Page 109 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
Amara’s lungs burned. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, panicked rhythm. And still, her father loomed closer.
Her fingers curled at her sides, not from fear, but from rage. Cold, shivering rage that spread beneath her skin.
“Aye, plain as day it is,” he spat, eyes raking over her fraught with harsh judgement. “Ye’ve opened yer legs for him, have ye nae? Nae even wed. Nay promise. Nothin’.”
She wanted to say something. Anything. “What?” was all she managed.
“Ye heard me. What else would a Murdochwhoredo, if nae find a bed to climb into the first chance she got? All in the name of ‘safety’, right?”
The word sliced through her like a blade.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her mind reeled.
Not a daughter. Not a traitor. Not even a disappointment.
Awhore.
As if the hope that had taken root in the stillness of O’Donnell Keep, in the laughter of Daisy, and in the quiet strength of Rhys had somehow corrupted her. As if her worth could be boiled down to who she gave her heart to.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she did not let them fall.
“I love him,” she said, voice barely audible.
Callan scoffed. “I’m sure ye think ye do, but it doesnae matter now, ye're ruined.”
“I’m nae ruined,” but the words tasted like mud on her tongue.
His lip curled, slow and sour. “Ye were never meant to belong anywhere. Least of allhere. I daenae ken what ye want from me. Clearly, he’s claimed ye, why are ye botherin’ me?”
Amara’s heart thudded hard in her chest.
She tried to ground herself and remember where she stood. But the ground beneath her felt like it was tilting, shifting, breaking apart.
“Because I love ye, ye're me faither, and I just want to ken why ye’ve forsaken me,” she said softly.
“I was forsaken first!” he bellowed, his voice bounced off the stone walls loudly, piercing her ears ruthlessly.
“Ye’re speakin’ madness.”
“Madness?” Callan took a step forward, circling the edge of the long wooden table like a wolf eyeing prey. “Ye think this is madness? Try spendin’ six years watchin’ a lass parade about a keep she was never meant to walk in.”
He ran his fingers along the lip of the table as he moved, slow and deliberate. The torchlight from the wall cast jagged shadows across his cheekbones, making the scars of time on his face look darker than they ever had before.
Amara held her ground. “Ye’re drunk.”
He gave a dark chuckle. “Aye. And yet it’s never when I’m drinkin’ that I lie.”
“Ye speak as though I were some curse. As if I killed her,” she snapped.
He stopped then. Right at the corner of the table. Right across from her.
His voice dropped into something quieter. More dangerous. “A punishment.”
Amara swallowed, her throat painfully tight. “Punishment for what?”
He tilted his head at her, lips parting like he meant to answer. But then, a flicker of something cruel passed through his eyes, and instead he laughed.
That laugh shredded the last thread of her composure.
