Chapter 27 #2
His hand closed around her upper arm like a vise, and he yanked her toward him. Her shoulder wrenched with the sudden movement, and she cried out, but he didn’t stop.
“Let go!” she shouted.
He didn’t. His grip only tightened.
His voice, low and grinding, reached her ear. “Ye think this is some tale where the villain explains himself? Ye came here thinkin’ there was a heart left in me? That was your mistake.”
She tried to pull free, but he shook her hard enough to make her teeth clack together.
“And now ye cry?” he barked, disgust curling his lip. “Ye cry like a child and expect it’ll fix what’s broken?”
Tears stung her eyes.
“Ye’ll walk out of this castle the way ye came,” he snarled, “with nothin’. Because that’s what ye always were. That’s what ye are. And I will nae ever have ye come back in here, especially wearin’ those colors and expectin’ pity.”
“Let go of me.” Her voice was a whisper, shaken.
But his grip tightened.
“Ye’ll listen, for once in your life,” he spat. “Because if I ever see ye again —”
Amara’s breath caught in her throat, panic and fury flashing behind her eyes as she tried to twist away. But he was stronger. As always. As he had always been.
He yanked her closer, so quickly she nearly lost her footing. Her boot slipped against the stone, and she let out a strangled gasp as her shoulder jarred beneath the force of his grip.
And in that moment, it was as if every time he had done this before came rushing back.
The night she had spoken out of turn at supper, and he’d backhanded her so hard that she tasted blood.
The morning she dared to ask about her mother’s letters, and he’d dragged her by the arm out of his study, throwing her out on her behind.
The silent bruises, the aching joints, the way the servants had looked away with practiced indifference.
It had festered behind those eyes. A rage and hatred that was familiar to her, but this time, she could see it, truly see it, in his face. He didn’t care if she lived or died.
And that was when she knew. There would never be understanding. No matter how many tears she’d swallowed over the years or how carefully she had tread. She would never be his daughter again. Because she never had been.
She stared up into his face, and what she saw there stole the last breath from her lungs. There was no love. Only loathing.
Then he raised his hand.
The back of it loomed in the air like the breaking of a storm, and in a flash of white-hot clarity, she saw how easily it would happen.
She opened her mouth, maybe to scream, maybe to beg, but the sound was swallowed by the slam of the door.
The impact echoed off the walls like a cannon blast.
Her father froze.
And for a fraction of a second, so did she.
Then she turned, heart thudding wildly, and saw the shape in the doorway.
Rhys.
Blood streaked his jaw, his brow, his hands. His tunic was torn and clinging to his ribs, soaked through on one side with red. His sword dripped slowly to the floor with a sound like the ticking of death.
His gaze locked on her father.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
The fury rolling off of him was almost too much to breathe in. A choking, wild thing that filled the room and silenced even the fire.
His fingers unclenched.
Amara stumbled back as he released her, the heat of his rage still burning in her skin where he had touched her. She hit the ground hard, one hand splaying against the stone to catch herself.
Rhys moved.
It wasn’t a stride. It was a hunter’s approach. Deadly and precise.
He stepped in front of her without a word, his body a wall of muscle and wrath between her and the man who once called himself her father.
“Rhys,” she gasped, voice catching. “What happened? What’s going on?”
But he didn’t look at her. He was focused entirely on her father. And his sword lifted slowly.
Then he smirked. “Here he is. The beast of the North come to save his whore.”
The word snapped like a whip through the room.
Amara flinched.
Rhys’s knuckles whitened around the hilt.
He took a step forward, voice like gravel. “If ye say that again, I will bury this blade so far into yer chest ye’ll choke on the steel.”
Her father’s grin widened. “Och. Touched a nerve, did I?”
Rhys advanced another step. Amara could see the way his shoulders coiled, how the tip of the sword shook just slightly with the sheer effort of restraint.
She reached for him. Her fingers brushed the back of his tunic.
“Rhys. Daenae.”
He didn’t move. But his breathing changed. Slowed. Thickened with fury.
She tugged gently. “He’s nae worth it.”
He just laughed.
“Och, I’m worth more than ye think,” he drawled, stepping back now, arms open as if to welcome the blade. “Especially since I’m the only one in this room that kens the truth.”
Rhys turned his head, just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye.
“What is he on about?” His voice was low. Controlled.
“I — I daenae ken. He’s been spewing insults and nonsense,” she said honestly. “He hasnae said anything straight since I walked in.”
Her father’s grin twisted, wild almost, as he lunged toward her as if to silence her for good. “How dare ye —” dripping from his snarl as he did.
