Page 41 of The Ruthless Highlander's Hellion
Alexandra’s eyes blazed, and she stepped up to him, fists clenched. “Ye’re a cruel, mean-spirited brute, Nicholas!”
“Aye? And ye’re a stubborn, reckless fool!” he snapped back, his chest rising and falling fast. “Ye think I’ll just let ye walk off to that man, let him touch ye like he’s earned the right?”
“It’s nae yer choice!” she argued. “I’m nae yers to keep or cage! I’m doin’ this for me brother!”
“And I’m doin’ this because I cannae stomach the thought of ye in his bed!” he growled. “Even if ye drive me mad with every word ye say!”
Her breath caught, her cheeks flushed deep rose, but her fury didn’t waver. “That’s control! Why do ye want to control me?”
He stepped closer, his voice low and fierce. “Because ye’ve put a fire in me I cannae douse. I want ye, Alexandra, more than I’ve ever wanted breath in me lungs.”
Her heart pounded loud enough to drown out the crackling fire. She didn’t move away as he stood before her, so close she could feel the heat of his skin.
“Then let me go,” she whispered. “If ye truly care about me, ye’d let me do what I must.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’d rather be damned.”
Their breaths mingled, her hand still pressed against his chest. The tension between them coiled tight, thick with rage, longing, and confusion. She hated him—and wanted him—more than she could admit aloud.
She turned away, pacing fast, needing distance. “I’ll find a way out, Nicholas. Ye can lock the doors, burn every letter, but I’ll find a way.”
He watched her, eyes dark, jaw clenched. “Try it, lass, and I’ll tear down every road out of this glen.”
Their eyes met, and the heat between them snapped like a whip. Neither moved, neither surrendered. The storm had only begun.
A sharp knock shattered the air, followed by the sound of a throat being cleared.
Nicholas turned from Alexandra to a guard nervously standing in the open doorway. The man’s face was ashen, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with dread.
“Laird McLaren has been spotted marchin’ toward us. He has a hoard of men and steel behind them.”
Nicholas stepped forward, fists curling, voice hard as flint. "Banners?"
"Wavin’ the white banners of peace," the guard said.
“Sound the bell. Close the gates. Arm every man. I’m on me way," Nicholas said.
He turned to follow as the guard ran away, blood pounding like war drums in his ears, but a soft hand clutched his arm. He stopped mid-step, looking down to see Alexandra’s eyes locked on his.
“It’s time for me to go, Nicholas,” she said, her voice steady despite the panic beyond the walls. “Ye must let me go.”
“Nay,” he said, low and sharp. “I’ve nay intention of lettin’ ye walk into their hands.”
He gestured toward the distant thudding of hooves and armor. “Let Leo come. I’ll show him what mettle I’m made of.”
But her gaze held his, unflinching. “And what mettle will Charlie be made of, if he’s caught in the middle?”
Her words struck like a blade—clean, precise, true. Nicholas stiffened, the fight draining from his face.
The fury dimmed in his eyes, replaced with a shadow of fear. Charles. His son was within these walls, no more than a boy. If Rankin stormed in and the fighting reached the halls—he couldn’t bear the thought.
"I willnae risk harm to yer people. I'm goin' out there to speak with him," Alexandra moved past him, her skirts brushing his boots,
Nicholas turned to follow, steps slowed, thoughts a storm in his mind. Pride battled with reason. Rage warred with his desires to have her.
They walked side by side through the corridor, tension thick between them. The castle buzzed with alarm—guards shouting, boots pounding on stone, weapons being drawn. Outside, the bell began to toll, its cry echoing across the glen.
A laird had come to their doorstep.
