Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Michael pushed open the door to his son’s chamber, the faint glow of a single candle lighting the room. Cody was tucked under a mound of blankets, his small wooden soldiers scattered across the bedside table. The boy’s wide, eager eyes lit up as soon as he saw his father.
“Da,” Cody said, sitting up slightly. “I cannae fall asleep. Will ye read to me?”
Michael’s tension eased at the sight of his son, though the weight of his thoughts remained. “Aye, lad. Which one tonight?”
Cody grinned, his small hands clutching the edge of the blanket. “The story of the healer and the dragon,” he said. “It’s me favorite.”
Michael’s lips twitched into a faint smile.
Of course, it was. Cody had always loved that tale, with its themes of kindness and redemption.
He reached for the worn leather-bound book on the table, its pages soft with age and frequent use.
Sitting beside the bed, he opened it to the familiar first lines.
“Once, in a land far away, there lived a mighty dragon,” Michael began, his deep voice steady as it filled the quiet room.
Cody leaned closer, his eyes wide with anticipation, even though he knew the story by heart.
Michael read on, the tale of the healer who discovered the wounded dragon in a cave. The beast, fearsome and scarred, had been shunned by the villagers, but the healer saw beyond its monstrous exterior. She tended to its wounds, her patience and care softening the dragon’s gruff demeanor.
As Michael’s voice filled the room, his mind wandered, intertwining the story with his own life. The healer reminded him of Freya, of her gentleness, her unwavering commitment to help, even when it required strength others might not see.
And the dragon… Michael paused for a moment as the words hit him differently tonight.
The dragon was a man cursed by a wicked witch, turned into a beast for his arrogance and unkindness. The healer’s kindness not only healed his wounds but also broke the curse, revealing the man he once was.
“And so,” Michael read, his voice softening as he glanced at Cody, who was beginning to blink sleepily, “the healer’s courage and compassion restored the dragon to his true self. A man, nay longer a monster, and forever grateful to the healer who saved him.”
Cody’s small voice interrupted, thick with drowsiness. “Da, do ye think... people can be dragons too? Cursed, I mean?”
Michael looked at his son, his throat tightening. “Aye, lad. I think sometimes folk carry burdens that make them seem... different from what they truly are. But the right person can help them see themselves again.”
Cody nodded, his head sinking back against the pillow. “Freya’s like the healer,” he mumbled, his words slurring as sleep overtook him. “She keeps us all safe.”
Michael’s chest ached at his son’s innocent words. He reached out, smoothing the boy’s hair back from his forehead. “Sleep well, Cody,” he whispered, closing the book quietly and setting it aside.
For a long moment, he sat there, watching his son’s chest rise and fall with the steady rhythm of sleep. Cody was his anchor, his reason for everything. And now, Freya had become a part of that world, weaving herself into their lives in a way that felt both natural and unsettling.
Leaving the room, Michael closed the door gently behind him and returned to his own chamber. The quiet of the castle pressed in on him, and his thoughts turned once again to Freya.
He lay down, staring at the darkened ceiling, the story still fresh in his mind. The dragon had been cursed, not born a monster. The healer had seen the man beneath, even when no one else did.
Michael’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t a dragon, but there were times when he felt like one—hardened, scarred, and alone.
If Freya saw him as a beast, why did she come to him tonight?
And if she didn’t, why couldn’t he shake the fear that she might leave, taking the light she’d brought into his world with her?
Instead of to his chamber, he went to his study, yearning for a drink. He poured himself a measure of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight as it swirled in the glass. The weight of the day pressed down upon him.
Michael sank into the worn leather armchair by the fire, cradling the glass in his hand. He stared into the flames, their restless dance mirroring the storm of his own thoughts. A faint knock at the door pulled him from his reverie.
“Enter,” he answered gruffly.
The door creaked open and Brodie stepped inside.
“I thought I’d check on ye, me laird,” Brodie said in his usually casual tone of voice that endeavored to hide concern, but rarely managed to do so.
Michael gestured at the sideboard where the whiskey decanter rested. “Pour yerself a drink if ye’re stayin’.”
Brodie obliged, fetching a second glass and filling it, before taking the chair opposite Michael. He raised his glass slightly in a silent toast before taking a sip.
