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He reached across the table, placing his hand gently over Davina’s.

Her breath snagged in her throat, heart faltering as she curled her fist around her fork.

Unwelcome memories surged—his hand gripping hers cruelly, false tenderness that ended in torment. Her muscles tensed involuntarily, awaiting the pain she knew all too well, the punishing twist of his fingers reminding her who held power.

Yet no pain came.

His touch remained gentle, deceptively tender, and yet the very softness of it repulsed her far more than any cruelty ever had.

“You’ve been quiet tonight, my love,” Ian remarked softly, almost reproachfully. “You’ve scarcely touched your food. You should eat.”

Davina withdrew her hand from him, carefully, and set her fork aside. “I’m not very hungry,” she replied, voice controlled yet thin. She pushed back her chair and stood gracefully. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a bit of a headache.”

Ian inclined his head, his smile serene and unperturbed. “Ofcourse, wife. Rest well.”

As soon as the door to her chamber clicked shut behind her, Davina secured it, fingers trembling. Her breath came rapidly, panic rising in her chest, threatening to overtake her.

She quickly but clumsily brought Cailin’s bassinet into her chamber, placing it protectively near her bed. With hurried steps, she fetched her daughter from the nursery, locking the connecting doors—every lock an additional barrier, yet feeling unbearably fragile.

Davina sank onto the bed’s edge, cradling Cailin closely. The baby murmured softly in sleep, blissfully unaware of the turmoil swirling around her. Davina pressed her cheek gently to Cailin’s head, inhaling the comforting scent of lavender soap, allowing tears to slip quietly down her face.

Ian’s return felt like an inescapable trap, his touch an invisible mark upon her skin, his presence suffocating.

Cailin stirred, whimpering softly, and Davina gently rocked her, whispering reassuring words as tears continued unchecked.

It was obvious Ian was on his best behavior while Tammus was near, so unless Ian gave her uncle any cause for concern, any protection he might have offered would be gone early on the morrow. And since Broderick would not be back until sundown, she couldn’t wait for him.

Davina had no doubt Ian was waiting until he was the uncontested lord of the manor to execute those rights. That meant sheneeded to be ready.

∞∞∞

The metallic tang of blood filled the air as Broderick worked the blade through the last deer carcass. His hands were slick and red, muscles taut as he helped Nicabar strip the hide clean. Around them, the tribe buzzed with movement and comforting, familiar sounds as they cooked hearty stews for the next few days and hung strips of meat over smoking racks to preserve it for their winter stores. Salted cuts were laid carefully on stretched cloths to cure in the cool breeze, while kettles of fat simmered nearby, rendering tallow for candles and cooking. Hides were scraped clean and stretched taut for drying, guts set aside for sausage casings and bait, sinew pulled for stitching thread and bowstrings. Bones boiled in iron pots, yielding rich stock and soon to be carved into tools and charms.

The camp smelled of woodsmoke, blood, and life—the scent of survival itself.

Yet the inviting aromas only deepened the restless unease gnawing at Broderick’s mind. Something felt wrong—out of place. His movements became mechanical, knife slicing cleanly through sinew even as his thoughts spiraled elsewhere.

“You have blessed us beyond measure,mi hermano,” Nicabar said gratefully, tossing another cleaned haunch of meat into a waiting sack. “We will eat well for weeks if we ration carefully. You have truly outdone yourself, Rick.”

Broderick managed only a distracted grunt in reply.

Nicabar paused, wiping his hands clean on a rag, and leaned close. “You are quiet,mi amigo. Waiting for the axe to fall?”

A scoff scudded up Broderick’s throat, his eyes ever watchful on the surrounding forest. “Aye. Somethin’ isnae right.”

“Broderick!”

He whirled toward Amice’s voice. She leaned heavily on her carved walking stick, her smile weary, as she struggled to reachhim. Broderick slumped and hung his head in relief seeing that she wasn’t in danger.

“Why did you not wake me when you arrived?” the old woman scolded, her eyes narrowing as she halted in front of him.

Broderick set down his knife, rinsing his blood-slick hands in the bucket of water at his side. “Rosselyn said ye were resting when she went tae fetch ye. I dinnae wish tae disturb ye.”

Amice huffed, though her sternness softened as Broderick dried his hands and stepped forward, folding her into a gentle embrace. Her small frame pressed against his chest, and despite the constant tension and alertness, her warmth offered a fleeting balm.

She drew back, her gaze glossy with unshed tears as she searched his face. “My Veronique. She is safe?”

“Aye, she’s safe,” Broderick lied, his voice rough with weariness. “I’ll bring her home tae ye within a day or so.”