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Broderick sighed. “He agreed. I promised the trip would bring good trade—and tempted him with Rosselyn. The lass he couldn’t keep his eyes off the last time we passed through here.”

Amice gave a knowing grunt but said nothing.

Broderick folded his arms. “Once I put this unfinished business behind me, I can move on.”

Amice stopped fussing with the herbs and turned, brows drawn tight. “You speak of Davina like she is some conquest. An inconvenience. An itch that needs to be scratched.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “She’s a distraction. That’s all. I need her out of my head so I can focus on findin’ Angus.”

Amice stepped closer, whispering under the crackle of fire, “She’s more than that, and you know it. You have tried to forget her, tried to drown her in other women, other towns, other fights. And still she lingers. Why do you think that is?”

“Because I’m cursed,” he muttered, bitter. “Ye’d know about that better than most.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her touch was gentle as she placed a hand on his arm. “You are hurt. I see that. But building your walls will not heal the past. And if you keep denying what your soul already knows…”

He pulled back. “Ye worry for nothin’, ol’ friend. I dinnae need to talk o’ fate or soul mates. This trip will help the caravan’s purse. That’s all that matters.”

Amice’s expression tightened, but she didn’t argue. “And after Stewart Glen?”

“We head south. I’ve already told Nicabar. By next week, ye’ll be on the road to Edinburgh. Nica wants to leave at first light for Stewart Glen.”

“And you?”

“I’ll meet ye there.” Broderick was going to travel with the caravan, but after Amice’s delicate reprimands about Davina, he wanted to distance himself. “I’ll speak to Nicabar before I leave an’ have someone help ye and Veronique with the tent. The journey should only take ye three days.”

Amice frowned but nodded. She returned to sorting her herbs. “Do whatever you think is best.”

Damn her. He shoved aside his guilty conscience and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Travel safe. I’ll see ye and Veronique in a few days.”

Before she could respond, he turned and strode away, his cloak billowing slightly in the wintry night breeze as he directed his path toward the city of Aberdeen.

Broderick moved silently through the narrow lanes, the scent of damp stone and burning hearths lingering in the air. He lifted his head and inhaled—there. The stench of unwashed flesh, sour wine, and something fouler still. The man in the red shirt lurking around the Romani camp in the shadows.

The scent guided him deeper into the city’s underbelly—a knotwork of alleys slick with grime and greed. He passed a broken crate, a sleeping drunk, a crumbling wall smeared with soot.

Then…voices. Slurred, careless.

“…easy pickin’s, I tell ye. No guards, no real fighters among ’em, just a bunch o’ dancers and tinkers. We wait ’til they’re far enough north, then we strike.”

Broderick froze, senses honing, rage igniting in his chest.

Another voice answered, low and rough. “Ye sure about this, Ralston? If we’re wrong, it could be our necks.”

The first man—Ralston—gave a mocking laugh.

“Ye think I’m daft? I heard it straight from the man ’imself, clear as day.

They’re headin’ north tae Stewart Glen. Tha’ road’s perfect for an ambush.

We take everythin’—wares, gold, whatever they’ve got—then have our fill o’ the women.

Burn the wagons. Leave no one alive tae talk about it.

” A pause. Then, with venom, “We’ll be doin’ th’ world a service by killin’ them vermin. ”

The second man laughed, low and mean. “Aye, that does sound like easy pickin’s.”

Broderick’s blood boiled. His fangs itched to descend, the Hunger simmering just below the surface. He advanced, silent and swift, a blur in the dark.

As he rounded the corner, the men came into view—Ralston slouched against the wall, a half-empty bottle in hand, while his companion crouched beside him, whetting a blade against a stone.

Broderick needed no further confirmation.

He stepped into the alley, boots striking cobblestone with pending doom .

Both men jerked upright, the air snapping with sudden awareness.

“Who the ’ell are you?” Ralston barked, slurring the words.

Broderick said nothing. He let the silence swell. In the window over their heads on the building behind them, Broderick saw his eyes glint silver, the mark of the Hunger flaring to life. His incisors extended and his tongue caressed the tip of one sharp fang.

The second man staggered back against the wall, blade slipping from his fingers.

“Leave us be,” Ralston growled, trying to square his shoulders. “We’ve no quarrel with ye.”

Broderick’s smile was pure ice. “Oh, but I’ve a quarrel with you .”

He struck.

In a flash, he had Ralston by the shirtfront, lifting him clean off the ground and slamming him against the alley wall. The bottle crashed to the ground in a spray of glass and stinking spirits.

The second man spun to flee—

“Stay,” Broderick said.

Not loud. Not forceful. But the command hit like iron wrapped in velvet.

The man froze, rooted by the sheer weight of the word, by Broderick’s immortal ability to compel with his voice. He turned, wide-eyed, limbs trembling.

Broderick turned his focus to Ralston, growling, “Ye were plannin’ to ambush the Romani.”

Ralston gaped, eyes rolling in panic.

“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 blood against 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.