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Davina’s nails bit into her palms, the sting barely registering beneath the storm of fury and fear that consumed her. Her entire being locked on Ian, who lounged like a lord at the head of the long table in the Great Hall, his boots insolently propped on the polished wood.

In one hand, he idly twirled a dagger, the blade glinting wickedly in the firelight as it spun between his fingers with the ease of long, practiced familiarity.

In his other arm, he cradled Cailin.

Davina’s heart twisted at the sight of her daughter wailing helplessly, her tiny body squirming in Ian’s iron grip.

Each desperate cry pierced Davina’s chest as if Ian drove the blade he twirled in his hand through her heart, but she forced herself to remain still, her arm locked protectively around her mother Lilias’s trembling shoulders.

One wrong move, she knew, and Ian would not hesitate to use that blade on their precious child.

Her vision blurred with rage and terror.

Her teeth ground together so hard her jaw throbbed.

If he harmed Cailin, she’d kill him with her bare hands.

Rip out his black heart and feed it to the crows.

And when Ian lay dead at her feet, she would hunt down Tammus for unleashing this monster upon her home.

Since Tammus’s departure that morning, Ian had played his role to perfection.

He had been smiles and pleasantries, feigning interest in estate affairs, asking polite questions.

All day, Davina had shadowed him like a wary wolf, her instincts screaming of danger.

Yet he never overstepped, never made a move—until now.

Through the cruel clarity of hindsight, she saw his game for what it was. He’d lulled the household into complacency, convincing the staff—and even her mother—that he had changed. That he was a man redeemed. Only Davina had held fast to her suspicions.

But it had not been enough.

The moment she’d entrusted Cailin to Lilias so she could prepare for this very moment, Ian had pounced.

It didn’t matter that she had warned her mother not to trust him.

Charming as ever, disarming them all with a smile, he had coaxed Cailin into his grasp.

And once he held her, he summoned this gathering.

His patience had been chilling.

Changed man, my arse! Rage boiled in her veins. From the instant he’d darkened her gates, she had felt the menace coiling beneath his facade.

Footsteps scraped across the stone floor, dragging her attention to the doorway. Beatrice, the last of the staff, entered, her face bloodless, fear hollowing her eyes. Ian’s gaze flicked toward her, and his mouth curved into a predatory grin.

“Ah, splendid,” Ian declared, his voice carrying easily over Cailin’s wails. He stood with the baby perched on his hip, bouncing her as though to soothe—though the cruel glint in his eyes made the gesture a mockery. “Now that everyone is gathered, I have an announcement.”

The staff froze, tension frigid as frost in the air. The guards flanking the walls gripped their pikes until their knuckles blanched, while the maids and servants huddled together, wide-eyed, their gazes darting between Ian and Davina.

Ian lifted the dagger, letting the firelight play along its polished edge as he addressed the room. “As you may have deduced, I am now the master of this house.”

Cailin’s cries rose to a keening pitch, as if she too felt the dread curling in the chamber. Davina’s hold on her mother tightened, Lilias trembling violently beside her, lips pressed together to muffle a sob.

Ian’s grin stretched wider, leering like the wolf he was. With a theatrical flourish of the blade, he continued, “Since my dear father fell on the battlefield…” He placed the dagger hand upon his chest, a pantomime of reverence. “God rest his honorable soul.”

Without missing a beat, he spat on the floor, contempt twisting his features.

“My family’s estates ought to have passed to me,” he said, bitterness lacing every word. “But alas, as the world believed me dead, those lands were given to my cousin Brian. A mistake I’ll soon correct—after I tidy affairs here.”

His gaze snapped to Davina, the dagger lowering to point at her like an accusation. “And for my absence, I have your brother Kehr to thank.”

Cold spread through Davina’s chest.

A sneer curled Ian’s lips as he tugged up his shirt, revealing the grotesque scar carved across his ribs and belly. The disfigured flesh gleamed in the firelight, a brutal testament to violence survived.

“This,” Ian growled, his tone dripping with menace, “was Kehr’s handiwork.”

Fear gnawed at Davina’s heart, yet beneath it sparked a flicker of grim satisfaction. Kehr had sworn before leaving for war that he’d make her a widow if the chance arose. It seemed he had tried—fought bravely for her freedom—and paid dearly for it with his life.

