Page 92 of Wedded to the Heartless Highlander
Erica turned to face him, her arms still around Lily. “You said she’d be safe if I came. I’m here, James. Let her go.”
James’s expression darkened. “Do ye think I’m a fool? If I let her go, she’ll tell Hunter everythin’. And then he’ll come after me.”
“Hunter doesnae care about me,” Erica hissed. “The only thing he cares about is Lily. If she’s safe, he willnae waste time chasin’ ye. He’ll stay with her.”
James hesitated, furrowing his brow.
Erica pressed on, her desperation giving her strength. “You ken I’m right. If ye kill her, he’ll hunt ye to the ends of the earth. But if she lives and I go with ye, he’ll have nay reason to come after ye. Ye’ll be free.”
James’s eyes narrowed as he considered her words. The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive, and Erica held her breath.
Finally, he nodded.
“Fine,” he muttered begrudgingly. “She lives. But only because I’m feelin’ generous.”
Erica exhaled shakily, relief mingling with dread. “Thank ye.”
26
The stone walls of the dungeons were damp with condensation, the air thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and despair. Hunter paced in front of the bound captives. One of them was slumped over, his jaw slack, and the other’s lip was split and his eyes were swollen.
Hunter leaned in close, his voice deadly and low. “Ye think I’ll let ye waste more of me time? Every moment ye stall, ye are gamblin’ with yer lives. I’ll ask one more time—where is she?”
The shorter man flinched, refusing to meet his gaze. “I-I dinnae ken what ye are talkin’ about?—”
Hunter slammed his fist into his face once, twice. The sound echoed like a crack of thunder. “Dinnae lie to me! Do ye take me for a fool? Speak, or I’ll make ye beg for a swift end.”
The prisoner whimpered, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Hunter’s fury. Blood gushed from his nose, pooling on the floor, but he remained silent.
Calvin stood at the edge of the cell, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze sharp. “He’s too afraid to talk to ye, Me LaIrd. Might be time to… let me persuade him with a different technique.”
Hunter shot him a look and nodded. “Aye, hold him.”
Calvin and Alaric stepped forward, their grips like iron as they pinned the man’s shoulders and legs, rooting him to the soiled spot he sat in. The man struggled, his cries muffled by the leather gag that was shoved into his mouth.
Hunter leaned down again, his voice colder than ice. “Ye have one last chance before I show ye just how far I’ll go to get me kin back.”
His eyes landed on the other captive, who frantically crawled away from him and whimpered. He knew he would be next.
“Ye too—ye are next, ye hear?” Hunter growled, and the man flinched.
In front of him, the shorter man bucked and squirmed, trying to speak through the gag.
Calvin pulled it free, and the man gasped, his voice hoarse. “Ye… Ye’ve probably received the last letter.”
Everyone in the room froze. Hunter’s heart hammered in his ears. “What did ye say?”
“A-Another letter. It—It explains everythin’,” the captive stammered, shrinking under his glare.
Hunter straightened abruptly and turned to Calvin. “We’re done here. Have the other ready to talk, but I have nay further use for this man.”
Alaric furrowed his brow as he and Calvin straightened as well. “Ye ken he’s tellin’ the truth?”
“I’ll ken it soon enough.” Hunter’s voice was clipped as she strode toward the door.
His boots clicked against the stone floor as he made his way back to the castle. Each strike echoed in the empty corridor, a rhythm that mirrored his racing thoughts.
The sharp tang of the air in the dungeons still clung to him—the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of sweat and fear. It lingered in his nostrils like a phantom, fueling the fire that roared deep within his chest.
