Page 55 of Bound to a Highland Beast
And then he saw it; in his hurry, in his wrath, he left his right side wide open while delivering an attack. Tiernan jumped to the side, avoiding the blow before he counterattacked, kicking Beag hard on the ribs.
By the time Beag’s back hit the ground, the sword flung away from his hand as he fell, Tiernan was on top of him, pinning himdown with his weight. His sword was poised high, right above Beag’s chest and he breathed deeply through his nose, his hands shaking with every passing second.
Under him, Beag writhed and snarled, trying in vain to get free. When his hand closed around Tiernan’s thigh, fingers digging deep into the muscle to try and shove him off, Tiernan brought his elbow down hard on Beag’s arm, forcing him to let go.
“Dae it!” Beag shouted, the muscles of his neck straining, the whites of his eyes rapidly turning red as the blood vessels there burst. “Ye thought ye could change but ye’ll always be the same scum ye’ve always been! All ye ken how tae dae is tae kill!”
It was true, Tiernan couldn’t deny it. He was good at killing, at stealing, at intimidating. He had all the terrible talents of a great brigand and none of the desire to be one.
And yet he already was. A part of him would never escape that—a part of who he had once been would always live within him, lurking in the shadows.
It was that part which drove him now as he brought his blade down and pierced Beag through the chest. He plunged his sword as deep as he could—all the way to the earth underneath him, to the soil that was now drenched in Beag’s blood.
With his hands still wrapped around the hilt of the sword, Tiernan sagged over Beag, the fight finally draining out of him. He had no strength left. He could hardly draw a breath, hardly even keep himself upright, so exhausted and spent that thethought of collapsing next to Beag’s body and sleeping for days sounded almost appealing.
He couldn’t believe it was over; he couldn’t believe that he had put an end to Beag’s tyranny, to the threat that hung over him and Isabeau.
But then he dragged his gaze over to Constantine, who was still by her side even as the fight around them dying down, the last few men still standing slowly coming to the realization that Beag was dead.
Constantine’s eyes met Tiernan’s through the dark. For a moment, Tiernan couldn’t help but fear that he would march right over to him and cut his head off for all this, for ever daring to take on the task Beag had set him in the first place. It would be well within his rights, he supposed. Tiernan had done much to deserve it and he would even surrender to this death willingly.
Constantine had saved Isabeau’s life and that was enough for Tiernan. As long as he had the reassurance that she would make it back to the castle safely, then he could make his peace with his death.
It wasn’t Constantine who reached him first, though. It was Isabeau, throwing herself to her knees on the ground and pulling him into her arms, her hands closing securely around his shoulder and the back of his head. Despite all the blood, despite everything, Tiernan rested his head against her shoulder, his arms wrapping weakly around her.
She felt like home. She felt like the safety Tiernan had never had ever since he had lost everyone who cared about him. And in that moment, rather selfishly, he realized that he didn’t want to lose her.
He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want all of his efforts to have gone to waste, to meet his end after he had fought so hard for what he wanted. If it was his life or Isabeau’s, then he would gladly give his; there was no question about that. But if he could live a long and happy life by her side, if there was even the smallest chance of that happening, then he would do anything to have it.
As Constantine approached, his footsteps heavy on the ground, Tiernan used the last of his strength to push himself to his feet, hand reaching for the sword still embedded in Beag’s chest. Constantine’s gaze never left him as he walked closer and closer, his own sword still in his hand, the blade dripping blood with every step he took. Tiernan could imagine his blood there, too, mixing with all the others after Constantine cut his head clean off his neck.
Neither man spoke. Behind Tiernan, Isabeau stood to her feet as well, her arms wrapping around his waist as she peeked at Constantine over his shoulder. Tiernan stayed in front of her resolutely, silently telling Constantine that if, for whatever reason, he had changed his mind and wanted to get to her, he would have to go through him first, exhaustion be damned.
Constantine didn’t come to a halt until he was right in front of them, looking at them both as though he was trying to peer rightinto their minds. There was that penetrating stare again, the one that always sent a chill down Tiernan’s spine. He thought that was what prey must feel like under the eye of a great beast, this unsettling feeling that even mercy from such a creature could somehow be dangerous, like a threat that one day, that mercy would run out and it was only a matter of time.
Then, with a smooth swing of his hand, Constantine sheathed his sword. But still, Tiernan didn’t move; he didn’t even let go of his own blade, unable to believe it was truly over.
After all, why would Constantine be letting him go?
“Leave,” Constantine said, the word barked out like an order. “Go on.”
Once again, Tiernan remained rooted to the spot. Even he didn’t know whether he was unable or unwilling to move—all he knew was that his legs wouldn’t carry him away from Constantine, away from the carnage and the danger. He didn’t think it was all over. It sounded too good to be true.
It wasn’t until Isabeau began to tug at his arm that Tiernan finally moved, though his gaze remained steady on Constantine, watching him the entire time. Even when he could no longer walk backwards, the bodies on the ground blocking his way, he kept glancing at the man over his shoulder, waiting for the moment he would attack.
Only he never did. He truly let him and Isabeau go, following them with his gaze rather than his feet.
It was only when they reached the edge of the clearing, Tiernan grabbing a still lit torch from a fallen warrior to light their path through the forest that Constantine called out to them once more.
“Ye owe me, Tiernan,” he said. “Dinnae forget that. One day, I’ll come tae collect yer debt.”
Tiernan came to a sudden halt, a weary sigh escaping him. He was tired of owing people. He was tired of living with that shadow over his head, wondering when and if the time would come when someone would force him right back into this life against his will. A part of him wanted to tell Constantine they should settle it right then and there, with their blades if he so desired. It would be cleaner, safer. It would be the right thing to do.
But Tiernan couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had already admitted to himself that he was selfish, that he wanted to get as much of life as he could. If he fought Constantine there, he had no doubts he would end up dead like all those other men lying by his feet.
“Fine,” Tiernan called over his shoulder. “I’ll be waitin’.”
It was a threat as much as it was a promise, and Constantine knew that. The last thing Tiernan saw before the clearing dissolved into shadows behind him was Constantine’s amused smile and the small, almost imperceptible nod he gave him, as if to say he wouldn’t have it any other way.
