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“Answer me.”

“Nay!” he choked out. “We was plannin’ tae…just, but—”

Broderick sank his fangs into Ralston’s throat. The man whimpered, a garbled moan escaping as his limbs went slack, undone by the euphoric venom. His pulse thundered in Broderick’s ears, hot and sweet, stoking the ever-hungry fire burning in his soul.

The Hunger surged, but Broderick held it on a tight leash.

He fed with focus, drawing deeply while weaving images into Ralston’s mind—visions soaked in fire and shadow. Romani wagons ablaze. Screams echoing. Ghosts of children rising from smoke. He branded fear into the man’s soul, a warning stitched with blood.

When he released him, Ralston slumped to the ground, slack-jawed and staring, eyes wide with the torment etched behind them.

Broderick turned to the second man.

The bastard was already on his knees, hands trembling in the air. “Mercy,” he gasped.

Broderick said nothing.

He seized him, slammed him into the wall, and sank his fangs in with precision. Again, he planted nightmares—twisted reflections of the man’s intent, replayed until guilt burned hotter than pain.

When Broderick let him go, the man collapsed beside Ralston, both of them groaning in the dirt, clutching their skulls as if to claw the images out.

Broderick exhaled slowly, the edges of his vision clearing. The Hunger receded, sated—for now.

He glanced down at the two men. “If ye ever come near my people again…” His words deep and deadly. “I won’t just haunt ye. I’ll finish what I started.”

He pierced his thumb and smeared his immortal bloodagainst their throats, erasing the fang marks. Then he vanished, slipping into the dark, a blur of wind and shadow, racing toward the distant promise of Stewart Glen…and the woman who had never left his mind.

Chapter Four

The scratch of Tammus’s quill paused mid-stroke as a knock sounded at his study door. He sighed, setting the pen aside with care. Mid-morning light filtered through the leaded windows, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk. The parchment beneath his hand still bore only half-finished figures.

The door opened before he could answer.

His housekeeper poked her head in, cheeks flushed, and lips pressed tight with disapproval. “My lord, a visitor’s come to see ye.”

Tammus arched a brow. “A visitor?”

“Fergus MacLeod,” she replied, her tone flat as a stone. “Says it’s urgent.”

He frowned, standing to wipe his ink-stained fingers on a cloth. He knew MacLeod by name—loud, brash, and quick to raise a tankard or his voice. Not the sort Tammus welcomed into his home lightly.

“Very well,” he said. “Show him in.”

She curtseyed and disappeared. Moments later, heavy footfalls thudded down the corridor, and the door swung open to reveal MacLeod himself.

The man was a wreck.

Bruises bloomed across both eyes, his nose sat askew on his face, and a swollen knot rose from his brow. He filled the doorway with his bulk, but the confidence he usually wore like a cloak hung tattered around him now.

Tammus blinked. “By God, man, what happened to you?”

MacLeod limped forward, pointing a crooked finger that trembled with barely restrained fury.

“Och, yer niece is what happened tae me.”

Tammus blinked, his brows drawing together. “Davina? That’s absurd. What do you mean?”

MacLeod stomped closer to the desk, shoulders hunched, his fury thinly veiled beneath his bruises. “I mean exactly what I said. I was attacked by Lady Stewart herself—yer unruly niece. If ye dinnae believe me, take a good look at me face.” He gestured broadly, his battered features on full display, voice rising with each word.