Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I've lost control.
The thought of hurting Isabelle twisted in his gut, old memories clawing at his chest like ghosts he’d never truly buried. His father’s voice still echoed from the past, cruel and cold, reminding him of the monster blood that ran through his veins.
“What if I’m nae any better?” he muttered to himself, eyes fixed on the window in his study.
If she carried his child now… the thought made his heart lurch, not from fear of fatherhood but of what he might pass down—his temper, his shadow, his sins.
He stood abruptly, pushing back his chair. The air in the study felt too thick, too heavy to breathe.
He needed to clear his head. He needed space. And so, Declan left the study, striding down the stone corridors toward the barracks.
The sound of steel clashing in the training yard greeted him, the smell of sweat and leather grounding him for the first time that day.
Killian was there, barking orders at two younger guards before spotting Declan.
“Me Laird,” Killian called, straightening as he approached, a knowing grin creeping over his weathered face. “Ye look like a man who’s nae had a peaceful morn.”
Declan snorted. “Aye, ye might say that. I’ll be sleepin’ here the night.”
Killian’s brows shot up, grin widening. “Och, trouble with the missus, is it? Did Lady McCallum finally toss ye out of yer own chamber?”
Declan gave him a sharp look, though his mouth twitched despite himself.
“Watch yer tongue, Killian, or I’ll have ye cleanin’ stables ’till the next season. I simply thought to spend some time with me men, show camaraderie.”
Killian laughed, clearly unconvinced. “Aye, camaraderie. I’ve heard it called worse, me Laird . Will ye be wantin’ ale brought out then? I cannae imagine the men refusin’ such noble reason for drink.”
Declan nodded. “Bring out the caskets of ale. Have long tables set up outside. The men deserve a night to unwind. They’ve earned it.”
Killian clapped him on the shoulder, his grin softening into something more genuine.
“Aye, that they have. Ye’ve been ridin’ them hard since the bandit attacks began. A night by the fires will raise their spirits.”
As the day waned and the sun bled into the horizon, the barracks courtyard came alive with the sounds of laughter and the clatter of mugs.
Great casks of ale were rolled out, tapped, and poured until the air smelled of barley and smoke.
Long tables were laden with roasted fish, thick rounds of bread, wheels of cheese, and steaming bowls of stew.
Pheasants turned on spits above open flames, their skins crisping to a perfect golden brown.
The men crowded the tables, their laughter echoing across the yard. Guards who had once stood silent and stoic now roared with cheer, their faces flushed from ale and warmth.
A few lads took up fiddles, filling the air with lively tunes. Declan stood among them, mug in hand, feeling the burn of whisky down his throat chase away the weight that had followed him all day.
For a while, he forgot the ache in his chest. Forgot the storm of doubt that had plagued him. He let the laughter and the light wash over him, the camaraderie grounding him as it always had in the days of battle.
He was one of them before he was their laird—a fighter, a man who had clawed his way from ruin.
Killian nudged him as he downed another mug. “Ye ken, me Laird , it’s good to see ye drink and feast with the men. It’s been far too long since we’ve had a night like this on castle grounds.”
Declan grinned, a rare sight that drew cheers from the men who caught it.
He raised his mug high. “Aye, it’s been too long.” His voice carried over the chatter, and soon the yard quieted, all eyes turning to him.
He stepped closer to the fire, the flames dancing in his eyes.
“Listen well, lads,” he began, his tone booming but warm. “Tonight’s nae just a night for drinkin’ and laughin’. Tonight’s for honourin’ each of ye who’s stood by me through every storm this clan’s faced.”
He glanced around the circle, his gaze steady, proud. “Ye’ve bled for this land, ye’ve fought for it, and ye’ve guarded its people when danger crept too near. I ken well what I ask of ye, it’s nae easy bein’ one of Clan McCallum’s men. But by the saints, ye’ve all made me proud to lead ye.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the group, men lifting their mugs in response.
Declan continued, his voice tightening with emotion he tried to mask behind his ale.
“These lands, this castle, the need for peace, it’s nae mine alone. It’s ours. Every inch of it has been earned by the sweat on yer brows and the strength in yer arms. So tonight, we drink nae for me, the Laird, but for ye, the men who keep this house strong. For Clan McCallum!”
The men roared in response, mugs slamming against the tables.
“For Clan McCallum!” they echoed, their voices rising like thunder.
Declan raised his drink high once more and took a deep swig, the burn in his throat a welcome fire as he drank the entire contents of his cup to his men's approval.
Cheers burst around the yard again. Declan barked a laugh, shaking his head.
“Aye, aye, enough of that foolishness. Drink up before I start makin’ ye train sober come dawn!”
The men howled in protest and laughter, diving back into their mugs. Music rose again, rough voices singing songs of the Highlands, of victories and homecomings.
“’Tis a good night,” Declan leaned back on the bench, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he watched his men, his family, celebrate.
For the first time in days, his heart felt lighter. And yet, as the night deepened and the stars began to pierce the dark sky, his thoughts drifted unbidden to Isabelle.
Her smile. Her touch. The way her eyes had softened when she’d told him she was ready to trust him, and now, that trust she put in him sat like a rock on his shoulders.
