Page 98 of Taken By the Vicious Highlander
She groaned. “I’mfine, Damon. It was me fault anyway.”
“I dinnae care whose fault it was. Why did ye nae get it looked at?”
She chewed on her cheek, trying to find an answer that would appease him, but he really didn’t care what the answer was. There was so much she has kept from him this past week, and even today with the letter she’s concealing.
Is this what I truly want?
I pushed her away. But now that she’s away, I cannae stand it!
Pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to tamp down the tidal wave of frustration building inside of him, he asked slowly, “Tell. Me. What. Was. In. That. Letter? I willnae ask again.”
Lilith jutted her chin defiantly, and Damon sighed in exhaustion as the exact response he was expecting left that pretty, little mouth of hers. “Is that a threat?”
“Ye ken well enough that I am more than capable of retrievin’ that letter with or without yer permission. Hate me for the rest of our lives, but I will get an answer. The choice is yers.”
She’s bein’ secretive… What’s this about? What could it possibly be about?
The not knowing is what frustrated him the most. The woman standing furiously in front of him could be his undoing, and she didn’t even realize it.
The ensuing silence stretched on until the rustling of the leaves overhead was louder than even his own thundering heartbeat.
Lilith groaned, reaching into her pockets.
“It was from Ariah,” she started.
Damon stiffened, having not expected that.
“Here. Read it for yerself.”
Lilith’s outstretched arm did very little to quell the hurricane of fury, confusion, and longing inside of him. He merely stepped closer, narrowing his eyes to focus on the ink-blotted parchment.
As he read the words ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake,’an ear-splitting scream tore through the woods.
24
Damon’s feet pounded on the earth, his mind already shifting into battle mode as he burst through the tree line and back into the heart of the festival. The peaceful scene he had left was gone, replaced by chaos.
Villagers screamed and scattered as armed men surged through the market stalls, overturning carts and swinging weapons blindly at anyone in their path. The air was thick with the sharp smell of iron and the all-too-familiar scent of burning wood as one of the stalls went up in flames.
Damon cursed himself under his breath. “Feckin’ distracted fool—again!”
A butcher’s knife came flying toward him, and he ducked at the last second. The blade whizzed past his head and embedded itself in the wooden frame of a stall behind him. He turned, his instincts honed from years of conflict and war, and caught sight of his attacker.
One of the sneerin’ villagers who were grouped at the tree line earlier.
The man wielded a second knife, his face twisted in rage. “I’ll gut ye like the pig ye are, ye Brahanne filth! Nay Laird of mine!”
Damon didn’t hesitate. He cocked his revolver as he took it out of his concealed belt holster, took milliseconds to aim, and pulled the trigger. The bullet shot out, finding its target with sweet satisfaction, and the culprit collapsed.
Damon checked the cylinder without another look at the offender. “Five bullets left,” he said to himself, clicking the cylinder shut.
Movement out of the corner of his eye indicated that he didn’t have time to use the revolver again.
A dagger fight, then.
This time, it was no mere villager.
Sebastian?
