Chapter Five
The late-morning sunlight in the courtyard struck Destiny like a blow after the gloom of the dungeon below.
She blinked against it, her senses still jangling, her heart thudding as though it had not yet realised the danger had passed.
Cameron walked beside her, close but not touching, his stride measured, his shoulders rigid with a tension she could not name.
She struggled to match his pace, feeling oddly unsteady, as though the ground itself had shifted beneath her feet.
She had spent her life learning how to survive men like her father, men whose affection was conditional, whose demands were sharp-edged and unyielding.
Cameron Munro was supposed to be worse. He was known as the Butcher.
A man who crushed enemies without mercy.
And yet the man walking beside her now had not raised his voice when she pressed the issue of comforting the prisoner.
He had not even rebuked her. The absence of what she had expected left her strangely unmoored.
He stopped beneath the shadow of a high stone wall and turned to face her.
His dark eyes searched her face with a careful, measuring curiosity.
“You did not flinch,” he said at last. “Not on the road. Not before the altar. Not when I took you into the dungeon and not while interacting with one of your attackers.”
The words were not an accusation. They were an observation.
Destiny’s breath caught.
She had not known she was being watched so closely. “I did not know I was meant to,” she admitted, her voice quieter than she intended. “Everything happened so quickly. The journey, the vows . . . there was no time to prepare myself for what came after.”
Cameron studied her. “Most women would have looked away,” he said. “Or waited for me to speak. You did neither.”
She clasped her hands together, unsure where to rest them. “I have spent my life learning how to endure what comes without warning,” she said. “Waiting has never been an option.”
For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze lingered on her face, thoughtful now rather than guarded. “You walked into the dungeon today as though it already belonged to you,” he said slowly. “As though you understood what it meant to stand there.”
“Nothing could be farther from the truth,” Destiny said softly. “But I knew I could not turn away. If I am to be mistress of this place, then I must see this castle and all that happens within it. Even the parts that frighten me.”
Something shifted in his expression then. Not approval. Not challenge. Recognition. He stepped back, granting her space instead of claiming it, and the restraint unsettled her more than any show of dominance might have. She had expected command. Correction. Perhaps even judgement.
Instead, he seemed to be considering her.
“Come,” he said quietly. “There is more you must learn.” He motioned her to follow him across the courtyard.
She followed, realising that whatever she had braced herself for in this marriage, it had not been this—a husband who watched, listened, and waited, leaving her uncertain not of her place, but of him.
After a tour of the outbuildings in the castle’s courtyard, Cameron led her back inside the keep and up a winding stair, their footsteps echoing on stone.
Destiny’s pulse quickened with every step, her palms damp beneath her borrowed tartan wrap.
She knew where he was taking her, and dread tangled with something far more dangerous. Anticipation.
They entered a broad chamber at the top of the keep. Sunlight filtered through narrow windows, catching on the carved oak of a great bed hung with heavy tartan drapes. A fire crackled in the hearth, banishing the morning chill. The room smelled of lavender and clean linen.
Her breath caught. The marriage bed.
Cameron stopped near the hearth and turned to her. His eyes lingered on her face, sharp and unreadable. “This is the master’s chamber. It is yours now.”
The weight of his words pressed on her chest. Hers. As though this fortress of stone, this towering bed, this man, all belonged to her.
She forced her arms tighter around herself, shielding the quiver in her stomach. “And you?” she asked, her voice thinner than she liked.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the snap of the fire.
He stepped closer, enough that the heat of him curled around her.
His gaze dipped to her mouth, then back to her eyes, and her body betrayed her with a flutter low in her belly.
She hated that she wanted him to close that inch, even as she wanted to shove him away.
“You will sleep here,” he said evenly. “I will not force what you do not give. Until you are ready, until you ask, I will take my rest in another chamber.”
Destiny blinked, startled. She had steeled herself for demand, for possession, for the claim of a man who had every right by law and clan. Instead, he offered restraint. It unsettled her more than force would have.
“Until I ask?” she repeated, wary.
