“I’m sure of it. The pieces don’t fit the official version of events.”
We reach the top of a small hill, and the loch stretches out before us, perfectly still—like a mirror reflecting the sky. The old stone shelter stands nearby, half-covered in moss.
“There,” I say, pointing.
“Want to check it out?”
The shelter is largerthan it looked from afar—dry inside, with a worn wooden bench and table. The stone walls are etched with decades of carved initials.
I stand there, suddenly very aware of how close we are in the confined space.
“You know,” Alistair says, looking out at the loch, “I’m starting to wonder if our… arrangement… was meant to happen.”
My heart stumbles into that now-familiar waltz.
“What do you mean?”
He turns to me, his gaze intense—the same look he had last night by the fire.
“I mean… maybe our families were always meant to be connected. Maybe the rivalry is just a misunderstanding that’s lasted too long.”
“Alistair…”
“And maybe,” he continues, stepping a little closer, “you and I are just fixing something that broke a long time ago.”
The air between us shifts—charged, electric. This isn’t about our fake engagement anymore. This is something far more dangerous.
“You really believe that?”
“Yes.”
He takes my hand. I don’t pull away. His fingers lace with mine, gentle and sure, and something inside me melts.
Then, suddenly, the sky darkens and rain starts drumming against the roof.
“Of course,” I mutter, trying to steady my voice.
“At least we’re under shelter this time,” he says with a soft smile.
The rain intensifies, turning the world outside into a curtain of water. We’re trapped again—but this time, it feels different. More intimate. More charged.
Alistair tightens his hold on my hand.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
His arm slips around my shoulders, and I lean into him without thinking. His warmth wraps around me, his scent—cedar and Highland air—filling my senses.
“Better?” he murmurs.
“Much.”
We stay like that, listening to the rain. The moment slowly shifts, soft and dangerous all at once—his hand in my hair, the way he looks at me when I tilt my head up…
“Keira,” he says, voice rough.
“Yes?”
