Chapter 27
The corridors of her childhood had grown darker the deeper she stepped into it.
The stone walls of Murdoch Castle hadn’t changed much in the time since she’d left it. They still pressed in on her like the edges of a vise, cold and unyielding. But she had changed. She was no longer the girl who used to cry herself to sleep behind those heavy oaken doors.
She had come for closure. Not acceptance. Not love.
The great hall door creaked open with the familiar groan of warped hinges. Her father sat at the high table, just as he had on every feast day, council meeting, and morning breakfast she could recall. His goblet in one hand, unread parchment in the other. Lit only by a hearth at his back.
It struck her how small he looked. Not in stature as he still bore the build of a warrior past his prime, but in presence. The kind of man who had ruled over his clan with venom and bark, but now looked as though he’d shrunk beneath the weight of all his own bitterness.
Her father lifted his eyes at the sound of the door.
His expression didn’t change.
“Back, are ye?” he muttered.
Amara hesitated at the threshold. Her heartbeat thundered against her ribs. “Aye… I am.”
He took a slow sip from his goblet, and fixed his eyes on the hearth. “Hmph.”
That was all.
No surprise. No welcome. Just indifference, like she’d never been gone at all.
She stepped forward, her boots echoing softly against the stone. “I came to speak with ye.”
He hummed low in his throat, as if weighing whether her presence warranted more than that. Then, finally, he turned his head, just slightly, and let his gaze drift lazily to her.
“Well, then, speak.”
His face was as unreadable as ever. Not hard or sharp like Rhys’s could be. Her father’s features had been worn down to cold smoothness, like river stone. His eyes, when they found hers, were empty.
Amara swallowed. “I thought ye might have somethin’ to say to me.”
“Ye’ve just said ye had somethin’ to say to me. Why would I have somethin’ to say to ye?”
Silence stretched.
Her hands fidgeted in front of her skirts. “I left yer castle… humiliated. Ye offered me up like I was nothin’.”
Callan finally leaned back, lifting his goblet again and swirling the wine inside. “And yet here ye are. Seems it worked out for ye, did it nae?”
Amara’s jaw tensed. “That’s nae why I’ve returned.”
“Nay?” He took a slow sip. “Then what is it, lass? Come to tell me how well-fed ye are now? How fine the bed ye sleep in is? How often he comes to ye?”
Her breath caught, but she pressed on. “I came to understand.”
At that, he gave a slow blink. “Understand what?”
“Why.” Her voice cracked on the word.
That earned a chuckle. “Why? Lass, there’s nay great tale to it. I did what was needed.”
“What was needed?” she echoed, incredulous. “I was yer daughter.”
Her father shrugged. “A burden.”
That landed like a blow.
Amara stepped closer. “I was never a burden until Maither was murdered.”
His eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t rise. “Ye always talk too much. Ye did it then, and ye do it now. Just provin’ me point.”
Her words started to pile up in her throat, pushing their way forward too fast.
“I learned to keep me tongue,” she insisted. “I learned to stay out of yer way. I served this house loyally —”
He barked a laugh. “Is that what this is? A ledger of your deeds? Shall I clap for ye, Amara?”
She faltered. He used her name like it was a weapon.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yer voice is crackin’. Are ye goin’ to weep now?”
“Nay,” she lied.
He stood slowly, lifting his goblet one last time before draining it and setting it down with a thud.
“Ye’re tremblin’,” he said, stepping around the table.
“I’m nae.”
“Ye are. I can see it. I can hear it.” His lips twisted.
Amara took a step back.
Callan stopped. The air between them grew thicker than smoke.
“I gave ye the chance to prove yerself, and ye left this place as nothin’ more than what I always suspected.”
“And what was that?” she managed.
His voice dropped to a rasp. “Trash.”
She stared at him, her face bloodless.
“I came here to try,” she said, her voice wobbling. “To understand. To speak to me faither. What happened between us after she passed? Why do ye hate me so?”
He took one step closer, his sneer curling. A beat of silence passed between them. Then he leaned in just a little, just enough that she could feel the heat of his breath.
“I can smell him on ye, ye ken.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The O’Donnell. I can smell him on ye.”
The implication hit her like a slap.
Callan watched the realization register in her eyes, and his grin spread slowly, like rot.
“Thought ye’d come back into me hall with dignity? Loyalty to me?”
Amara’s lungs burned. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, panicked rhythm. And still, her father loomed closer.
Her fingers curled at her sides, not from fear, but from rage. Cold, shivering rage that spread beneath her skin.
“Aye, plain as day it is,” he spat, eyes raking over her fraught with harsh judgement. “Ye’ve opened yer legs for him, have ye nae? Nae even wed. Nay promise. Nothin’.”
