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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

M ud soaked the hem of her gown, each step through the crooked roads of the village pulling more chill into her bones.

Valora kept her head high, though her wrists burned from the rope that had only just been cut.

The bruises from the rope’s grip were already blooming along her forearm, but she did not wince, did not flinch.

Her shoes sank into the wet ground with every forced step, the sound squelching and steady, surrounded by silence.

The villagers watched from behind shutters and half-closed doors, too fearful or too complicit to interfere.

The chapel ahead was little more than a ruin. Its roof sagged in the middle, rain-stained and soft, caving further in with every passing moment.

Valora hesitated at the threshold.

Laird Keith’s hand clamped down on her elbow and he shoved her forward without ceremony, forcing her to take another step.

Inside, the chapel was cold, the smell of old incense, and mildew clinging to the walls, to the rickety pews, to the air itself.

The few candles lit along the warped altar flickered in the wind that crept through the door.

Dust swirled in the weak light, and the floorboards creaked beneath her with every step she was forced to take.

A priest stood near the altar, his robes crooked and ill-fitted. He didn’t look up as she entered. His shoulders slumped with the weight of his role, and when he finally did speak, his voice trembled.

Valora recognized the expression on his face. Powerless. Shamed.

He’s as much a prisoner as I am, she thought, and some small part of her heart, even now, pitied him. He, too, was forced into a role he didn’t want.

Laird Keith led her forward, his grip firm enough to bruise, his mouth close to her ear.

“Speak the vows an’ be done with it,” he said, his tone as cold as his breath was warm on her cheek, making her skin crawl.

She said nothing. Her silence was her sword—the only way she could delay the inevitable and give Torrin a chance to show up before Laird Keith could have what he wanted.

The priest swallowed audibly and began. His voice was thin, each word a ghost of what it should have been: "We are gathered in the sight of God…”

Valora stood still, arms limp at her sides, but her chin held high. Once again, she refused to show any weakness, especially in front of that vile man. Her weakness would only fuel him, she knew; and it would make him revel in his cruelty.

Torrin was coming; there was no doubt in her mind that he was coming for her, and all she had to do was hold on a little longer. Just long enough for him to make it there.

The vows droned on. Laird Keith’s hand never left Valora’s arm. Instead, the pressure increased with each breath she drew, his fingers wrapping around her flesh like a vice. Valora was only half paying attention to the priest’s words, and when there was a pause in his speech, she hardly noticed.

“Answer him,” Laird Keith hissed, shaking her.

But Valora kept her lips pressed in a thin, white line. She knew what she was meant to do, but she would never speak the words. She would rather die than bind herself to this man. She would rather die than betray Torrin and their love like this.

“Valora,” Laird Keith warned again, and the familiarity with which he spoke her name made her sick to her stomach. She never wanted to hear her name from his lips again.

Still, she said nothing. And in return, his hand moved across her face, the slap echoing in the empty chapel.

The strike surprised her more than it pained her, though a sting spread over her cheek and then her entire face.

She swayed, the slap only worsening her dizziness and headache, but she didn’t fall.

Her cheek blazed with heat, but she didn’t raise a hand to it. She didn’t even blink.

The priest stammered, losing the thread of the ritual. His eyes darted to hers, wide and stricken, and for a moment, Valora couldn’t help but wonder if he would say something, if he would try to help her.

Laird Keith’s face twisted, giving her a smile too thin to be real. He nodded once. It was all he had to do.

Two of his men stepped forward from the pews. One drew a dagger, pressing it just under Valora’s ribs, the tip sharp even through the gown’s fabric. The other stood behind her like a shadow, crushing any hopes she had of even attempting to flee.

Still, she did not speak.

Laird Keith’s face darkened. “Ye are nae a martyr, Valora. All ye have tae dae is say aye an’ then all this will be over.”

There was no thought passing through her mind. There was only action. Valora turned her face toward him slowly—and spat in his eye.

The reaction was just as instant. Laird Keith’s hand lashed out again, harder this time, the blow sending her to one knee. Blood bloomed in her mouth, warm and coppery. In a slow motion, she dragged her sleeve across her lips and looked up, her voice firm and steady.

“I would rather die than belong tae ye.”

The priest’s hand shook so violently that he dropped the prayer book. One of the guards cursed and took a step forward, ready to pick it up, but then stopped dead in his tracks.

The chapel doors exploded inward. Wood splintered and iron creaked. The warped frame buckled as one of the great doors tore free from its hinges, falling with a deafening thud to the floor.

And through the settling dust, Torrin stepped inside.

His cloak fluttered behind him, sodden with rain, eyes alight with fury. His sword gleamed in his hand, and behind him came the sound of hooves and boots—Noah, the Gunn riders, grim and armed to the teeth.

Torrin’s gaze locked on Valora, still kneeling in the dust, blood on her lip, defiance in her eyes. And then, time seemed to stop.