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She hands me the journal, open to the page she’s found, pointing out a line where I assume she wants me to start. I take one last look at her crestfallen face—remembering what she said.

It’s going to be okay.

I nod back at her as if in answer, turning my attention to the page.

It doesn’t take long for me to be absolutely sick.

Winter, 1297

Laird Greer is back. Him and his men stink of blood, but news of their victory over the clans of the North have already made their way across the land. No one will dare challenge him now. He thinks himself to be a king. I watched as he made his way straight to her chambers. He doesn’t know her. Not like I do. She’s not evil as they believe. She’s kept her promise. She waited for his return. No doubt she thought he would keep his. “The bridle in exchange for sanctuary,” he vowed. And yet upon his return home he took her. Hid her away somewhere. I have searched the dungeons, but have found naught. He carries her bridle as if it belongs to him, as if it be his right. Hebetrayedher. He calls her a monster, but Sorcha is no monster. It is the Laird who is the true monster.

I cannot let this stand. I cannot let her rot in the dark while he stands in the sun, holding her prisoner. Iwillsave her.

My voice sounds unlike me when I ask, “Is it all like this?”

“Mostly,” she answers softly. “The journal starts just before she comes to the keep. It…doesn’t paint your ancestor in a very flattering light.”

My grip tightens on the journal. “What does it say?”

“Lachlan, that’s not important right now.”

“What does itsay?”

I hear her sigh, dropping her head to my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of her breath through the sleeve of my shirt when she speaks again. “It says he was a cruel, war-hungry man. He was unkind to his servants, to his kin…It says that he murdered innocent people from neighboring clans in some kind of widespread grab for power.” She lets out a shuddering breath, her voice even softer when she adds, “My ancestor—I have to assume this is Tavish—he…he mentions a few times that the Laird was a brutally harsh man that was set on conquering the entire area. They say he stole women from villages he overtook and gave them to his men as rewards, that he killed children to end lines that he found threatening, that he—” She clears her throat, looking away from me. “You get the picture.”

Every word she says settles over me heavily, threatening to pull me under. I feel everything and yet nothing, trying to make sense of the words now swimming in front of my eyes but coming up short. Everything I have ever known is challenged by this one, short entry—and to consider it to be true means that my entire life, my entirehistory—is a lie.

I can feel Keyanna beside me, waiting for me to say something, to react in some way, but I’m full of that same numbness that took me after seeing my da last night. Only this time, there is no pity, no sorrow. Not for me, and not for the rest of my line.

I touch the name of the creature—thewoman—who I’ve alwaysbelieved was the source of my suffering, wondering now how much pain she endured at the hands of my family. Wondering now if she deserved any of it. Thinking that it’s very likely she didn’t. Knowing that makes my stomach twist with guilt, replaying every unkind word I’ve ever thought about her, about her family, aboutKeyeven, not so long ago. Now…every word of it settles on my tongue like ash, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. Because one thing is certain, after reading what’s written here.

We aren’t the victims in this story.

We’re the bloody villains.

29

Keyanna

“You were right,” he rasps.

I curl my hand over his forearm, squeezing gently. “What?”

“When you said that we must have done something bad,” he clarifies. “We did. We did this to ourselves, didn’t we?”

“Lachlan, don’t—”

“Wedeserveit,” he grits out.

“Stop it, that’s not tr—”

“But it is, isn’t it?” He turns his face to mine, his ice-blue eyes wet, brimming even. “How far back do you think it goes? At what point did we paint ourselves the victims? Did my grandpa know? Myda? Am I just a fool they thought to protect with their lies?”

I shake my head fervently, reaching up to grasp his chin. “Look at me. I don’t believe that for a second. Look how old this journal is.Centuries, Lachlan. If your ancestor was really as bad as they say, doesn’t it seem more likely that he started spreading that narrative in his own lifetime? If Tavishreallymarried the kelpie—thisSorcha—then surely they would have wanted to protect her. Surely what she was would have required secrecy. So it’s not as if they could refute rumors like that, right?”

“That sounds wonderful in theory,” he huffs. “But honestly, doesit matter?My family did this to themselves.We’ve spent all this time searching for some kind of solution, forredemption—but we don’t even deserve it!”

“Stop it,” I tsk. “That’s not true.”