Page 38

The fight was fast and vicious. Fists met flesh, gravel scuffed beneath their feet, and the sounds of struggle echoed in the clearing. Thomas was fast, but the brute was strong, his blows heavy and punishing.

A glint of steel, low in the shadows caught Bridget’s attention.

A figure burst from the shadows, steel flashing in his grip. The knife gleamed under the swaying lanterns as he closed in fast, silent, swift, and deadly. He moved swiftly, closing the distance between himself and Thomas, his blade poised for a lethal strike.

She tossed the book into the fire and ripped the sgian-dubh from her boot. Gripping the handle with practiced ease, she threw it.

The blade whistled through the air, striking true.

The man let out a strangled yell as the knife sank into his shoulder, planted deep. His body jerked backward, his weapon slipping from his grasp falling uselessly to the ground.

A collective gasp rippled through the Order’s ranks. The man staggered, his injured arm limp at his side, blood spreading rapidly through his coat. He let out a guttural curse, glaring at Bridget through pained, narrowed eyes.

Bridget stood her ground, meeting his glare with cold defiance. From the corner of her eye, she caught the glint of steel, the knife he had dropped in the scuffle.

Slowly, deliberately, she stooped down, fingers closing around the weapon’s worn handle. The blade was still warm from his grip. She straightened, the knife firm in her grasp.

“Stay down,” she warned, her voice like steel. She lifted the blade just enough for the firelight to catch along its edge. “Or the next one goes through your throat.”

The leader stared at the fire as he realized what was in it.

“The journal.” His voice was low, deadly. “What have you done?”

Bridget took a slow, deliberate step forward, her voice unwavering. “I’ve ensured you’ll never get what you came for. This is over.”

The leader’s jaw clenched, his fury barely restrained. The flickering firelight cast long shadows across his face, deepening the scowl carved into his features. His hands curled into fists, the barely contained rage of a man whose carefully laid plans had just crumbled before his eyes.

Before he could speak, another voice cut through the night like a blade.

“I believe she said this was over.”

Bridget knew that voice. Barrington.

A series of sharp, deliberate clicks shattered the silence. The unmistakable sound of dozens of flintlock pistols being cocked in unison sent a ripple of unease through the clearing. The Order’s men froze. They were surrounded.

Barrington stepped forward, his silhouette framed by the firelight, his gaze locked onto the leader. “Drop your weapons.”

The leader’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hand hovering near his belt, but he wasn’t foolish enough to draw. His men hesitated, their gazes darting between the pistols trained on them and their leader as if waiting for a signal.

Barrington lifted his chin. “Make no mistake. You are not walking out of here on your own terms.”

The leader’s fury twisted into something colder. Calculating.

One by one, the Order’s men dropped their weapons.

“Bind them,” Barrington ordered.

Ropes bound their hands, their weapons kicked aside. The leader didn’t resist, but his gaze was sharp and calculating. Even in defeat, he was already calculating his next move.

Barrington turned to Townsend. “Get them to Sommer Castle. The militia can deal with them from there.”

Townsend nodded, already moving toward his horse.

Bridget turned, her pulse still unsteady from the fight, only to find Thomas watching her. His gaze traced her face, lingering on the faint smear of soot near her cheekbone.

“You could have died,” he said quietly. Not with anger, but with something raw.

She managed a breathless laugh. “So could you.”

He stepped closer, his fingers brushing the soot from her cheek, slow and deliberate. “I don’t think I could have endured that.”

The words stole whatever response she might have had. Instead, she reached for his lapel, anchoring herself against the rush of emotion. “Then it’s a good thing neither of us plans on dying anytime soon.”

He held her gaze, something flickering beneath the surface. Was it relief, restraint, something deeper?

“You were supposed to stay behind,” he murmured, his voice rough but without reprimand. Just something softer.

Bridget swallowed hard. “And let you face them alone? You should know me better by now.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed forward.

“You think I don’t understand risk? That I don’t know what it means to lose?

” She exhaled shakily. “I grew up watching everything I loved taken from me, piece by piece. And now—” She hesitated, her breath catching.

“And now, you almost became another loss. And that, I truly could not bear.”

