“John?”
Lachlan’s gaze flickered, and Connor pressed him harder against the wall.
“Yer son? Really, Lachlan? Ye would kill a child, too?”
“He would have been better with Jane than with any of us.”
The answer forced Connor’s hand still.
“Would ye have done it?”
Lachlan looked toward the broken chain beside them. His voice came quieter. “Aye.”
Connor released him, and Lachlan dropped to his knees, coughing. He remained there while Connor stepped back and drew his sword. Steel cleared the scabbard with a low scrape that echoed through the cell.
Lachlan looked up at the blade. His breathing steadied. The rage left his face, exposing the younger brother Connor remembered beneath the ruin.
“Is John safe?” he asked.
“Aye.”
His shoulders lowered. “And Violet?”
“She reached MacBain land under guard.”
Lachlan closed his eyes. “Kill me,” he whispered. “At least I will be with Jane.”
Connor held the sword at his side. “I am nae certain ye deserve that kindness.”
Lachlan opened his eyes again, his mouth trembling. “Please.”
Connor paused for one breath. He saw Lachlan as a boy clinging to him while he ran from the men who had killed their family. He remembered carrying him until his own legs failed, then rising because Lachlan had been the only one left to save.
Control had kept his brother alive that night. Exile had failed to change him, and consequence had failed to sober him up. Blood had given Lachlan a claim on John, and grief had turned that claim into danger.
If Connor let him live, Lachlan could finish what he had started. No matter how sealed his prison was, he would find a way out and hunt John.He would also hunt Violet, and this time, he wouldn’t spare a minute before he killed her.
The thought washed over Connor like a wet blanket.
He raised the sword. “Ye brought this upon herself, Brother.”
With that, he drove the blade cleanly through Lachlan’s chest.
Lachlan’s body folded, and Connor caught him beneath the arms and lowered him to the floor before his head could hit the stone. Blood spread across his shirt, warm against Connor’s hands.
For one moment, Lachlan’s fingers closed weakly around Connor’s sleeve. “Thank ye,” he breathed, his hand slipping away.
Connor remained on his knees. Blood warmed his palms through the torn shirt as Lachlan’s head rested against his forearm, his face turned slightly toward the wall. The strain had left his mouth, and his hands lay open at his sides, no longer shaking from ale or reaching for anything he could ruin.
Without rage twisting him, he looked younger.
Connor saw the brother who had once smiled his way out of punishment, the boy who had followed him through the lowerpassages and whose arms had locked around Connor’s neck while their family died behind them.
Connor had carried him out with both arms. This time, one arm and a sword had been enough.
He lowered him onto his back. Then he drew the blade free and wiped it once on the edge of Lachlan’s ruined shirt. The act required no thought.
He rose and opened the cell door.