“Tell me somethin’, Brodie… Have ye ever thought me a monster?”
Brodie froze mid-sip, evidently surprised at the question. “A monster, me laird?” he echoed, disbelief clear in his tone.
Michael’s gaze remained fixed on the fire. “Aye. I’ve ruled with a strong hand, sometimes harsher than I might have wished. There are those who might say I’ve done more harm than good.”
Brodie leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I’ve served ye a long time, me laird. Seen what ye’ve done, the choices ye had to make. Nae once have I thought ye a monster.”
That was when Michael turned his head slightly. His eyes narrowed in search of any hint of dishonesty. “Even when I’ve had to raise me hand against me own? Against those who wouldnae follow?”
Brodie’s gaze was unwavering. “Ye’ve always done what needed doin’. A laird who cannae lead with strength is nay laird at all. But strength without justice? That’s what makes a man a monster. And ye’ve never crossed that line.”
Michael took a long sip of whiskey, the burn doing little to dull the edge of his doubts. “Justice…” he repeated, almost to himself. “Sometimes I wonder if me justice hasnae been too sharp.”
“Aye, yer justice is sharp,” Brodie agreed. “But it’s fair. Ye daenae take a life or make a choice without weighin’ the cost first. That’s what sets ye apart.”
Although Brodie’s words didn’t erase the guilt Michael carried, it eased the burden, if only a little.
“Thank ye, Brodie,” Michael said. “For yer honesty, and for standin’ by me side all these years.”
Brodie smiled. “It’s been me honor, me laird. And it’ll continue to be as long as ye’ll have me.”
The two men continued to drink well into the night, after which Michael felt he would finally go to sleep, but it wasn’t restful slumber.
When the first light appeared, he rose, splashing cold water on his face from the basin and dressing quickly.
The household was still quiet, everyone likely just stirring, but Michael’s mind was already churning with purpose.
He made his way to the main hall, the sound of his boots echoing in the empty stone corridors. Brodie was at the hearth, stoking the fire. The man straightened at the sight of Michael, inclining his head.
“Me laird,” Brodie greeted.
“Gather the men,” Michael ordered, his voice low but firm. “I want every inch of this estate searched. The woods, the grounds, the cliffs—everythin’. Look for anythin’ out of place. Tracks, remnants of campfires, discarded belongings.”
Brodie frowned but nodded. “Ye think there’s still danger, me laird?”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “Aye. And I’ll nae be caught off guard again. This will become a regular mornin’ routine until I find the person responsible.”
Brodie hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ll see to it, me laird. The men’ll be ready within the hour.”
Michael gave a curt nod before turning toward the kitchens, his thoughts still a storm of unease.
He was preparing for the meeting with the council, who should be arriving at some point in the afternoon.
If things went as usual, it would be a meeting that would take hours of their time, but he didn’t mind.
There were matters that needed to be tended to, and he was impatient to sort everything out.
As he passed through the hallways, his steps slowed when he heard the soft lilt of voices coming from the small library.
Peering in, he found Freya with her sisters, seated close together at one of the long oak tables.
Freya’s dark hair was braided back, her fingers gently brushing over a page of notes in her lap.
Her voice carried a calm authority as she spoke to her sisters, her tone warm but deliberate.
He remembered the previous night, his entire body shuddering barely perceptibly upon the memory of her hands on his bare chest, of her eyes, so dark and unfathomable, of her trembling lips just waiting to be taken.
He swallowed heavily, lingering there, unnoticed. He wanted to keep it that way, so he turned around silently and continued to his study, where he remained concealed from everyone else.
By midday, the men had returned from their search and he met them in the grand hallway. Brodie reported no signs of intruders, no tracks or disturbances beyond what the storm had left behind. Michael stood on the front steps of the mansion, his arms crossed as he listened to the report.
“I daenae like it,” Michael muttered, his gaze sweeping over the sprawling estate. The woods loomed in the distance, bare and skeletal under the pale winter sun. “Whoever aimed that arrow, they were skilled enough to strike near us without bein’ seen. It’s nae a mistake.”
“Perhaps they’ve moved on,” Brodie offered, though his tone was uncertain.
“Perhaps,” Michael replied, though he didn’t believe it.
As the men dispersed, Michael remained on the steps, his mind churning. He could sense that the danger was far from over.