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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

T orrin stood by the doors, soaked to the skin, his sword already drawn. His gray eyes scanned the room and quickly found Valora—on her knees, blood coating her lips.

“Valora,” he breathed, too low to be heard over the sudden flood of men at his back.

I’ll have his head fer this. How dare he? How dare he touch her?

Noah was first through behind him, blade in one hand, dirk in the other. The rest of Torrin’s riders poured in like a storm surge—fifteen men, armed with blades and grim determination. Within moments, the stillness inside shattered into chaos.

Laird Keith’s men surged to meet the charge. Blades clashed, filling the small chapel with the sound of steel against steel. War cries and moans of pain tore through the air as the two sides clashed, neither side showing mercy.

In the chaos of the battle, Torrin still searched for Valora. The one thing in his mind, his one concern, was to keep her safe and bring her home. Nothing else mattered to him—not even his own life.

He found her slamming with all her strength into the man who was standing next to her, forcing him to topple over and fall to the ground. Before the man could react, she was already diving for cover behind a pew, getting as far away from the fight as she could.

Clever lass… stay there.

As long as he knew she was safe, Torrin could focus on the fight.

He knew she wouldn’t be truly safe, not until he had killed every Keith man in the room, but for now, her cover would have to do—and he would have to do his best to end the fight before anyone else could get to her, before any of those men could threaten her life.

He cut through two men in fluid, brutal movements, eager to finish the fight. His sword was an extension of his rage, his precision honed by years of battle, but now fueled by something far more personal.

Love.

All around him, the battle raged. Noah’s dirk found the ribs of a bearded man near the wall.

Two Gunn men went down, but more pressed forward.

His men knew what they were fighting for—not just for Valora, their future Lady of the Clan, but for the entire Clan Gunn; for their families, their friends, all the people who would suffer if they failed here, now, in this fight.

Torrin fought with just as much brutality, without any hesitation.

He kicked one attacker aside, brought his blade down on another.

He moved with single-minded purpose, a predator among prey, cutting down Laird Keith’s men one by one.

Blood coated his hands and the finery he still wore, its metallic scent hanging heavy in the air.

His blade dripped with it, beads forming along the sharp edge.

Every life he had taken, every kill was just as heavy in his mind, but what other choice did he have?

Laird Keith had chosen this; he was the one marching those men to their deaths.

Suddenly, the man he had been looking for appeared before Torrin with wild, wide eyes. His own blade was drenched in crimson, and he held it tightly in his hand, posed to strike.

“If I cannae have her, if I cannae have her lands, her name, her future ,” he said, his tone high-pitched and filled with rage, “then nay one can! Especially nae ye, Torrin Gunn!”

Before Torrin knew it, Laird Keith was lunging for him, his bloodied blade coming down in an arc. But the blade never reached him—it stopped short as Valora jumped out of her hiding spot, a dirk in her hand, wildly slashing at Laird Keith.

Even in her frenzied attempt, she managed to injure him. A long, red gash spread over Laird Keith’s arm, his sleeve becoming drenched in blood within moments. But the injury was nowhere near enough to stop him; it was only enough to enrage him.

Time seemed to slow as Laird Keith turned to Valora, his face twisting into a mask of rage.

Torrin watched as he raised his blade once more, his fury getting the better of him and turning against her despite the fact that she was the only one who could grant him the seapower he so desperately needed.

All he needed was one strike, one slash of his blade, and Valora would be forever gone.

Torrin was between them in the blink of an eye.

Their swords clashed—once, twice, three times.

The sound rang like thunder against the chapel’s stone walls.

Torrin fought low and close, giving Laird Keith no opening to strike back.

The man could only parry, meeting Torrin’s blade with his own again and again in a furious dash.

Torrin’s breath came in short, labored puffs, turning shallow with exertion, but Laird Keith was in no better shape.

He, too, was panting, trying to catch his breath, but Torrin was determined to finish the fight before he could.

Ducking a swing meant for his head, Torrin slammed his elbow into Keith’s ribs, and sent him staggering into a pew.

Keith grunted, but came back with a wild swing—cutting Torrin’s arm.

A stinging pain exploded from the cut—but it was no pain Torrin hadn’t felt before.

He had spent his life fighting and it was easy to ignore the sting, to keep going when something so precious was at stake.

With a snarl, Torrin blocked the follow-up strike with his blade, then drove his shoulder forward, sending Keith reeling again.

Then, with a twist of his body, he disarmed him, knocking the blade free with a loud clatter as it fell to the stone floor.

With a roar that shook the rafters, Torrin drove his sword forward—and straight through Laird Keith’s chest.

The man choked, blood bubbling on his lips.

His eyes widened in disbelief. His knees buckled, and he collapsed, hitting the floor with a thud.

A gasping breath left his lips. Torrin could tell he was trying to say something, but he couldn’t.

The life was draining out of him too fast. The light was dimming in his eyes.

Before his head hit the floor, he was dead.

Around him, the chapel went quiet. The few Keith men who remained standing were no match for the Gunn forces, and with their leader gone, there was nothing left for them to do.

They could still fight for their clan, they could persevere, but there would be no real point to it.

They knew that they, too, would end up dead.

Torrin didn’t even look at them. He was already moving toward Valora, where she stood near the altar, drenched in sweat and blood. Her hands shook around the dirk she still held. Her eyes were wild, scanning him from head to toe, searching for wounds, for life—for him.

He reached her, and immediately, she collapsed into his arms.

“I thought—” she choked. “I thought I wouldnae see ye again.”

Torrin dropped his sword and wrapped her up in his arms. He buried his face in her hair and whispered, “I’ll never let anyone have ye, nae as long as I breathe. I’ll never let anyone lay a hand on ye.”

Valora clung to him, pressing her face into the curve of his neck.

Torrin felt the wet heat of tears on his skin and clung tightly onto her, trying to give her any comfort he could.

Behind them, Noah gave quiet orders to secure the village.

The men dispersed. The bodies were moved.

But Torrin and Valora remained—a stillness at the eye of the storm.

He kissed her, slow and reverent, then rested his forehead against hers.

“Come home with me,” he said softly. “We’ll wash this away. Start anew. Ye’re safe now.”

With a soft, trembling sigh, Valora nodded, pulling back just enough from him so that they could look into each other’s eyes. And in the shattered chapel, with blood drying on the stone and bodies being dragged away, Torrin could truly believe his own promise.

There was nothing left to worry about. Nothing could tear them apart anymore.