Page 87 of Taken By the Vicious Highlander
He stepped into the cell, the door clanging shut behind him. For a long moment, he simply stared at her, letting the silence stretch on, letting the weight of his fury settle over the space like a suffocating fog.
She did not look away.
“Why?” he finally asked, his voice quiet but no less dangerous.
She did not answer.
He took a step closer. “Was it Tristan? Did he put ye up to this?”
Silence.
His jaw ticked, his fists clenching. “Was it yer faither?”
Nothing.
His patience snapped. He lunged forward, grabbed her by the collar of her dress, and yanked her to her feet. “Speak!”
Ariah flinched, but still, she said nothing. Her lips pressed into a firm line, her brown eyes unwavering.
Damon exhaled sharply through his nose, releasing her with a shove. “Ye poisoned her. Ye almost killed her! And for what?” His voice was raw now, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “Jealousy?”
At that, her facade cracked. She looked up at him, her gaze hollow, resigned. And then, in the quietest whisper, she said, “Nay.”
Damon froze.
A chill ran down his spine. That one word—it wasn’t a denial of guilt. It was a denial ofreason.
He staggered backward, his breath out coming harsh and ragged. He had expected a confession, a reason, a cause. But this? This was worse.
Turning on his heel, he stormed out of the cell, slamming the iron door behind him.
Smith was waiting at the entrance of the Great Hall as he reached the top of the step from the dungeons, her temple still bandaged, a look of concern etched deep into her features. Damon barely glanced at her as he strode forward.
“Me Laird,” she called after him, falling into step beside him. “The villagers are gathered inside. The plans for the Market Day Festival need approval.”
Damon exhaled through his nose. The last thing he wanted was to sit through discussions of trade and celebrations, not when his blood still boiled with unspent rage. But he had a duty to his people, and ignoring them would only lead to unrest.
Smith, perceptive as ever, continued, “I moved the meeting here, so ye wouldnae have to leave the keep. I ken ye wouldnae want to be far from Lady McCallum.”
Damon finally glanced at her, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. It was a small kindness, but one he appreciated. He gave a tight nod before stepping into the hall.
The moment he entered, the chatter ceased. All eyes turned to him, waiting. Expecting.
A villager he recognized stepped forward.
“Cameron,” Damon greeted, before sitting down.
The villagers sat down with him at the table.
“Me Laird, we have requests for additional stalls this year. More merchants are comin’ in from the south. We need more space near the square.”
“Approved,” Damon said without hesitation.
Another man spoke up. “The bakers are askin’ for more grain rations. With the festival, they expect a higher demand.”
“Approved.”
“We’d also like to host a tournament for the lads, with a small purse for the winner?—”
