Chapter Two
Sheona
The axe felt good in her hands—solid, honest, real. Sheona adjusted her grip and let it fly, satisfaction singing through her as the blade thunked into the center of the target.
“Beautiful throw!” Eva clapped, her eyes bright with admiration. “You’ll have to teach me that technique.”
“It’s all in the release.” Sheona retrieved the axe, running her thumb along the blade’s edge.
Still sharp. Good. “You can’t hesitate. The moment you doubt, your aim suffers.
” She loved it the day Eva had married her brother, but loved it even more when Eva volunteered to teach Sheona how to throw an axe. Sheona had learned quickly.
“Is that advice for axe-throwing or for life?” Eva asked with a knowing smile. She’d married into Clan Rankin but still returned to Clan MacVey to visit her family often. She’d brought Sheona with her this morn.
Sheona laughed. “Both, I suppose.” She lined up for another throw, finding the familiar calm that came with practice.
This—the weight of the weapon, the focus required, the satisfaction of hitting her mark—this made sense.
This she could control. She wasn’t as good as Eva yet, but she was working on it.
Unlike everything else in her life lately.
Her father had been acting strange for weeks now, muttering about duty and marriage and time running out. As if Sheona were a cask of wine about to turn to vinegar. As if her value decreased with every passing season.
She was nine and ten. Not exactly ancient.
And more importantly, she had no interest in marriage. Not since she’d learned—
“Sheona, look.” Eva touched her arm, nodding toward the gates. “Is that not your father?”
Sheona’s stomach dropped. Dermot Rankin sat astride his horse just outside Clan MacVey’s gates, his posture rigid with purpose. The set of his shoulders, the way he held the reins—she knew that stance. He was here for something, and whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.
“What’s he doing here?” Sheona murmured, dread creeping up her spine like cold fingers.
“I don’t know, but he doesn’t look happy.”
When did he ever, these days? Since Mama’s death a little over a year ago, her father had become someone else entirely. Angry, controlling, desperate to maintain order in a world that had turned upside-down.
And Sheona had become his favorite target.
“You’ll marry her now, Taskill.”
The words carried across the courtyard like a thunderclap. Sheona froze, her axe halfway to the target.
Marry. Taskill.
Nay. Nay, she must have misheard.
But Eva’s sharp intake of breath confirmed she’d heard the same thing.
Sheona’s hands went numb. The axe slipped from her fingers and thudded to the ground. Her feet moved without conscious thought, carrying her closer to the gates, closer to the nightmare unfolding before her.
Taskill stood just inside the gates, his expression carefully blank.
That expression—she knew it well. Had memorized every variation of it over the years.
The slight tightening at the corners of his eyes.
The way his jaw set just so. The absolute stillness that meant he was feeling everything and showing nothing.
She’d spent five years learning to read him from a distance, since he’d made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her up close.
“I’ve waited long enough,” her father continued, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtyard. Guards stopped their training. Servants paused in their tasks. Everyone was watching now. “She’s nine and ten now, and it’s time.”
Heat flooded Sheona’s face. She. As if she were livestock. As if she weren’t standing right here, hearing herself discussed like a problem to be solved. She picked up her axe and moved it from one hand to the other, anything to help her get past being made a spectacle at Clan MacVey.
Taskill’s gaze swept the courtyard and landed on her. For one heartbeat, their eyes met, and something flickered in his expression—pain? Regret? But it vanished so quickly she might have imagined it.
Then he looked away.
Always, he looked away.
The old wound in her chest—the one that had never quite healed—split open anew.
Five years since that day on the shore. Five years since the day her mother had called her out of the water, scolding her for being too old for such games.
Five years since Taskill had said nothing in her defense, had simply turned away and let her go.
She’d waited all evening for him to come find her, to tell her it was all right, that they’d figure out a way to stay friends even if they couldn’t swim together anymore.
He never came.
And the next day, when she’d sought him out, he’d looked through her as if she were made of glass. Transparent. Inconsequential.
Forgettable.
“Chief Rankin, I think there’s been some misunderstanding—” Taskill’s voice was steady, controlled.
“No misunderstanding. Your father and I agreed years ago.”
Sheona’s breath caught. Her father had arranged this? Years ago? While she’d been pining for a boy who could barely stand to look at her, there’d been some secret agreement hanging over her head?
