Page 7

Stretching his senses outward, Broderick opened his mind to the chorus of mortal thoughts that simmered beneath the surface.

In his early years, the flood of voices had nearly broken him—so many minds screaming, pleading, rambling.

But with time and ruthless discipline, he’d learned to sift through the noise.

Now, the thoughts came only when summoned, each one a thread he could pull.

Tonight, one thread snapped taut.

A flash of imagery—a meaty fist slick with blood, the crunch of knuckles, a pair of stocky legs in filthy trousers.

A muffled cry pierced the stillness. Then another. He turned toward the sound, steps silent, and slipped into the alley.

There, in the gloom, an ogre of a man loomed over a boy no older than ten. The child cowered, arms raised to shield his head. Blood painted his face, his eye swollen shut, lip split wide .

“You owe me! Now where is it?” the brute snarled.

Another slap. Another whimper.

Broderick stepped to the edge of the shadows. “Whatever ye think he has,” he warned, smooth and cold, “I’m sure he’d have given it to ye by now.”

The man spun. The boy peered around his legs, his one good eye wide with fear.

Broderick felt the Hunger stir—hot and low in his gut—but held it at bay.

The man squared up, puffing out his chest. Broderick caught the flicker of thought: “ I can take him. ”

He jabbed a sausage-thick finger at Broderick’s chest. “This ain’t yer business. Turn ‘round an’ walk away, or—”

Broderick seized the man’s hand and crushed it.

Bones snapped like dry twigs. The man shrieked and dropped to his knees.

Broderick hauled him up by his stained tunic, lifting him easily until their faces were inches apart. The man’s heart pounded like a war drum, the scent of terror sweet and heady.

His canines descended. The Hunger surged.

Broderick bared his fangs, letting the man see what was coming.

The brute’s eyes bulged as panic seized him. He kicked and thrashed, howling—until Broderick slammed him against the alley wall, the sound echoing like thunder between the stones. The man groaned, stunned. His struggles weakened.

Broderick gripped his face, turning it roughly aside, and sank his fangs into the thick cord of flesh just below the jaw.

The blood hit his tongue like fire and honey—heady, thick with sin. As always, the torrent of memories followed. Broderick braced himself .

He saw the man’s life unspool behind his eyes: a childhood of abuse, twisted into something darker. Instead of breaking the cycle, the bastard had embraced it. He had hurt others—children—used them, sold them.

Faces flashed before Broderick’s mind. Frightened. Broken. Forgotten.

Croft was his name. The bastard lorded over a growing chain of trafficked children stretching from Strathbogie to Stewart Glen, peddling their innocence to nobles who masked their depravity behind silk and coin.

This child in the alley tonight was one of the few in a new chain the wretch had started in Stewart Glen.

Broderick hunted the wicked. Drank from those who preyed on the helpless. But he did not kill. That line, thin as it was, still mattered. He was no god. No executioner.

But this one—this monster—tempted him. The Hunger urged him to finish it. Drain him. End him.

Broderick gritted his teeth and swallowed the urge.

Instead, he flooded the man’s mind with visions of torment—clawed demons, endless fire, the cries of children twisted into wails of vengeance. He left the villain screaming inside his own mind, cursed with nightmares he might never escape. Broderick hoped the torment would change his ways.

Satisfied and unburdened, Broderick dropped the whimpering man to the cobbles like so much waste and stepped over his trembling form.

He turned to the lad, crouching low, hands open and calm. The boy shrank back, trembling, eye huge in the gloom.

Broderick softened his tone. “Easy now, laddie. I’ll not harm ye.”

The boy shook his head violently .

Broderick exhaled and tried again. “I swear it. No harm’ll come to ye. Not from me.”

The boy cowered, curled so tight he looked ready to vanish into the stone itself.

Broderick stepped closer, then, with fluid speed, scooped the child into his arms. Before the lad could scream, Broderick pressed a steady hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

“Sleep now,” he murmured.

The boy sagged in his grip, breath slowing.

Broderick shifted his weight and cradled him gently, muttering a low incantation of forgetfulness. “Remember naught, laddie. No fear. No pain.”

He eased the child to the ground, then inspected his swollen eye, the bruised jaw, split lip, and the gash near his brow. Rage flared anew.

Drawing a dagger from his sporran, Broderick pricked his palm without hesitation. Dark blood welled up. He spread it across the boy’s wounds with reverent fingers.

The flesh knit closed before his eyes.

A gift of immortality, his healing blood, but primarily used to erase the tracks of Broderick’s feedings. With the remainder of blood on his palm, he smeared it against Croft’s throat, and Broderick’s fang marks disappeared.

