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His voice lowered intimately as he spoke those last words.

Ailsa’s pulse quickened. The man had no idea what he was offering. How just one slash across his exposed throat could end him. He thought she was a challenge, something to conquer, but instead, he was playing a deadly game.

But no, she wouldn’t go there.

Darach was wrong about her. She wasn’t driven by guile and a thirst for blood. She’d fight this. She’d prove him wrong.

The hall fell silent once more, and Maol smirked. He thought the king had the upper hand, that she was the weak one. He had no idea.

“I decline your offer,” she said finally, with more force than she’d intended. She wasn’t just spurning him, but also that insidious voice in her head. “I’d rather fuck a trow.”

5: I NEVER FORGET A GOOD DEED

DARACH WAS DOZING—lulled by shock in the aftermath of his beating, and the hiss of the rain on the roof of his hut—when he sensed he wasn’t alone.

Opening his good eye and stifling a groan as he shifted his head right, he looked to the open doorway.

Night had fallen, and the storm above Craeg Aonaranach still raged. He wouldn’t have thought anyone would be out in this weather, yet a large, muscular figure stooped inside.

His heart kicked.

A little light entered the space from the guttering torches outside, just enough for him to discern a woman’s shape, a strong body encased in leather. And in one hand, she held a long-handled bearded axe. The iron caught the light dully.

Idra?

Darach shoved himself into a seated position, even as pain spiked through his ribs.

Shit, that hurt.

Had the king sent her to kill him, finally tiring of his defiance? Or had she decided she’d do Niall a favor and get rid of him in stealth? Either way, her presence here meant nothing good.

“What do you want?” he rasped, his hands curling into fists, his only weapons besides the chain that shackled his ankles to an iron bar on the wall.

“Keep your voice down,” Idra whispered.

Darach stilled. He’d heard the general bellowing orders enough as she trained warriors. She usually had a gravelly, harsh-edged voice, yet this evening it was smoother, almost musical in its cadence.

“It’s me … Fern,” she added. “I’m glamored.”

For a heartbeat, he stared at her shadowed face.

Fern—the Shee-huntress he and Ailsa had met on the road north?

Last autumn, she’d been attacked by the very men they’d been tracking. Badly injured, she’d collapsed on the road in front of them. Ailsa had insisted on taking her with them, whereas Darach wanted to hastily bind her wounds and leave her for another traveler to deal with.

Ailsa had won that argument.

And now, moons later, here she was inside a Marav fort, disguised as one of them.

“The Mother’s tits,” he breathed. “Why are you here?”

“I should think it’s obvious,” she replied, lowering herself to a crouch, axe pointing away from her. “Do you have any idea what it does to a Shee … being inside a place like this? The stench turns my stomach … and there’s iron everywhere.”

Darach couldn’t argue with her there. He knew better than most just how badly Craeg Aonaranach reeked. He was sure the odor coming off him at present made her bile rise too.

“But you’re carrying an iron axe,” he pointed out, before motioning to the shackles binding his ankles. “And we’re surrounded by iron.”

Even in the gloom, he marked the way Idra’s features tightened.