Page 99 of Taken By the Ruthless Highlander

For a moment, Morgana felt as if the ocean had poured over their heads. Thunder clapped overhead, rattling her insides. She felt Cohen’s arms tighten around her as if to reassure her that everything was fine.

The horse galloped faster as if sensing the approaching storm. Morgana and Cohen arrived at the cottage shortly after, taking refuge under the small lean-to.

“Feya?” Morgana called the second they drew to a stop.

She slid down from the horse, her boots squelching on the muddy ground.

“Get inside, I’ll tether the horse,” Cohen said with a wave of his hand.

Morgana didn’t hesitate. She charged through the slop and muck, scrambling for the porch. Every step was a struggle, as if the very ground was trying to swallow her whole. Pulling one foot out of the mud at a time, she finally reached the landing.

“Feya!” Her voice barely carried over the crack of thunder.

An icy finger trailed down her back, causing the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand on end. The world shrank to a single moment as terror seized her, rooting her to the spot. She glanced back at the lean-to, a question niggling at her mind.

Where was Cohen? It should not take him this long.

A commotion in the cottage pulled her out of her thoughts. She watched her breath plume before her as she slowly approached the door. Through the crack, she spotted the flicker of candlelight and the soft glow of a warm fire. But it was the sight of the figure in the chair that kicked her into action.

“Feya!” Morgana cried as she burst through the door.

Her heart sank when she noticed that her sister hadn’t moved. The room was far too still and devoid of life. If it weren’t for the fire popping in the hearth, she would have thought this place was abandoned.

“Feya?”

Mustering all her courage, she approached her sister and reached out her hand. She swallowed hard, half expecting to feel a stiff corpse rather than warmth and life.

Clinging to the hope that perhaps Feya was merely resting from a tiring journey, she placed her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Sister?”

“Forgive me.”

Before Morgana could recoil, fingers curled around her wrist, pulling her down over the chair.

“What in the…? Feya, wake up! What are ye doin’? It’s me, Morgana.”

Morgana twisted and squirmed, trying to free herself to no avail. It took but a moment for her to realize that it wasn’t her sister attacking her, but someone else.

Panic set in as a foul-smelling white cloth was shover over her face. Morgana shook her head, desperately trying not to breathe in.

“It’ll be over quickly. Just, please, stop strugglin’.”

The voice was faint but familiar, and it reverberated through Morgana like a church bell summoning sinners to church. Ice flowed through her veins as she tried to wrap her head around why Orella would ever do anything like this.

“Orella? Why?”

“I told ye to restrain her,” Cohen barked as he entered. Morgana glanced over at him, furrowing her brow. “I even showed ye how to do it.”

He marched over to the chair, snatching the cloth from his wife’s hands before tossing it into the fire. Heat filled the room, and for a moment, Morgana wondered if the whole cottage had gone up in flames.

Then, Cohen stomped toward his wife and shoved her away.

“What are ye doin’?” Orella gasped.

“Ye think I dinnae ken what yer plan was, wife?” Cohen bit out.

“What is goin’ on here?” Morgana asked as she darted to the corner of the room, uncertain who she could trust.

“Morgana,” Orella whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes. “He made me come here. He said it was the only way for us to make money.”