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“A heavy burden for a young lass to carry alone,” Gregor murmured sympathetically. “I had hoped to offer her me personal condolences. During the council meeting, tensions ran understandably high. I fear I dinnae have the opportunity to speak with her properly. Is she available to join us?”

Caelan’s thick fingers dug into the wood of the high table. Tell him nay. Tell him to ride back to his own lands.

But Duncan’s warning echoed in his mind. If ye refuse, ye will look like a jailer.

Protecting her meant securing an alliance. Gregor was wealthy, he commanded two hundred men, and his lands bordered the MacAllister valley. Tactically, diplomatically, he was exactly the kind of man Caelan should be evaluating.

“Duncan,” Caelan ground out, the word scraping his throat raw, “send a maid to Miss Mabel’s quarters. Inform her we have a guest in the hall.”

Duncan nodded and slipped out the side door.

The wait felt like an eternity. Gregor engaged Rowan in light conversation about hunting hounds, completely unfazed by the lethal tension radiating from the head of the table. Caelan did not participate. He stared at the arched doorway, his blood humming with a restless, volatile energy.

Then, she appeared.

Mabel stepped into the Great Hall, and the entire room seemed to quiet. She was wearing a heavy gown of dark green wool, the colors of her fallen clan. Her golden-blonde hair was brushed until it gleamed in the torchlight, cascading over her slender shoulders. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed less pronounced in the warm firelight. She looked dignified, unyielding, and agonizingly beautiful.

Caelan’s chest seized.

Gregor MacNab turned, and his polite smile vanished, replaced by a look of genuine, captivated awe. The older Laird stepped forward, closing the distance before Caelan could even twitch.

“Miss Mabel,” Gregor greeted, his voice dropping into a rich, respectful timbre. He offered a deep bow, far lower than the one he had given Caelan. “It is an honor to see ye again.”

“Laird MacNab,” Mabel replied. Her voice was calm, holding a quiet authority that demanded respect. She did not look at Caelan.

Gregor reached out, offering his hand. Mabel hesitated for only a fraction of a second before placing her small fingers against his palm. Gregor bowed his head, lightly kissing the back of her hand.

A violent, burning spike of pure rage drove straight through Caelan’s gut.

Take yer hands off her. The thought was feral, loud, and blinding. The muscles in his arms coiled tight, his body instinctively preparing to vault over the high table and rip Gregor’s head clean off his shoulders.

“I was deeply sorrowed to hear of yer father’s passing,” Gregor said, releasing her hand but remaining standing too close. “William was a good man. I assure ye, Clan MacNab stands ready to support ye in any way ye require.”

“I thank ye for yer kind words,” Mabel answered smoothly.

“Come, sit,” Gregor offered, gesturing toward the bench near the fire. “It is freezing in the corridors. Let me fetch ye some warm cider.”

Caelan watched as Gregor guided her toward the table, fetching a goblet and handing it to her with a charming, easy smile. Mabel accepted it, murmuring her thanks.

This was what Caelan had told himself he wanted.

He had spent days convincing himself that he was too damaged, too steeped in blood to ever deserve her. He had insisted that she needed a man who was whole. A man who could offer her a peaceful life, who knew how to speak softly, who did not wake up reaching for a dagger in the dark.

Gregor MacNab was exactly that man. He was wealthy. He was unscarred. He was polite and attentive, capable of making her smile without dragging her into the mud of a wartime fortress. By every logical, tactical, and honorable measure, Gregor was the perfect solution.

So why did it feel like someone was slowly crushing his heart in a vise?

Caelan watched Gregor lean in to say something quietly to Mabel. She offered a small, polite laugh in response.

The sound gutted him.

The realization hit Caelan with the force of a battering ram, shattering the fragile lies he had been telling himself. He wasn’t evaluating an alliance. He wasn’t acting as a noble guardian doing his duty.

He was jealous.

It was a dark, suffocating jealousy that consumed every rational thought in his head. He hated the way Gregor looked at her. He hated the way Gregor’s polished boots stood on the same stone floor as hers. He resented the man’s easy charm, his face, and the simple fact that Gregor felt he had the right to pursue her.

She is mine, the monster inside him roared, clawing desperately at the iron cage of his discipline.