Page 86 of Taken By the Vicious Highlander
Ryder nodded grimly. “But ye didnae send him, did ye?”
A slow, seething rage overtook Damon. “Nay, I didnae.”
For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then, Damon exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Send Finley. Find him. Bring him back in chains if ye must.”
Ryder nodded and left without another word.
Damon turned back to Lilith, his heart clenching at the sight of her still form. He brushed his fingers along her cheek, his mind replaying their last moments together—the warmth in her eyes, the way her lips had parted, as if she had been about to say something.
She was about to tell me she loved me.
The realization hit him like a blow. His breath caught, his shoulders shaking under the weight of it. A single, silent tear traced a path down his cheek as he bowed his head over her hand.
“Ye almost left me, lass,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “And I cannae bear it.”
For the first time in years, Damon Aragain cried.
And no one was there to witness it but the woman who had stolen his heart.
A knock sounded at the door of the surgery, sharp and sure. Damon looked up from Lilith’s still form, the shadows beneath his eyes a stark contrast against the flickering candlelight.
“Me Laird?” Mrs. Bryant’s voice carried through the thick wood. “May I enter?”
Damon inhaled deeply, forcing himself to school his features, to bury the storm raging within him. He cast one last glance at Lilith’s pale face before rising to his feet and marching to the door. His fingers curled around the iron handle, and he hesitated, inhaling sharply before pulling it open.
Mrs. Bryant stepped inside, her hands clasped in front of her, her face drawn in concern. “Lady McCallum is stable,” she said, cutting straight to the point. “But she’ll need time, and care.”
Damon nodded stiffly, but his jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his fury barely contained.
“Time and care,” he repeated, his voice low. “And yet she wouldnae have needed either if it werenae for that traitorous wench.”
Mrs. Bryant sighed. “Anger will do neither her nor ye any good, Me Laird.”
“It will do me nay good, perhaps,” Damon said coldly. “But it will do plenty for that Judas who did this. She will tell me why she did this, one way or another.”
Ryder wasn’t here to hold him back this time. The rational part of him, the one that knew patience was the wiser course, was being drowned out by something deeper, darker.
Lilith had almost been taken from him. Someone had tried to weaken her, to harm her, to make her vulnerable. And for what?
Tristan.
The name burned like a brand in his mind.
Had Ariah acted alone?
He doubted it. Tristan had left for Glasgow on ‘clan business’ that he himself had never approved. And then there was Ariah’s father, Sebastian Morris. A man Damon had always thought shrewd, calculating.
Could he be involved as well?
His body moved on instinct, the need for action consuming him. Without another word, he stormed out of the room, his boots heavy against the stone floor as he descended into the depths of the keep.
The dungeons were dark and damp, the air thick with the scent of mildew and unwashed stone. The guards snapped to attention at his arrival, and with a single nod, one unlatched the iron door that led to the holding cells.
Ariah sat on a low wooden bench, her hands bound in front of her, her expression carefully blank. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on her face, but Damon could still see the tracks of dried tears staining her cheeks.
Good. She should be afraid.
