Page 107 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
He sheathed his blade and sprinted.
Through the trees, across the clearing, mud flinging beneath his boots. His muscles burned but he didn’t stop. The pain in his side flared, but he ignored it.
The castle loomed ahead, and Rhys stormed toward it with fire in his veins and death in his hands.
27
The corridors of her childhood had grown darker the deeper she stepped into it.
The stone walls of Murdoch Castle hadn’t changed much in the time since she’d left it. They still pressed in on her like the edges of a vise, cold and unyielding. But she had changed. She was no longer the girl who used to cry herself to sleep behind those heavy oaken doors.
She had come for closure. Not acceptance. Not love.
The great hall door creaked open with the familiar groan of warped hinges. Her father sat at the high table, just as he had on every feast day, council meeting, and morning breakfast she could recall. His goblet in one hand, unread parchment in the other. Lit only by a hearth at his back.
It struck her how small he looked. Not in stature as he still bore the build of a warrior past his prime, but in presence. The kind ofman who had ruled over his clan with venom and bark, but now looked as though he’d shrunk beneath the weight of all his own bitterness.
Her father lifted his eyes at the sound of the door.
His expression didn’t change.
“Back, are ye?” he muttered.
Amara hesitated at the threshold. Her heartbeat thundered against her ribs. “Aye… I am.”
He took a slow sip from his goblet, and fixed his eyes on the hearth. “Hmph.”
That was all.
No surprise. No welcome. Just indifference, like she’d never been gone at all.
She stepped forward, her boots echoing softly against the stone. “I came to speak with ye.”
He hummed low in his throat, as if weighing whether her presence warranted more than that. Then, finally, he turned his head, just slightly, and let his gaze drift lazily to her.
“Well, then, speak.”
His face was as unreadable as ever. Not hard or sharp like Rhys’s could be. Her father’s features had been worn down to cold smoothness, like river stone. His eyes, when they found hers, were empty.
Amara swallowed. “I thought ye might have somethin’ to say to me.”
“Ye’ve just said ye had somethin’ to say to me. Why would I have somethin’ to say to ye?”
Silence stretched.
Her hands fidgeted in front of her skirts. “I left yer castle… humiliated. Ye offered me up like I was nothin’.”
Callan finally leaned back, lifting his goblet again and swirling the wine inside. “And yet here ye are. Seems it worked out for ye, did it nae?”
Amara’s jaw tensed. “That’s nae why I’ve returned.”
“Nay?” He took a slow sip. “Then what is it, lass? Come to tell me how well-fed ye are now? How fine the bed ye sleep in is? How oftenhecomes to ye?”
Her breath caught, but she pressed on. “I came to understand.”
At that, he gave a slow blink. “Understand what?”
“Why.” Her voice cracked on the word.