Callan grinned like a devil under Rhys’s blade, his crooked, wine-stained teeth gleaming in the firelight.
His smugness reeked worse than the stench of the blood that still dripped from Rhys’s side.
Rhys’s blade pressed harder against the man’s throat, just enough to break skin.
“Ye think this is a game?” he growled. “Ye sit there smirkin’ as if ye’ve bested us.”
Callan’s voice dripped with mockery. “Oh, I daenae think. I ken it.”
Rhys’s blade twitched. One inch more and —
“I’d nae waste that stroke, O’Donnell,” Callan went on, eyes flicking toward Amara. “Nae when there’s more truth to uncover. Seems there’s more rot in yer halls than even ye imagined.”
Rhys didn’t dare look at her. Not yet.
“Speak plainly,” he barked.
Callan’s smirk widened. “I would’ve thought ye’d figured it out by now. I dinnae ken the truth meself — well, nae until yer sweet cousin paid me a visit… six years ago, or so.”
“Finn?”
“Oh aye, Finn, the master strategizer.”
Rhys finally dared a glance at Amara. She stood silent, her face pale and stunned.
Callan continued. “He told me six years ago what I should’ve kent all along. That she’s never been a Murdoch. That her maither —”
Rhys’s voice cracked like thunder. “Say another word about her, and I’ll gut ye.”
Callan ignored him. “— was beddin’ yer councilman behind closed doors. Leighton, I believe it was, but it was probably more than just him. Couldnae manage to keep her legs closed.”
Rhys staggered back a half step, stunned. The sword tip dropped slightly.
He relished.
Rhys turned toward Amara fully now. Her face had gone utterly blank. The color gone from her lips. She looked as if she might crumple to the stone floor.
Callan shrugged. “Why do ye think she was always so soft-spoken? So gentle? She never had a Murdoch’s fire. But now it makes sense, does it nae? She was never mine. Did just as that one did, right when she arrived at O’Donnell Keep — open her legs,” he pointed a crooked finger at Amara.
Rhys’s eyes flashed between Callan’s and Amara’s. She looked like she was going to be sick.
He straightened, and caught Amara’s hand and squeezed.
“Enough,” he said, voice hoarse. “Come. We’ll ride back, and ask Finn and Leighton ourselves.”
Callan chuckled darkly. “If he’s still alive.”
Rhys whipped around. “What?”
“Oh, aye,” Callan said easily. “Finn sent word ahead of yer arrival,” his eyes flashed over to the parchment that rested on the ground beside his chair. “Warnin’ me ye were comin’.”
Rhys’s blood turned to ice.
Amara gasped. “Nay — Finn wouldnae —”
Callan cut her off. “Ye think yer cousin hasnae already started? This plan has been in place for months. Ye think he waited around for yer word, O’Donnell? While ye’ve been out here huntin’ for closure, yer castle’s probably already in flames.”
The words slammed into Rhys like a blade.
The forest ambush. Finn’s strange behavior. His absence. The way he’d slithered back into the keep like a ghost, offering no explanation.
It all fit.
Too well.
“Ye’re lyin’,” he said, but it didn’t sound like truth. It sounded like desperation.
Callan raised his brows. “Am I?”
Rhys stepped forward again, raising his sword.
Callan didn’t flinch.
“Killing me will cost ye more than ye think,” he said, low and triumphant. “Ye waste time here while yer people bleed… while yer daughter… bleeds. While yer walls fall. All for this wretch learnin’ the truth about her sinner of a maither. Finn was right to doubt ye. Ye're weak.”
Rhys’s sword pressed forward ever so slightly. He wanted to strike. To silence that filthy mouth, and gut him like the rabid dog he was.
But behind him, Amara’s fingers trembled in his.
“Rhys,” she said softly. “Please.”
And that was what did it.
He looked at her and saw the pain etched deep in her expression. The way her shoulders shook. The way her eyes begged him not to become the same kind of monster who had tried to destroy her.
He pulled his blade back.
Not out of mercy, but somehow, out of restraint.
Then he turned to Amara.
“We’re goin’,” he said, grabbing her hand again. “Now.”
She followed without protest. Her fingers wrapped tight around his.
They ran through the hall, past the broken goblet, past the spilled wine, past the stone that once held her childhood.
And out into the dusk.
The wind had picked up.
The horses waited where they’d been tied, and Rhys was already lifting her onto the saddle before his mind caught up to the horror of what they’d just learned.
Finn. His blood. His brother in all but name.
And Leighton…
He mounted his own horse and turned toward the path. Riding for O’Donnell Keep.