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This time, Caelan did not block her path. He flattened his frame against the cold stone wall, giving her a wide berth.

Mabel had not expected to feel anything but horror at the execution. She braced for it, the sick lurch in her stomach, the need to look away.

It hadn’t come.

What came instead was the sight of him: utterly certain, without hesitation, a man who would do anything to keep his people breathing. Something low and shameful curled tight in her belly, and she hated herself a little for it, but she could not look away from him either. He had caught her staring afterward.

Whatever he saw in her face made him go very still.

Mabel walked past him swiftly now, her cheeks burning for reasons that had nothing to do with fear, Isla trailing closely behind.

Back in the corridor, Rowan rolled the parchment in his hands, tapping it against his chin. He turned his head, watching Caelan stare blankly at the empty space Mabel had just vacated.

“Well,” Rowan noted dryly, “that was a deeply inspiring exchange. I can see why ye prefer to handle the diplomacy for Clan MacCarron.”

“Shut yer mouth, Rowan,” Caelan growled, turning sharply and striding toward the armory.

Rowan easily kept pace with him, unfazed by the threat. “She refused to even look ye in the eye, Caelan. She treated ye like a stranger asking for directions on a dirt road.”

“It is exactly how she should treat me,” Caelan stated, his voice a harsh rasp. “She saw what I am. She saw what I have to do to keep this glen secure. She is keeping her distance because she finally understands.”

“She understands that ye are a stubborn, miserable fool,” Rowan corrected, dodging a passing servant carrying a stack of firewood. “Ye executed an outlaw in broad daylight right in front of her. Did ye expect her to bring flowers and a basket of scones to the dungeon?”

“I expect her to recognize a killer when she sees one,” Caelan snapped, stopping abruptly in the middle of the hall. He turned on his friend, his eyes blazing with a dark, volatile fury that he normally reserved for the battlefield. “I am nae a civilized man, Rowan. I daenae belong in bright rooms making polite conversation. I belong in the mud, with a sword in me hand, keeping the wolves away from the door!”

“And what happens when the wolf is already inside the house?” Rowan challenged softly, losing his playful demeanor. “If ye keep glaring at every man who looks her way and snarling at her like a rabid hound, she is going to think ye despise the sight of her.”

“I am keeping her safe.”

“Ye are punishing yerself,” Rowan continued, stepping closer. “Ye bring her here, ye build a wall of ice around yerself, and then ye act surprised when she stops trying to break through it. Ye want her to keep her distance, because keeping her away is the only way yer stubborn honor feels secure.”

“There is nae room for sentiment in this keep,” Caelan sneered, the lie tasting like ash.

“Keep telling yerself that, Caelan,” Rowan said, shaking his head slowly. “But I will tell ye this. A woman like Mabel MacAllister does nae frighten easily. If she is avoiding ye now, it isnae because she is terrified of yer broadsword. More likely, she thinks ye cannae bear the sight of her.”

Rowan turned and walked away, leaving Caelan standing alone in the freezing corridor.

Cannae bear the sight of her?

The words echoed violently in Caelan’s mind. He had convinced himself that his coldness was a shield, a necessary cruelty to save her from his dark life. But as the image of her lowered eyes and polite, distant voice burned in his memory, a terrifying realization took hold.

He hadn’t protected her from himself. He had simply convinced her that she wasn’t wanted.

15

The doors of the Great Hall banged open with enough force to rattle the iron hinges.

Mabel jumped, nearly dropping the bundle of dried chamomile she had been sorting at the lower table. Beside her, Isla let out a startled squeak, clutching a wooden bowl to her chest.

Rowan MacLarren strode into the hall first, his boots tracking fresh mud across the flagstones. His usual easy grin was absent, replaced by a tight, strained grimace. Right behind him came Caelan. The Black Laird was leaning heavily to his left, one hand pressed firmly against his ribs. Dark, wet blood seeped through the gaps in his thick fingers, staining the dark leather of his coat a shining, ominous crimson.

A cold spike of pure dread drove straight through Mabel’s stomach.

“Morag!” Rowan bellowed, his voice echoing up into the rafters. “Fetch the boiling water and the linen strips! And tell that useless stable boy to fetch the healer from the lower village!”

Caelan stopped in the center of the hall, scowling darkly at his friend. “Quiet down, Rowan. Ye are shouting like a wounded calf. I daenae need a healer.”

“Ye are bleeding over half the courtyard,” Rowan shot back, gesturing wildly at Caelan’s side. “A raider managed to slip a sword past yer guard, which means either ye are getting slow or the man was a demon. Given that ye gutted him a second later, I am leaning toward the former.”