.
Finley raised his head and his eyes locked onto hers.
Enya flinched as if he had struck her. There was no love there. No regret. There was only a cold, poisonous hate—a look of such absolute loathing that it made her blood run cold. His lips curled into a silent snarl, his gaze screaming that everything—his ruin, his chains, his failure—was her fault.
He hates me.
Enya’s breath hitched in a sob she refused to let out. She felt herself begin to tremble, the ground beneath her feet turning into smoke.
Then, a hand—vast, warm, and solid as the earth—clasped hers.
Harald didn't look at Finley. He simply stepped into Enya’s space, his fingers interlaced with hers, his thumb stroking the back of her hand in a slow, possessive rhythm. The heat of him flooded into her, a barrier of pure love that blocked out the poison in Finley’s eyes.
Enya looked up at Harald. In his gaze, she saw a man who knew exactly who she was and loved every jagged edge of her.
She turned her head away from her brother. The sorrow was gone, replaced by a crystalline clarity. She didn't owe the past anything. She wasn't a Cameron shadow anymore; she was the Lady of Lewis, and her heart belonged to the man holding her hand.
"Take him," Harald said, his voice flat and final.
Henry cleared his throat, sensing the shift in the air. "Aye, well. Quite. The king extends his most... sincere apologies fer the delay in justice. He kens the burden ye have carried. The Crown will see him tae Edinburgh fer trial. Ye have the king’s gratitude, Laird Alvsson. And his respect."
Henry bowed once more. "We shall trouble ye nay further."
The guards turned, dragging Finley toward the door. The sound of the chains scraping against the stone echoed through the hall, growing fainter and fainter until the heavy doors groaned shut, sealing the past away for good.
Enya stood in the sudden quiet, her hand still tucked firmly in Harald’s. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the scent of pine and salt filled the room. She felt the secret within her thrum with a sudden, joyful energy.
"Well," she whispered, raw emotion in her voice. "That’s that."
Harald pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. "I’m here fer ye, Enya."
Harald searched her face.
"Are ye alright?" he asked, his voice low and roughened by concern. "Seeing him... seeing the hate in his eyes. I ken it wasnae the goodbye ye deserved."
Enya looked toward the heavy oak doors where her brother had disappeared, then back at the man who was her entire world. The back of her throat stung.
"I have quite a lot o’ feelings, if I'm being honest," she admitted, her voice trembling lightly.
She swallowed hard, forcing her stubborn composure back into place.
"Part o' me wants tae weep fer the boy he used tae be.
But the rest o' me? The rest o' me is just glad he has finally been taken out. It’s much easier tae breathe kenning he is nae in the castle with us, wi’out the stench o' betrayal in the air. "
Harald let out a soft, huffing sound and leaned down. He kissed her softly, a lingering touch of lips that tasted of peace. It was a slow, grounding kiss, the kind that promised a lifetime of quiet mornings.
Then, he pulled back abruptly. His eyes narrowed, a sudden spark lighting them up. "Earlier. In the room." He straightened his spine, his hands moving to rest on her waist. "Ye were about tae tell me something, when we were interrupted."
A playful, mischievous heat rose in Enya’s chest. The secret was clawing to get out now, dancing in her blood. She felt a smile—genuine, bright, and slightly wicked—pull at the corners of her mouth. She reached up, toyed with the collar of his linen shirt, and looked at him through her lashes.
"Was I?" she asked innocently. "I cannae recall. Perhaps I was just being theatrical fer the sake o' it."
Harald didn't move. He stood like a monolith, his gaze unyielding. "Enya. Ye are many things, but ye are nae theatrical. Speak."
She chuckled, a light, musical sound that echoed against the stone walls. She leaned in, her lips almost brushing his ear, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"I was merely thinking," she whispered, her voice a teasing rasp, "that we might need tae start makin’ some... changes. This hall is far too quiet. And the nursery hasnae been used in years. It’s getting quite dusty, Harald."
She pulled back to watch his face.
Harald froze. His jaw went slack, his hands tightening slightly on her hips. He looked at her as if she was speaking a language he had forgotten, his mind clearly racing to catch up with the implication. He blinked once, then twice. He looked utterly lost for words.
"Enya?" he breathed, his voice cracking. "Ye mean..."
"Oh, fer the love o' the Saints," she laughed and grabbed his face between her hands, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "I’m wi’ child, Harald. There’s a little Alvsson in here, likely already preparing tae be just as stubborn and overbearing as his faither."
The shock broke. A light erupted in Harald’s eyes—a brilliant, fierce radiance that made him look younger, freer. He let out a sound that was half shout, half sob of laughter.
Before she could draw another breath, he lunged forward, his massive arms hooking under her knees and around her back. He lifted her off the stone floor, spinning her around in a dizzying circle.
"Harald! Put me down, ye big brute!" she shrieked, though she was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
She clung to his neck, her forehead pressed against his as the room blurred into a swirl of gold light and gray stone.
He slowed his spin but didn't let her go. He tucked her against his chest, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She could feel the tremor in his muscles, the sheer, staggering weight of his happiness. When he finally set her feet back on the ground, he didn't pull away.
"I will be a good faither," he promised, his voice thick with a passion that made her eyes fill with tears. "I will give our bairns a world where they never have tae hide. Where they never have tae feel the weight o' a name or a curse. I swear it tae ye, Enya."
She looked at him, seeing the man who had faced armies and fire, now brought to his knees by the thought of a child. She saw the iron, and she saw the love, and she knew there was no lie in his heart.
"I ken ye will," she whispered, her voice cracking with the sheer force of her feelings. "Ye’ve already spent yer life guarding this island. I think ye can handle one small, loud Alvsson."
He leaned in then, kissing her with a force that tasted of every hardship they had survived and every joy yet to come.
Enya leaned into him, her soul finally, truly at rest. The mists of her past had vanished. The shadow of her brother was gone. As Harald held her in the center of their home, she knew the Cursed Bride had found the only magic that mattered.
And the story was only just beginning.
But there’s more…
Peace settles briefly over Lewis, but the Lairds’ Pact moves on. As Enya and Harald look toward the future, a gathering of the lairds reveals new life, new alliances… and the name of the next man bound by the Pact.