Fury warred with humiliation in her chest.
“Dermot Rankin, stop acting like a fool and close your mouth!”
Rut MacVey’s voice rang out like a battle horn. Sheona had always admired Taskill’s mother—a woman who took shite from no one and made no apologies for it. The kind of woman Sheona’s own mother might have been, if she’d been allowed.
The argument erupted in earnest then. Rut marching forward like an avenging angel. Lennox emerging from the keep, his expression thunderous. Dermot shouting about promises and honor.
And through it all, Taskill stood silent. Passive. Letting others fight his battles while he remained carefully, deliberately neutral.
Just like at the coastline.
“She may be sweet, and she is beautiful, but she dresses like a man,” Rut said, gesturing at Dermot. “And I heard what you said. Douglas did not agree to have Taskill marry Sheona.”
The words hit like a slap. Dresses like a man. As if there were something wrong with her. As if she needed to change, to become someone more palatable.
Sheona’s hands curled into fists at her sides.
“I don’t think Sheona would agree to the match, Chief Rankin,” Taskill said, his voice infuriatingly calm. “With all due respect.”
Something inside her cracked.
He wouldn’t even look at her while he rejected her. Couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge her presence while discussing her future. Just stood there with that blank expression, as if the whole thing were a minor inconvenience instead of her entire life being debated in front of the whole clan.
Of course he wouldn’t agree to the match. Why would he? You’re not worth fighting for. You never were.
The thought was poison, but she’d carried it for five years. Ever since the day Taskill MacVey had looked at her—really looked at her—and decided she wasn’t worth the effort.
“She doesn’t need to agree!” her father roared. “I’ll choose her husband, and I choose you. Now get on your mount and follow me back to Rankin land.”
“Nay, Dermot,” Rut shouted. “And he’s not a lad anymore!”
The argument spiraled, voices rising, tempers flaring.
Sheona stood rooted to the spot, her heart hammering so hard she thought everyone must be able to hear it.
Her vision narrowed to Taskill’s profile—the strong line of his jaw, the fair hair catching the autumn sun, the careful distance he maintained from everyone and everything.
Especially her.
She’d loved him once. Loved him with the uncomplicated devotion of a girl who didn’t know better. Who thought friendship meant forever, and that the boy who made her laugh until her sides ached would always be there.
She’d been a fool.
“Stop giving orders on my land, Dermot,” Lennox said, his voice cold with authority. “Your behavior is more than insulting.”
Her father finally grumbled something about King Robert and turned his horse—the wrong direction, naturally. Even in his fury, he was lost.
Lennox mounted to escort him home, and gradually, the courtyard began to return to normal. Guards went back to training. Servants resumed their tasks.
But Sheona couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe past the humiliation choking her.
Everyone had heard. Everyone knew. Her father had tried to barter her like a broodmare, and Taskill had rejected her without even doing her the courtesy of meeting her eyes.
“Sheona.” Eva’s hand touched her arm gently. “Are you all right?”
No. She wasn’t all right. She was shattered, mortified, furious.
But she couldn’t say that. Couldn’t fall apart in the middle of the MacVey courtyard with half the clan watching.
“I’m fine.” The lie tasted like ash. “I need... I need to go.”
She turned and fled before Eva could stop her, before the tears burning behind her eyes could fall. Her feet carried her around the perimeter of the courtyard out to the stables. The Rankin guard, Miles, helped her mount and followed her out. She couldn’t get home fast enough.
As soon as they made it to her home, she hopped of her horse, handed the reins to a stable lad and hurried away. She had to find a place where she could let go. Let the awful hurt out that stabbed her so much that she had to fight the tears begging to flood her face.
She ran inside the keep, up the stairs to the end of the passageway to her favorite place. The parapets. Empty, usually. The one place she could breathe.
She shoved through the door and stumbled out into the wind, gulping air like a drowning woman breaking the surface.
He doesn’t want you. He never did.
The thought was a knife between her ribs, twisting.
She’d known it, of course. Had known it for five years. But hearing it spoken aloud, announced to everyone—that was different. That made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.
“What’s he done now, MacVey?” Sloan’s voice drifted up from below. He must have been near the gates.