Behind him, the gates slammed shut.
Wind tore at his cloak, and rain struck his face, but he didn’t slow. The road north twisted through the moors, black mud rising in waves beneath the horse’s hooves.
Every stride echoed with the same thought.
Scarlett.
He rode harder.
Lightning split the sky, revealing the ridge ahead, the jagged outline of trees against the storm. Somewhere beyond that lay the old hunting hut Mack had used years ago.
Robert leaned low, urging the horse onward. The rain hit his face like a blade and he didn't slow for it.
The ridge was ahead. The trees. And somewhere past both, she was waiting.
The ropes burned Scarlett’s wrists each time she moved. She had struggled until her skin was raw, but the knots held firm. Mack’s handiwork, done with the care of a man who had spent too long imagining this moment.
The small hut stank of damp wood and spilled ale. Wind rattled the shutters, and the weak candlelight flickered with each gust.Mack paced back and forth, his boots thudding against the warped boards, muttering words that made little sense.
Scarlett forced herself to breathe. To look at the room properly. The door, the shutters, the ropes, Mack's pattern as he paced.
He'll come.
She knew that with a certainty that surprised her. But knowing it wasn't enough. She needed to still be in one piece when he did.
Her voice came out, quieter than she meant. “Mack. Ye can still stop this.”
He spun toward her, wild-eyed. “Stop? After what he did to me?” His laugh was sharp. “Nay, lass. There’s no stopping it now.” “He’ll kill ye,” she said flatly.
He barked a laugh and leaned close enough that she could smell the dram on his breath. “Ye think yer Laird so invincible? He bleeds the same as any man. And when he does, I’ll have what’s mine.”
Scarlett’s stomach twisted, but she held his gaze. “Ye’re delusional.”
“Delusional?” Mack’s smile stretched. “Ye were meant to be mine, Scarlett. Before him. Before his fancy titles and his damned charm. Do ye ken how it feels, watching him take everything?”
“Ye’re talking madness.”
His jaw flexed. “Madness is losing the life ye were promised. The land, the place, the lass.” His hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt. “He took ye to hurt me.”
Scarlett's voice softened though her pulse raced. "He took me for peace between clans, Mack. Nothing more. Whatever story ye've built in yer head, it isn't real."
He glared at her.
She kept going. "And even if it were, even if everything ye believe is true, what happens after? Ye kill him, and then what? His men ride ye down before morning. Ye've thought about that part, aye?"
Something crossed his face. Not doubt, not yet, but the ghost of it.
"It's real enough when he's dead," he said, but his voice had changed slightly.
Outside, thunder rolled across the hills.
Scarlett felt the chill of the night through the gaps in the walls. Her wrists had gone numb. She had worked at the knots until her fingers stopped cooperating.
She made herself be still. Listened past the wind for anything. A horse, a voice, boots in the mud.
He was coming. She was certain of it. She just needed to last long enough. She closed her eyes briefly, whispering a prayer she hadn’t spoken since childhood.
Hurry, Robert.