Thomas took a slow step forward, his hands curling at his sides as if holding something back, something powerful that he had been fighting for too long.

Bridget hesitated, then reached out, brushing her fingers along the torn edge of his coat. He tensed slightly beneath her touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered.

His breath hitched, and then, slowly, he straightened, his face inches from hers now, the firelight catching in his eyes, turning them molten.

Bridget’s heart pounded. She knew she should step back, should say something clever, something to break the moment before it swallowed them whole. But she didn’t.

Instead, Thomas reached up, his fingers brushing over the loose strand of hair at her temple, tucking it behind her ear. His touch lingered, warm against her skin.

Her pulse thrummed.

He searched her gaze as though waiting for a sign, waiting for her to push him away.

She didn’t.

So he closed the space between them.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, not stolen in battle or born of desperation, but rich with everything unspoken. A kiss that said I see you. I choose you. I won’t let you go.

Bridget’s breath caught as his hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer. She could feel the strength beneath the exhaustion, the quiet promise in the way his lips moved against hers. She melted into him, her fingers gripping his coat, holding him there as though grounding herself.

He deepened the kiss slightly but not demanding. Never demanding.

Just… them. Just relief and unspoken truths and something dangerously close to devotion.

When he finally pulled back, neither of them spoke.

Thomas exhaled a quiet laugh. “This time, you can’t say I think too much.”

Bridget smiled softly, her hands still fisted in his coat. “No. This time, you finally did something right.”

He let out a breath, his thumb tracing over her cheekbone, a quiet tenderness in his touch.

Footsteps crunching in the distance reached their ears.

They both tensed, instinct snapping them back to reality. The world came rushing in again, Barrington, the Order, the danger still lingering in the shadows.

Bridget took a slow step back, immediately feeling the absence of his warmth.

Thomas’s expression hardened slightly, but not with regret. Never regret.

The fire had burned low, its embers casting a flickering glow across the clearing. The acrid scent of charred parchment lingered in the air, mixing with the damp earth and the distant rustle of retreating footsteps. It was over. The Order had been driven back, and for now, they were safe.

But Bridget couldn’t move.

“You were never supposed to be part of this,” he said roughly.

“And yet here we are,” she whispered.

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I swore I would never let you get caught in my world. That I would protect you from it.”

Bridget let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You think you can protect me from myself? Her voice held a hint of bitter amusement. “You’ve no idea what that even means.”

His lips quirked, but there was no amusement in it. Just heat.

Then suddenly, he was right there, too close, too much, not enough.

“Bridget,” he murmured. Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine.

Her breath hitched. She wanted to fight him, to tell him she wasn’t ready for this, that loving him would be her undoing, but she couldn’t.

Because she was already undone, she was already his.

His hands came up, framing her face, rough fingertips brushing her skin as if he couldn’t believe she was real. “I tried,” he murmured. “I tried to keep my distance. I tried to stay away, to be what you needed—”

“You’re what I need.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Thomas sucked in a breath, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His gaze was fierce, searching, disbelieving. “Say it again.”

Bridget lifted her chin, letting him see everything she had tried to hide. “I need you.” Her voice was quieter now, the fight draining out of her. “I love you, Thomas.”

The words left her lips before she could reclaim them, and in the silence that followed, she felt something shift inside her. No fear. Only truth.

A ragged sound escaped him, something between relief and surrender.

And then he kissed her. It was not a soft kiss, not tentative or questioning. It was fierce, desperate, edged with everything they had held back for too long.

Bridget rose onto her toes, fisting her hands in his coat, pulling him closer. His arms wound around her, solid and unyielding, as if letting her go was no longer an option.

The world blurred. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, the night stretched on. But here, at this moment, there was only them.

When they finally pulled apart, Thomas tucked her into his side.

“This changes everything,” he murmured.

Bridget smiled, finally unafraid of what that meant.

“No,” she whispered. “This changes nothing. Because I was always yours.”

“We should go back,” he said.

She nodded, but before she turned, she caught his wrist, squeezing it lightly. She released his wrist, letting her fingers trail away before turning toward the path.

With one last lingering look, they stepped into the night, leaving the clearing and the danger behind them.