“Ye speak of obedience as if ye’re trainin’ a hound, nae livin’ with a wife,” Mabel teased, crossing her arms. “Ye’ll scare her half to death if ye keep barkin’ orders like some hardened soldier.”
He grunted. “I dinnae bark, I command. And she best learn the difference if she means to live under this roof.”
Mabel shook her head with a sigh. “Och, Declan. Ye’ve the heart of a warrior but the sense of a mule. If ye want peace, ye’ll need to treat her very well.”
Declan rose, pacing to the window where the loch shimmered faintly in the moonlight. “She’s mine now. And whether she likes it or not, she’ll learn her place soon enough.”
“Or perhaps ye’ll learn yers,” Mabel said softly.
He turned, meeting her gaze, the firelight catching in his dark eyes. “I’ve nay lessons left to learn, sister. I’ve been through too much for that.”
“Aye, ye say that now, Declan Cain… but love’s a cruel tutor, and ye’ve only just opened yer book.”
Declan stood up, ignoring his sister’s words and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. The amber liquid caught the flicker of firelight as it sloshed in the glass. He took a long, deliberate sip, feeling the burn slide down his throat and settle like a slow flame in his chest. The quiet of the library wrapped around him, a familiar silence filled with the scent of leather-bound tomes, old parchment, and smoke.
He reached for a book from the shelf, running his scarred fingers along the worn spine before opening it absently.
He didn’t read the words so much as stare through them, his thoughts heavy and unbidden.
“How were the girls while I was away?” he asked, his voice low, as if reluctant to let the question leave his mouth. He kept his eyes fixed on the page, unwilling to meet his sister’s gaze.
“They were fine, Declan. Happy and healthy as ever.” She hesitated then added softly, “They’ve missed ye.”
He gave a short nod and muttered, “That’s good, then.” The words felt hollow, like an echo of what he was supposed to say.
He turned another page of the book, though he hadn’t read a single line. The whiskey glass sat forgotten beside him.
Mabel folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head. “Ye should go visit them,” she said kindly. “They’ll be glad to ken ye’ve returned home.”
Declan exhaled slowly, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Nay,” he said after a pause. “The lasses’ll be happier without me showin’ me face. I only bring shadows where there should be light. Ye’ve done a fine job carin’ for them; that’s all that matters.”
Mabel frowned, leaning forward in her chair. “Declan, that’s nonsense, and ye ken it. They arenae afraid of ye, nor do they think ye cast shadows. They love ye, same as I do.”
He set the book down with a soft thud, his dark eyes meeting hers at last.
“Love’s a word that means little when it’s spoken of me, Mabel. I’ve no gentle hand for bairns nor the kindness they deserve. They’re better off rememberin’ me as a ghost that comes and goes.”
Her expression softened with sadness. “Och, braither , ye cannae keep punishin’ yerself for the sins of our faither. Ye’re nae him.”
“Aren’t I?” he asked sharply. “His blood runs through me veins—same temper, same violence, same damnation. I’ve spent me life fightin’ it, but every time I raise me voice, I hear his echo.”
Mabel stood, her voice steady despite his storm. “Ye’ve fought harder than anyone to be different. That’s what makes ye unlike him, Declan. Our faither broke people for sport. Ye protect them, even when it costs ye peace. I am nae like him and neither was Tristan, God rest his soul.”
Declan turned away, pacing toward the shelves. “Protectin’ and raisin’ are two different things,” he said grimly. “I can wield a sword, Mabel, but I cannae offer comfort. The lasses need warmth, laughter, patience—none of which I’ve ever had to give.”
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel and the soft hiss of the hearth. Mabel clasped her hands tighter, watching him with quiet sorrow.
“They dinnae need perfection, braither . They just need ye to care enough to try.”
He picked up his glass again and took another slow sip. “Caring’s the curse of it,” he murmured.
The flicker of pain in his voice nearly undid her. “Declan,” she said softly, “ye’re nae monster. Ye’re a man who’s been hurt and doesnae ken how to heal. But ye’ll never find peace by runnin’ from those who’d forgive ye before ye even ask.”
He let out a weary sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as if to ease a tension that never left him.
“Ye’ve a kind heart, sister. Kinder than I deserve. But it’s late, and I’ll nae trouble ye more with me gloom.”
Mabel frowned, but she saw that look in his eyes, the one that meant no words would move him tonight.