He took another drink, trying to chase her from his mind. But he remembered the sting of words from his father that cut deeper than any blade and the drunken rage that had ruled. He’d sworn all his life he would never become that man, but the thought of an heir, his child, terrified him.
What if the darkness that lives in me blood finds its way into the next generation ?
Declan dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. He could still feel Isabelle’s touch from the night before, soft and trusting, her eyes full of warmth he didn’t deserve. She made him weak.
Around her, he lost the control that had defined him all these years, and that frightened him most of all. He took another long pull from his mug, wishing he could drink away the weight pressing against his ribs.
“Ye look like a man fightin’ demons, me Laird . The ale’s strong, but nae strong enough to drown that look in yer eye.” Killian’s voice broke through his thoughts.
The man dropped down beside him on the bench, a half-grin on his face though his tone was measured.
“What’s gnawin’ at ye? Ye’ve been broodin’ all day.”
“If I told ye, Killian, ye’d think me mad.”
Killian snorted. “Och, I’ve thought ye mad for years. Tell me somethin’ new.”
Declan turned the mug in his hands, watching the firelight ripple through the amber liquid.
“It’s Isabelle,” he admitted finally, his voice slurring slightly from the drink. “Every time I look at her, I… I lose meself. I try to hold back, to be gentle, but it’s like fire runnin’ through me veins. I cannae trust it. I cannae trust me.”
Killian’s grin faded as he studied his friend. “Ye’re worried ye’ll hurt her.”
Declan nodded slowly.
“Aye. That, and more. If we… if the marriage brings a bairn, I dinnae ken if I can be the kind of faither one deserves. I’ve seen what happens when a man loses control, Killian. I lived it.” His voice grew rougher, quieter. “I’ll nae damn another soul to that.”
For a long moment, Killian said nothing. The fire cracked, and laughter drifted from the far end of the gathered men, but the silence between them felt heavy.
Finally, Killian exhaled through his nose and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Ye’re nae yer faither, me Laird . Saints above, I wish ye’d stop thinkin’ ye are.”
Declan gave a bitter laugh. “Aye? How can ye be sure?”
“Because I knew the man,” Killian said sharply, eyes narrowing. “He was cruel to the bone, aye, but ye’ve got somethin’ he never did. Restraint. Ye protect, nae destroy. Yer own brother, Tristan, was proof of that bloodline’s redemption, and so are ye.”
Declan stiffened at the mention of his brother’s name. “Leave Tristan out of this.”
Killian shook his head stubbornly. “Nay, I willnae. Tristan was a good man, and so are ye. Ye just refuse to see it. Ye treat Tristan’s wee bairns as yer own and with more tenderness than most men treat their own wee ones . That’s nae a monster, Declan; that’s a man who loves.”
Declan’s jaw clenched, and he slammed his mug onto the table with a dull thud.
“Enough.” His tone was sharp though there was no malice in it, only exhaustion. “Stick to bein’ me man-at-arms, Killian. I dinnae need counsel on how to tend to me family.”
Killian arched a brow, his voice low and edged with frustration. “Is that what ye think this is? Counsel?”
He stood, the firelight glinting off his hair.
“Nay, Laird. This is me speakin’ as a man and as a friend.
A friend who’s watched ye grow from a wild lad to a leader worth followin’.
I’ve seen ye bleed, fight, and damn near break yerself for this clan.
If I speak out of turn, it’s because I’m proud to serve ye, and I dinnae want to see ye ruin somethin’ good because of ghosts that should’ve been buried long ago. ”
Declan’s eyes flickered upward, regret warring with pride, but his stubbornness held fast.
“Go on, then,” he muttered. “Leave me to me sulkin’ as ye call it.”
Killian huffed out a short laugh though it carried no humour this time. “Aye, I will. Ye’re a hard-headed laird, but I’ll nae stand here wastin’ words on deaf ears. When ye’re ready to stop punishin’ yerself for crimes that were never yers, ye ken where to find me.”
With that, Killian turned and walked away, his heavy boots crunching over the dirt.
Declan watched him go, the weight of his friend’s words lingering like smoke. The fire popped and hissed beside him, the last of its flames shrinking into glowing embers.
Around him, the laughter of his men began to fade as the night deepened and the ale wore thin.
He hadn’t meant to drive Killian off, but the truth was too raw, too close to the bone. He’d spent years building a fortress around his heart, and Isabelle had walked right through the gates. That kind of power frightened him more than any blade or enemy ever had.
If he drew closer, he’d lose control of his restraint, of his fears, of everything that kept him from becoming the man he loathed.
But the thought of pulling away made his chest ache.
He could still remember the way she’d whispered his name in the dark, trembling not with fear but with longing.
He had never known anything so pure, so disarming.
To deny her affection now felt like cutting away a piece of himself, yet he saw no other way to keep her safe.
“Better she hates me than suffer for lovin’ me,” he murmured under his breath. The words burned as they left him, but he believed them.
Tomorrow, he would begin the distance. He would speak less, touch less, feel less, whatever it took to keep his demons from touching her light. Yet even as he made the vow, his heart rebelled, aching for her warmth.
“God help me,” he whispered to the night. “I cannae stay away from her forever.” But he knew come morning, he’d try.