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Broderick didn’t move, didn’t blink, but his thoughts snarled. She spoke like a confession, aye—but without shame. It was steel, not sorrow, in her spine. Guilt lived in her eyes, but it wasn’t the kind that begged forgiveness. She owned her choices.

“When Ian died at Flodden,” she continued, “I saw my chance. No more overlords. No more being bartered like cattle. I forged a marriage contract. Sent it to my uncle in Aberdeen.”

One dark brow arched, but he let her speak.

“It worked,” she said, a flicker of pride curling her lips. “He stopped pressing me to remarry.”

“And how long did that last?” Broderick drawled. “Tryin’ to hide a fake husband from yer kin? Reckless, lass.”

She gave a rueful smile. “You’re not wrong. He wanted to meet my husband. To be sure Father’s business was in good hands. So…” Her fingers twisted at the hem of her cloak. “I convinced the stable hand’s son, Liam, to play the part.”

Broderick blinked. His lips twitched like he might laugh. “Ye put a lad from the stables in yer husband’s boots?”

“Aye,” she snapped, color rising in her cheeks. “And it worked. My uncle asked his questions, stayed a few days, and then left convinced.”

But the edge of confidence dulled on that last word. She pulled herself taut.

Broderick stood straight, arms folded. He watched her, the way she jutted her chin forward, how her gaze dared him to judge.

She was lying by omission. Skating over the worst of it. But not out of cowardice. Out of pride. Out of sheer, ferocious will.

He had to admire her.

“And now?” he prompted.

Davina’s jaw tightened. She hesitated a moment, then puffed through her nose. “Now my uncle’s back. He found out the truth.”

“So where do I fit into all this?”

“My uncle says I must be married by the end of the month.”

Broderick laughed bitterly. “Sorry, lass, but I’m not suited to marriage.”

She scoffed. “Nor am I.”

“Then what?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her cloak before she took a breath and straightened her spine. “I need your…abilities.”

Broderick unfurled that wolfish grin. “I’ve been offerin’ them to ye, but ye keep refusin’ me.” His gaze dipped to her mouth, lingering a moment too long. Possessiveness flickered behind the smile he struggled to keep in place.

“My uncle’s bringing suitors,” she said, tone brisk, businesslike, ignoring his thickening desire. “He’s arranging meetings, interviews, whatever you want to call them. I need you to accompany me, pose as an advisor of sorts.”

Broderick tilted his head, his mouth curving with restrained amusement. “An advisor? Ye think I’ve the look of a proper gentleman?”

She shot him a glare, her cheeks flushing faintly. “I don’t care what you look like. I need your skill. I want you in the room when I meet them, listening to their thoughts.”

He smirked. “Och, now there’s a different side to the woman I remember. Cold. Clever. Dangerous.”

Her chin lifted. “I’ll use what you find. Whatever weaknesses you uncover, I’ll exploit them. Make them think I’m the wrong choice. Make them walk away.”

Broderick studied her for a long moment, but her cloak couldn’t hide the tension threading through her frame. The way she stood—rigid, defensive—spoke of a woman cornered, desperate to claw her way free.

“And if it works?” he asked. “If ye scare them all off, what then? ”

Davina’s jaw tightened. “My uncle will have no choice but to put the business under his name and let me manage it from Stewart Glen. That’ll keep the land and the wool trade in the family, and I’ll keep my freedom.”

Broderick arched a brow. He doubted any man—least of all her uncle—would truly let her keep her land and independence. Still, he shrugged.

“And if it doesnae work?” His voice softened, but his gaze hardened. “What then, Davina?”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, and her gaze flicked away from him. The silence stretched before she finally spoke, voice quieter now. “It’ll work. It has to.”

“That’s illegal, mistress.” His lips twitched into a faint smile.

“Aye. And you care about that?”

He chuckled, deep and rough. “Perhaps not. But there’s somethin’ ye’re not tellin’ me.”

She stiffened. “I’ve told you everything.”

“Nay, ye haven’t.” His voice dropped, eyes locking onto hers with quiet command. “Take off yer cloak.”

Her hands tightened around the edges of the fabric. “Why?”

“Take it off, Davina.” He left no room for argument.

She held his stare for a moment, pride warring with vulnerability. Then slowly, she complied. The cloak slipped from her shoulders, soft fabric whispering against her gown. Broderick caught it before it hit the ground, draping it over his forearm with practiced ease.

His gaze dropped to her hands. Gloves again. But that scent, faint and buried beneath her perfume, turned his stomach.

Infection.

He reached for her wrist. She tried to pull away.

“Broderick— ”

He didn’t let go. He peeled the glove from her hand, and she whimpered.

His gut twisted.

Her palms were a ruin—cuts angry and swollen, the fevered skin split and raw. Red streaks climbed her wrists. Puss glistened along the edges. She tried to snatch it back, but he held fast.

“Did yer uncle do this to ye?” he growled.

Davina yanked her hands free, snatching the cloak from his arm like a shield and retreating. Her walls slammed up, her voice cold. “’Tis none of your concern.”

Broderick exhaled through his nose, his patience fraying. “Ye want my help? Then trust me. Open yer mind to me, lass, or ye can enjoy choosin’ yer next husband on yer own.”

She donned her cloak, lips pressed into a hard line—but after a long pause, she nodded.

He sighed. At fucking last. “Come here,” he said, his voice softening. When she hesitated, he added, “I need to touch ye, Davina. Ye’ll need to relax. Let me in.”

She stepped closer, though her body remained taut as a bowstring. Not one to waste an opportunity, Broderick cupped her face with one hand, the other spreading across her lower back. He pressed his forehead to hers, words rough with restraint. “Take a deep breath.”

She resisted, stiff in his arms, breath shallow. But he didn’t relent.

“Relax, Davina,” he murmured. “Let me in. Just for a moment.”

Slowly, the fight bled from her frame. Her shoulders loosened, her head tipped forward, and her breath came slower, deeper. Just enough.

Broderick closed his eyes and pushed gently into her thoughts.

The images came fast and fractured—flashes carved in pain. Her uncle’s spit-laced tirades. MacLeod’s greedy grip. Her hands hitting the chamber floor, palms tearing on splinters as she fought him off. The bruises. The shame. The iron taste of helplessness in her mouth.

A growl resonated low in Broderick’s chest. His fingers curled against her spine.

He forced himself deeper, searching beyond the agony. But then—darkness. A wall slammed down, encasing him in cold black.

What the bloody hell…?

She blocked him. Not with stubbornness this time, but instinct. Fear. There was something deeper—something else —and her mind shielded it like a beast protecting its cubs.

He pulled back slowly, but his hunger deepened.

If he wanted the truth…

He would have to feed from her.

And this time, he wasn’t asking her permission.