Page 63 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"I cannae hear ye."
"Aye, I understand."
"Good." Lachlan finally moved away, returning to the other side of his desk. "The only reason ye're gettin' a second chance is because yer me blood. But daenae mistake family loyalty for weakness, Duncan. I've killed one family member who thought he could abuse those under his power. I'd nae hesitate to do it again."
Duncan's face went white as parchment. "Ye... ye wouldnae..."
"Wouldnae I?" Lachlan's smile was cold as death. "Test me and find out."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with threat and promise.
"Now get out of me sight," Lachlan said quietly. "And if ye're smart, ye'll spend the next few days thinkin' about what kind of man ye want to be. Because the one ye showed me today has nae place in me clan."
Duncan rose on unsteady legs and hurried toward the door. Just before he reached it, Lachlan's voice stopped him.
"Duncan."
"Aye?"
Lachlan's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That's 'Aye, m'laird' to ye. Just because we share blood doesnae mean ye forget yer place."
Duncan's face flushed, but he corrected himself immediately. "Aye, m'laird."
"In the future, ye'll address me with the respect me position demands. I may be yer cousin, but I am yer laird first. Daenae forget that again."
Duncan's face tightened, but he nodded. "I willnae, m'laird."
"Good. Now leave."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Alone in his study, Lachlan sank into his chair and rubbed his temples. He'd handled Duncan, but Erica was still furious with him. And honestly, he wasn't entirely sure she was wrong to be.
But the thought of her confronting dangerous men alone—even pathetic ones like Duncan—made his blood run cold. He'd watched his mother try to stand up to his father, watched her fail and pay the price. He couldn't bear to see the same thing happen to Erica.
Even if she was strong enough to handle it herself.
Lachlan decided to give Erica space to cool off, but the chamber was dark when Lachlan finally returned, lit only by the gentle glow of embers in the fireplace. He could make out Erica's form on the bed, curled on her side with her back firmly to his side of the mattress.
"Erica," he said quietly, setting his sword aside.
She didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken.
"I ken ye're awake," he tried again, his voice harder now. "Daennae ignore me now."
Still nothing. Not even a shift in her breathing. Anger flared hot in his chest.
"Ye're stubborn, ye ken. Plannin' to ignore me forever?"
Fine. If she wanted to play the wounded wife, so be it.
He yanked off his belt with sharp, aggressive movements, the leather hitting the floor with a harsh slap. His shirt followed, pulled over his head, and discarded without care. Each piece of clothing was stripped away with barely controlled violence—boots kicked off, breeches shoved down his legs.
He moved to the washbasin and splashed cold water on his face and chest, cleaning under his arms, the shock of it doing little to cool his temper. The rough cloth scraped against his skin as he dried himself, every movement sharp with frustration.
The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed in, and he felt her stiffen at his presence. But she said nothing, did nothing, just lay there like a stone statue.
Lachlan turned his back to her and closed his eyes, his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached.
