Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Awhole day, an entire damned day, and there was still no sign of Freya. No tracks. No messages. No ransom demands. Just… nothing.
His jaw clenched as he turned toward the men gathered before him.
His guards stood in rigid silence, their expressions taut with unease.
They had searched the castle grounds, the village, the forests beyond, even the abandoned crofts along the river—but it was as if Freya had vanished into thin air.
A cold fury surged through him, barely held in check. He had been patient. He had given them time. But patience had won him nothing.
“How in God’s name does a person disappear without a trace?” he demanded. His gaze swept over the guards, each of them shifting under the weight of his anger. “Ye combed the grounds, aye? The roads, the hills, the bloody lochs? And yet ye tell me there’s naught? Nae a whisper? Nae a sign?”
Silence.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.
“Our efforts are all useless,” he muttered, raking a hand through his dark hair. He wasn’t just angry. He was… afraid. And he despised that fear.
Freya was smart. She was fierce. She would fight. But if no one had seen or heard anything, it meant whoever had taken her had planned this well. Too well.
“We search again,” he ordered, his voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “We search till there’s nothin’ left to search. If ye have to tear apart every last cottage, every barn, every stretch of land, then ye bloody well do it.”
He turned away from them, his hands braced on the edge of the long wooden table. His knuckles were white, his mind racing. This wasn’t a simple disappearance. This was a warning. A challenge.
Michael exhaled sharply, forcing himself to rein in his temper before he turned to face the doorway. Marissa, Abigail, and Cody stood just beyond the threshold, with their faces pale in the dim torchlight.
The girls looked hesitant, as they had their hands clasped tightly in front of them. Even Cody, as of late brimming with youthful arrogance, had lost his usual bravado. His shoulders were rigid, his mouth drawn into a tight line, as though he was bracing for the worst.
“Any news?” Marissa asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Michael’s chest tightened, but he shook his head. “Naythin’ yet.” He forced the words out evenly, though he despised saying them. “We’re still searchin’.”
Abigail’s lips parted, and for a moment, he thought she might say something, but she only nodded.
Cody shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest in a poor attempt at appearing composed.
But Michael saw the tension in his posture.
He saw the way his jaw clenched too tightly, the way his gaze darted toward the floor before forcing itself back up again.
Fear. They were all afraid.
Michael swallowed hard, feeling an unfamiliar weight settle in his chest. He was no stranger to battle, to threats, to loss, but comforting others? That was never his role. He had always been the one to take action, not offer empty reassurances.
Still, he could not ignore the way they looked to him now. Expecting something. Hoping for something.
“She’s strong,” he said, his voice quieter now, steadier. “Freya will nae go down without a fight. And neither will I.” His gaze flicked between them, holding each of theirs in turn. “We’ll find her.”
It was not warmth. It was not the kind of gentle reassurance others might have offered. But it was the truth, spoken with cold certainty.
Marissa and Abigail exchanged a glance before nodding, some of the tension in their shoulders easing, if only slightly. Cody swallowed hard, then gave a single, curt nod.
Michael turned back toward the map spread across the table, his hands braced on either side of it. He did not look up as he spoke again.
“Go get some rest. When I have news, ye’ll be the first to hear it.”
There was a long silence before the soft shuffle of footsteps retreating down the hall. When the door closed behind them, Michael let out a slow breath, pressing his fingers against his temples.
He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t stand the confines of stone walls and flickering torchlight while Freya was out there, alone and taken away from him. Every moment wasted felt like another step further away from finding her.
He shoved away from the table and strode toward the door. The guards flinched slightly as he passed, but none dared question him. They knew better.
Outside, the night air bit at his skin, sharp and cold, but he barely noticed.
The castle grounds stretched out before him, cloaked in darkness.
There was only the faint glow of torches along the walls breaking through the night.
He took in the landscape: the stables, the tree line, the winding path leading down to the river.
Where the hell had they taken her?
His boots struck hard against the frozen earth as he moved toward the willow tree, the last place she had been seen. The branches swayed in the wind, casting eerie shadows but there was nothing else. Just the same cursed emptiness as before.
Michael crouched, his fingers grazing over the damp ground, in search of anything the others might have missed. A scrap of fabric. A trampled patch of grass. A mark in the soil that didn’t belong.
But there was nothing.
His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.
This was wrong. People did not just vanish. Freya did not just vanish.
He exhaled harshly, rising to his feet. The silence around him felt suffocating.
Where are ye, Freya?
Freya’s wrists burned, the rough rope biting into her skin no matter how carefully she twisted against it. Hours had passed. How many… she couldn’t say.
There were no windows in the small, suffocating cottage, only the dim flicker of a candle left burning on the crooked table across the room. The wax had melted nearly to the base. That meant time was slipping away.
Her throat was raw from earlier shouting, her body stiff from being bound for too long. She refused to cry. Refused to break. Leighton wanted her afraid, weak, desperate. But she was none of those things.
“Freya, ye need to think,” she urged herself. “Ye need to find a way out this.”
Freya shifted slightly, testing the bindings again. They were tight. Too tight. But she hadn’t stopped moving since he left. She hadn’t stopped pushing against them in slow, measured increments, ignoring the fire in her muscles.