Ian’s eyes narrowed, his sneer deepening like a gash carved into his face. “But fear not, devoted servants,” he drawled, voice slick with false reassurance. “Kehr got exactly what he deserved. I remained conscious long enough to see him die.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking on Davina, words curling into a cruel whisper. “Ah, Davina, how glorious it was. To see an English spearhead burst through his chest like a foal crowning at birth, slick with blood and bits of flesh. Such an exquisite sight.”

Davina’s throat burned, her eyes stinging as she fought back the tide of tears clawing for release.

Around her, Beatrice and several of the women stifled their sobs, though their trembling bodies betrayed them.

The guards held their posts, jaws clenched tight, faces drained of color beneath the weight of terror.

Ian straightened once more, slipping back into mockery as easily as donning a favored cloak. “And since Parlan also fell in battle,” he declared, spreading his arms grandly, “that leaves me, Davina’s loving husband, as the rightful heir to these estates.”

Davina’s heart plummeted like a stone hurled into the dark waters of a loch. She yearned to rise, to scream her defiance, to strike him down where he stood—but she dared not. Not while Cailin dangled in his grip, a hostage to his madness .

Ian’s gaze swept the hall. “Now, I’m no tyrant,” he continued, voice syrupy-sweet. “None of you expected my return, and I understand if you hold a poor opinion of me.” He paused, as if granting them space for protest. None came. “I bear no grudge. Truly, I do not.”

His smile softened, an actor slipping into the role of benevolent lord. For a heartbeat, it might have seemed genuine to anyone who did not know the rot beneath the surface. But Davina saw it for what it was—poison wrapped in silk.

“You have a choice,” Ian went on smoothly. “Remain here in service to your rightful master…or depart.”

Silence weighed heavy as a burial shroud until Beatrice, trembling, summoned her courage. “I… I’d like to go,” she whispered, her voice threadbare with fear.

Ian’s eyes glinted, a genuine smile spreading his mouth wide. “Fair enough,” he said, too lightly. “Guards, before she departs, strip off her shirt and give her fifty lashes.”

Beatrice froze, her face bleaching to a ghastly pallor.

The guards hesitated, glances flicking toward Davina as if silently begging for reprieve.

Ian’s brows lifted toward his hairline as he waved the dagger, its point drifting dangerously close to Cailin’s fragile skin. “Lash the maid,” he commanded, his tone chilling in its finality, “or I’ll start giving the babe decorative scars.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, drowning beneath the weight of Ian’s threat. Beatrice’s wide, terrified eyes met Davina’s, desperate and pleading. Slowly, the maid stepped back into line, her body trembling like a leaf clinging to a winter branch. “I’ll stay,” she whimpered.

Ian’s grin returned, triumphant. “Splendid.”

He turned to the guards, eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. “ Close the gates. No one leaves or enters—not even Tammus.”

The six guards exchanged uneasy glances, the edges of their composure fraying. Yet fear tightened their spines, and they obeyed, filing out of the hall to carry out his decree.

With a lazy flick of his hand, Ian dismissed the rest of the household like cattle at market. His gaze settled on Davina then, cold and predatory, his smile honed to a cruel point beneath a mask of civility.

“Tell the kitchen to prepare a fine platter—dried meats, fruit, and sweet wine,” he commanded. “I’ve moved my things into the lord’s chamber, where I belong. You will bring it to me.”

He prowled closer, the dagger’s tip grazing Davina’s chin with sinister intent. She hissed as it kissed her skin, enough to draw a thin, stinging line of blood that trickled hot down her neck.

“After you feed me,” Ian murmured, “we’ve some catching up to do.” His gaze dragged over her with vile familiarity. “I could use a good fuck after all I’ve endured. And though you were a pitiful wife, Davina, you were always a good fuck.”

He hitched Cailin higher on his hip, cooing mockingly at the weeping babe. As he backed toward the door, he stroked the blade along Cailin’s wet cheek, his caress a threat veiled in softness.

“Try anything, Davina.” He grinned. “I dare you.”

With his poisonous smile, he turned and strode from the Great Hall, leaving Davina rooted in place, trembling with barely leashed rage and bone-deep terror.

She pressed her fists hard against her eyes, swallowing the scream clawing to escape her throat. Her chest heaved, lungs burning with the effort to master her rising panic. She could not break. Not now. Not when Cailin’s life hung by the thinnest thread .

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she straightened her spine, forcing steel into her trembling limbs. With a thumping heart, she marched into the kitchen.

The staff huddled together, faces pale and streaked with tears. Myrna clutched Lilias tightly, the elder woman’s quiet sobs muffled against her handmaid’s shoulder.