His mouth curved, not into a smile but something close. “Aye. When the day comes when you need me here, you will say so. Until then, I will not again cross that threshold.”
Relief rushed through her, sharp and dizzying, but it did not come alone. Something else stirred beneath it—unease, curiosity, a faint ache she did not yet trust herself to examine. She had expected ownership. Possession.
Instead, he offered choice. “You assume I ever will,” she whispered.
Cameron’s eyes held hers, steady, dark, full of secrets she could not read. “I do not assume,” he said softly. “I only wait.”
The words left her breathless. She turned away, pretending to study the fire, but every inch of her body still thrummed with awareness of him, of the man who had claimed her, yet chose not to take what was rightfully his.
Behind her, his boots shifted. “I will see to the men. Sorcha will remain with you.” His voice was quieter now, almost gentle. “Rest, Destiny. This is your home, whether you welcome it yet or not.”
And then he was gone, the door closing with a soft thud, leaving her alone in the chamber.
Destiny stood for a long moment after Cameron’s departure, listening to the quiet crackle of the fire while her thoughts tangled and spun.
Relief came first, it could not be denied, but it did not come alone.
It arrived trailing questions she had never expected to ask.
Cameron Munro was not the man she had braced herself for.
He was not her father, not demanding, not bent on proving his power through force.
Yet what he was remained unclear, and that uncertainty unsettled her more than certainty ever could have.
The name Butcher still echoed in her mind; a shadow she did not dare dismiss.
And yet, for the first time in her life, she wondered if she might be allowed to discover the truth of a man for herself, rather than accept the shape others had given him.
The thought left her uneasy, and quietly curious.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the fire.
Relief still pulsed through her, but beneath it lay a dull ache she could no longer ignore.
With a soft sound of frustration, she leaned back against the lavender-scented coverlet and fixed her gaze on the carved beams overhead.
Her thoughts scattered like leaves caught in a restless wind.
He had spared her the humiliation she had expected. He had not claimed her body as his right, had not forced her into a wedding night. For that, she was grateful.
And yet.
Her skin still tingled where his gaze had lingered, where his warmth had brushed her in the hall, where his hand had briefly enclosed hers before the altar.
Heat crept into her cheeks. She clenched the coverlet in her fists, angry with herself for the traitorous stirrings she could not quiet.
She had been sold into this marriage to settle her father’s debts.
Cameron had taken her life as payment. By every measure she understood, he should have been her enemy.
And yet her heart had leapt at the curve of his mouth, the steadiness of his voice, the contained strength with which he carried himself. She could not decide whether she wanted to push him away for unsettling her so thoroughly or touch him for the same reason.
She rolled onto her side, the emptiness of the bed pressing in around her. Her father had abandoned her to this fate, but Cameron had not staked his claim. He had walked away instead, leaving her restless, shaken, and longing for something she swore she should not want.
Her thoughts returned again and again to the promise in his eyes. Until you are ready. Until you ask.
A shiver traced her spine. As the minutes slipped by, she found herself wondering, not if, but how long she would last before the words escaped her.
Unable to lie still any longer, Destiny rose and crossed to the window, throwing it open as she had the night before.
Cool air rushed in, sharp and clean, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in her chest. She sat on the narrow bench, the hem of her wedding gown pooling at her feet.
She should have changed into something simpler, but instead she stared out into the courtyard below.
The castle bustled with life; footsteps echoed, distant laughter drifted upward, gardeners bent over flowerbeds while stable hands soothed restless horses. Watching them, Destiny felt suddenly exposed, as though even here, alone, unseen, she were being measured, observed, wondered over.
Not yet a Munro, in truth. Not yet certain of the man she had married. But no longer willing to look away.
Before she could lose herself in this anxious reverie, the door creaked open, and Sorcha stepped in, steady, unobtrusive, familiar.
Destiny smiled. “You are here.”
Sorcha shut the door behind her, then moved to stand a few paces away. “I came as soon as they would let me,” she said simply.
Destiny’s throat went dry.