Then she felt it.
A small, sharp edge beneath her fingers. Barely there. Almost nothing.
Her heart pounded as she stilled, and her breath was coming quicker now. Carefully, she twisted her wrist, as fingers stretched and strained. It was rough. Splintered. A jagged piece of wood sticking out from the headboard.
Hope flared through her chest.
Slowly, she maneuvered her bound hands, inching the rope over the splinter, feeling it scrape against the fibers. It wasn’t enough. She pressed harder, wincing as the wood bit into her skin. Blood slicked her fingers, but she didn’t stop.
She couldn’t stop.
Her pulse roared in her ears as she worked, sawing against the rope with every ounce of patience she had left. Footsteps outside made her freeze, breath catching in her throat. She listened, as her body tensed even more.
“I’ve waited long enough,” she suddenly heard voices. “The bastard deserves it.”
A second voice, rougher, older was also heard. “Ye sure this is the way? Stealin’ his woman? He’ll tear the world apart to get her back.”
Freya’s heart pounded.
“Aye,” Leighton replied. “And that’s exactly what I want. Let him come. Let him rage. By the time he finds her, it’ll be too late. He’ll ken he cannae protect what’s his. He’ll ken what it is to lose.”
The other man grunted. “And what if she doesnae break? What if she fights ye?”
A dark chuckle exploded right in front of the door, almost as if he wanted her to hear him. “Let her. It’ll be all the sweeter for me.”
Freya’s blood ran cold, but she clenched her fists. He wanted her afraid. He wanted her broken. He would get neither.
Then they moved away again.
A shaky exhale left her lips. She kept going.
The rope was fraying. She could feel it weakening, the tension beginning to give. Almost. Just a little more.
Then, snap. The binding gave way.
Freya sucked in a sharp breath, her arms trembling as she wrenched them free, pain flaring through her stiff limbs. She had no time to recover. No time to rest.
She scrambled upright, her legs still tied, but her mind was already racing. She needed a weapon. She needed a plan.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she yanked the last of the rope from her ankles, ignoring the sting where it had rubbed her skin raw. She had no time for pain either.
She slid off the bed carefully, her legs stiff from being bound for so long.
The room was small. The walls pressed in on her, the air thick and stale grabbing her by the throat like a talon of fear.
There was little furniture beyond the rickety wooden table, a single chair, and a worn-out trunk near the far wall.
Her gaze darted around, searching. She needed something that could be used as a weapon.
The candle flickered weakly on the table, its melted wax dripping down the side. Useless. Too fragile. Her eyes landed on the chair. Too big, too cumbersome. The trunk? She rushed to it, lifting the lid with shaky fingers. Inside, nothing but tattered blankets and an old bottle of whisky.
Damn it.
She wasn’t prone to cursing, but these were extraordinary circumstances. Very extraordinary. Her frustration nearly swallowed her whole, but she forced herself to focus. There had to be something.
Then she saw it.
A rusty fire poker leaned against the stone hearth in the corner. Its iron tip was obviously dulled with age but still sharp enough to do damage.
Freya wasted no time. She lunged for it, her fingers curling around the cold metal, her grip tightening despite the way her hands trembled. It was heavier than she expected, also unbalanced, but she adjusted her hold, testing the weight.
Good enough.
She couldn’t resist smiling to herself.
She turned toward the door, heart hammering. Leighton thought she was weak. Thought she’d be lying there, helpless, waiting for him to decide her fate.
He was wrong.
She gritted her teeth, tightening her grip on the poker. If he came through that door, she’d make damn sure he regretted it.
Freya pressed herself against the wall, gripping the fire poker so tightly her knuckles ached. The only sound in the cottage was the unsteady rhythm of her own breathing. She strained to listen, but the silence outside was endless, stretching into what felt like an eternity.
Then, she heard the sound of oncoming footsteps.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The sound was steady, unhurried. Confident. It could only be him.
It all happened in an instant. The latch clicked, and the door creaked open. Freya didn’t think. She moved. With all the strength she had, she swung the poker in a sharp, vicious arc, aiming for his head.
Leighton wasn’t expecting her to fight back. His eyes widened in shock as he barely jerked away in time. The iron tip whistled past his face, missing him by a hair.
“Ye little—” he snarled, but Freya had no intention of letting him recover. She wrenched the poker back, preparing to swing again.
Leighton’s reflexes immediately caught up with him. His hand shot out, grabbing hold of the iron. The cold metal burned between them as they pushed and pulled, locked in a desperate struggle.
Freya gritted her teeth, trying to rip it from his grasp, but he was stronger. He yanked it hard, nearly jerking her off balance. She didn’t hesitate. Instead of fighting for the poker, she let it go.
Leighton stumbled back a step, caught off guard by the sudden release. It was all she needed. She spun and bolted for the open door.
The cold night air hit her like a slap as she burst through the door, her bare feet barely feeling the rough dirt beneath them. She didn’t know where she was running. She only knew that she had to go.
“Freya!” Leighton’s furious roar split the night behind her.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could hear him as his heavy boots pound against the ground, chasing her into the darkness.