She wanted to say something. Anything. “What?” was all she managed.
“Ye heard me. What else would a Murdoch whore do, if nae find a bed to climb into the first chance she got? All in the name of ‘safety’, right?”
The word sliced through her like a blade.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her mind reeled.
Not a daughter. Not a traitor. Not even a disappointment.
A whore.
As if the hope that had taken root in the stillness of O’Donnell Keep, in the laughter of Daisy, and in the quiet strength of Rhys had somehow corrupted her. As if her worth could be boiled down to who she gave her heart to.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she did not let them fall.
“I love him,” she said, voice barely audible.
Callan scoffed. “I’m sure ye think ye do, but it doesnae matter now, ye're ruined.”
“I’m nae ruined,” but the words tasted like mud on her tongue.
His lip curled, slow and sour. “Ye were never meant to belong anywhere. Least of all here. I daenae ken what ye want from me. Clearly, he’s claimed ye, why are ye botherin’ me?”
Amara’s heart thudded hard in her chest.
She tried to ground herself and remember where she stood. But the ground beneath her felt like it was tilting, shifting, breaking apart.
“Because I love ye, ye're me faither, and I just want to ken why ye’ve forsaken me,” she said softly.
“I was forsaken first!” he bellowed, his voice bounced off the stone walls loudly, piercing her ears ruthlessly.
“Ye’re speakin’ madness.”
“Madness?” Callan took a step forward, circling the edge of the long wooden table like a wolf eyeing prey. “Ye think this is madness? Try spendin’ six years watchin’ a lass parade about a keep she was never meant to walk in.”
He ran his fingers along the lip of the table as he moved, slow and deliberate. The torchlight from the wall cast jagged shadows across his cheekbones, making the scars of time on his face look darker than they ever had before.
Amara held her ground. “Ye’re drunk.”
He gave a dark chuckle. “Aye. And yet it’s never when I’m drinkin’ that I lie.”
“Ye speak as though I were some curse. As if I killed her,” she snapped.
He stopped then. Right at the corner of the table. Right across from her.
His voice dropped into something quieter. More dangerous. “A punishment.”
Amara swallowed, her throat painfully tight. “Punishment for what?”
He tilted his head at her, lips parting like he meant to answer. But then, a flicker of something cruel passed through his eyes, and instead he laughed.
That laugh shredded the last thread of her composure.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides, fingernails biting her palms. “I came back to learn the truth. To ask for nothin’. Just a word of truth. A scrap of decency. And all ye’ve done is —”
“Ye want truth?” he interrupted, stepping closer. “Ye’ll nae find it here. Perhaps ye’ll find it scurryin’ ‘round the halls of O’Donnell’s council.”
Amara’s stomach twisted so sharply she thought she might be sick. “What does that mean?” she asked, her voice thin.
He shook his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Ye ask too many questions.”
“Then stop speakin’ in riddles!” she shouted. “Say what ye mean!”
His eyes narrowed, and he stalked forward.
“Ye daenae want what I mean,” he growled.
She stumbled back a step, breathing hard. Her shoulder brushed the edge of the great stone hearth behind her.
“Ye think because ye’ve warmed Laird O’Donnell’s bed that suddenly ye matter and deserve this and deserve that?” Callan’s voice was rising, venomous now. “That because he’s whispered sweet lies in yer ear and pressed a kiss to yer cheek, that ye’ve suddenly earned a place in our world?”
Her throat was dry. “I’ve never claimed —”
“Ye think ye’re worth anythin’?” he snarled, stepping right into her space. “I see the silk on yer back. The shine in yer eyes. I see how ye stand taller. Like ye believe ye’ve become someone.”
He leaned close then. Too close. The stink of wine and fury made her stomach churn. “Ye wear him unashamed like a perfume. Ye deserve nothin’,” he hissed.
She flinched, and he saw it.
He smiled, wide and mocking. “Aye. That stings, does it?”
“What are ye tryin' to say?” she asked, her voice cracking. “That I’ve dishonored ye?”
Callan straightened slowly, his smile fading to something more sinister. “Nay, if ye can believe it, I daenae even care about any of that. Ye’ve always been a thorn, Amara. Ever since...” he trailed off.
She stared at him.
The air between them felt like ice.
“I’m yer daughter. I needed ye when we lost her!” she whispered.
He snorted, slow and savage. “Oh aye?”
She straightened, brow knitting together. What is he even questioning?
But Callan didn’t clarify. Didn’t explain. He just watched her fall apart, and his smirk deepened.
Then he lunged.