Scooping the lad back into his arms, Broderick stood and glanced toward the mouth of the alley. Somewhere, surely, someone knew this boy.

He turned toward the tavern, footsteps silent beneath the moonlight.

∞∞ ∞

Davina’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a scuffle just beyond her door. The fire in the hearth had burned low, nothing but glowing embers now. She lay still, breath shallow, listening.

Footsteps—unsteady, heavy.

MacLeod.

She threw back the covers and rose. Her bare feet met the cold floor, and she crossed to the hearth, grabbing the poker. She knelt, added a log for more light and warmth, and coaxed the embers back to life with quick, practiced jabs.

Behind her, the door creaked. Damn him.

“Och, lass.”

She turned, poker still in hand, just as MacLeod slipped into the room and shut the door behind him.

“I see the way of it,” he slurred, his fingers groping the edge of the door, “leavin’ yer door unlocked. Silent but clever invitation without alertin’ the household to yer desires.”

With a malicious chuckle, he strode to the chest of drawers and shoved it across the stone floor, blocking the exit with a screech of wood and iron.

Davina’s stomach turned to ice. She straightened, gripping the poker like a weapon. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

He shuffled toward her, that lascivious grin curdling her blood. “Och, ye look fair divine in that firelight, lassie.”

“Get the hell out of my chamber!” Davina snapped, raising the poker like a sword.

“Fiery tongue on ye.” His gaze dragged down her body and back again, thick with lust. “I’ll show ye what tae do with that filthy mooth.”

His hand disappeared beneath his tartan, and the unmistakable motion made her stomach twist.

Heat flushed her face—rage, not shame. She gritted her teeth, years of unwanted touch surging back like bile. “You lay one hand on me—”

He chuckled, dark and low. “Ooo, I do love a rowdy toss.”

He lunged.

She dodged and brought the poker down hard against his arm.

He grunted, his grin twisting into a snarl. “Put that doon, or it’ll be worse when I catch ye.”

“You’re drunk, MacLeod,” she bit out, circling toward the door. “Go sleep it off. Leave now, and I’ll forget this happened.”

“What’s a woman’s word worth?” he sneered. “Yer hoosband won’t believe a word o’ it.”

She swung again—aiming higher.

He caught the iron rod mid-air. “Shite!” He wrenched it from her grip and flung it aside. The poker clanged across the floor. “C’mere, ye feisty bitch!”

She spun for the door.

His leg swept out, catching her ankles. Crashing to the floor, pain flared in her wrists as they caught her weight. Splinters bit deep into her palms.

She scrambled for the potted flowers by the door, but her fingers only grazed the cool ceramic before he dragged her back.

“Keep fightin’, lass,” he growled, his breath hot and rancid. “It only makes it sweeter.”

Dear God. How many times Ian had said those very words?

Panic surged.

Davina twisted, brought her knee up and slammed her heel into his face.

“Fuck!” MacLeod tumbled back, clutching his nose. Blood splattered across his cheeks and hands, dripping onto his tunic.

“Davina?”

The door rattled.

“Get the guard!” she screamed and scrambled to her feet before MacLeod tackled her to the floor.

“Ye fuckin’ cunt! I’m gonna—”

Davina grabbed and smashed the pot of dried flowers over his head. He slumped on top of her.

With grunt, she shoved his dead weight aside, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. “Bloody hell!”

“Make haste!” Rosselyn shouted from the hall.

Davina staggered to her feet and shoved the chest of drawers with all her might. The piece of furniture scraped with protest against the wood planks. She opened the door.

The guard raised his axe. Davina and Rosselyn shrieked. The guard stumbled backward, withdrawing his weapon, then sighed with relief.

“I thank you for not cutting me in two, Anthony.” Davina leaned against the doorframe, panting. “Please go get Liamand a wheelbarrow.”

Anthony took one look at MacLeod’s prone figure, nodded, and ran off.

“Are ye all right?” Rosselyn’s gaze swept over Davina’s bloodied shift, then her scraped hands. Her voice trembled. “Och, Davina…”

“I’ll live,” Davina muttered, brushing her off with a shaky breath. “Apparently, we didn’t get MacLeod drunk enough. I should’ve stayed at the table longer.”

Rosselyn knelt beside the unconscious brute, frowning. “I don’t think you had a choice, milady. He couldn’t keep his hands off you.” She straightened, fists clenched. “Now what?”

Davina stepped over the shattered pottery, her jaw set like granite. “Now? Mr. MacLeod is no longer welcome under this roof.”

She yanked open the wardrobe. “Help me dress. We’re taking him to the inn—where he should’ve gone the moment he arrived.”