Page 111 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
“Ye’ll walk out of this castle the way ye came,” he snarled, “with nothin’. Because that’s what ye always were. That’s what yeare. And I will nae ever have ye come back in here, especially wearin’ those colors and expectin’ pity.”
“Let go of me.” Her voice was a whisper, shaken.
But his grip tightened.
“Ye’ll listen, for once in your life,” he spat. “Because if I ever see ye again —”
Amara’s breath caught in her throat, panic and fury flashing behind her eyes as she tried to twist away. But he was stronger. As always. As he had always been.
He yanked her closer, so quickly she nearly lost her footing. Her boot slipped against the stone, and she let out a strangled gasp as her shoulder jarred beneath the force of his grip.
And in that moment, it was as if every time he had done this before came rushing back.
The night she had spoken out of turn at supper, and he’d backhanded her so hard that she tasted blood. The morning she dared to ask about her mother’s letters, and he’d dragged her by the arm out of his study, throwing her out on her behind. The silent bruises, the aching joints, the way the servants had looked away with practiced indifference.
It had festered behind those eyes. A rage and hatred that was familiar to her, but this time, she could see it, truly see it, in his face. He didn’t care if she lived or died.
And that was when she knew. There would never be understanding. No matter how many tears she’d swallowed over the years or how carefully she had tread. She would never be his daughter again. Because she never had been.
She stared up into his face, and what she saw there stole the last breath from her lungs. There was no love. Only loathing.
Then he raised his hand.
The back of it loomed in the air like the breaking of a storm, and in a flash of white-hot clarity, she saw how easily it would happen.
She opened her mouth, maybe to scream, maybe to beg, but the sound was swallowed by the slam of the door.
The impact echoed off the walls like a cannon blast.
Her father froze.
And for a fraction of a second, so did she.
Then she turned, heart thudding wildly, and saw the shape in the doorway.
Rhys.
Blood streaked his jaw, his brow, his hands. His tunic was torn and clinging to his ribs, soaked through on one side with red. His sword dripped slowly to the floor with a sound like the ticking of death.
His gaze locked on her father.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
The fury rolling off of him was almost too much to breathe in. A choking, wild thing that filled the room and silenced even the fire.
His fingers unclenched.
Amara stumbled back as he released her, the heat of his rage still burning in her skin where he had touched her. She hit the ground hard, one hand splaying against the stone to catch herself.
Rhys moved.
It wasn’t a stride. It was a hunter’s approach. Deadly and precise.
He stepped in front of her without a word, his body a wall of muscle and wrath between her and the man who once called himself her father.
“Rhys,” she gasped, voice catching. “What happened? What’s going on?”
