Page 12 of Taken By the Vicious Highlander

As his breathing slowed, the events of the day quieted into the dark corners of his mind, he let his eyelids close, hoping for a more productive day when he woke up.

Then, he heard it—the unmistakable soft creak of his door.

His instincts flared to life instantly. His hand shot to the dagger beneath his pillow as he sat up, his muscles coiled and ready.

For a fleeting moment, he thought it was Lilith.

Could it be that she already changed her mind?

The thought brought with it a confusing mix of relief and trepidation. He turned toward the door, but instead of his fiery bride, he saw the shadow of a man stepping into the room.

The figure moved swiftly, not realizing that he had been caught, and Damon caught the faint glint of a blade in the firelight.

He reacted without hesitation.

The assassin lunged at him, the blade aimed directly at Damon’s chest. Damon rolled off the bed just in time, the knife slicing through empty air. He landed on his feet, dagger in hand, and squared off with the intruder.

“Who sent ye!” he demanded, his voice a growl of fury.

The intruder didn’t answer. He moved like a trained fighter, his attacks calculated, his silence unwavering.

Strangely, the movements were not unfamiliar to Damon. He recognized the calculated, precise strikes but couldn’t place them. He parried the blows with precision as he sought an opening.

Where have I met this fighter before?

The clash of steel filled the room, a deadly symphony that echoed off the stone walls. Damon’s mind worked as fast as his body, analyzing every move.

The assassin was skilled, but Damon knew these moves—this man wasn’t invincible. His attacks, while precise, lacked the fluid adaptability of a warrior.

“Ye arenae one of me men, or McCallum’s,” Damon said through gritted teeth, his blade clashing with the stranger’s. “Who are ye?”

Still, the assassin said nothing. His face was hidden beneath a dark hood, but his eyes gleamed with a singular focus, almost trance-like—to kill.

Damon shoved him back, using his massive weight to throw him off balance. The assassin stumbled but recovered quickly, lunging again with a feral speed. Damon ducked and countered, his dagger slicing through the assassin’s arm.

The man hissed in pain but didn’t falter. Instead, he pressed on, his attacks becoming more erratic and more desperate until finally, his blade met Damon’s side angrily.

The blow pulled a guttural growl from deep inside Damon’s torso. The cut had undoubtedly reopened the wound he received from Magnus only a fortnight ago.

The assassin’s eyes lit up excitedly, but Damon only relaxed into the pain and smiled manically, which made the stranger’s confidence falter.

“Ye arenae leavin’ this room alive. Ye might as well start talkin’.” Damon laughed, the sound cold and lethal.

But the assassin was relentless, his movements fueled by something deeper than loyalty—hatred.

Hatred?

Damon finally found his opening. He sidestepped the next attack, dropped his dagger into his other hand, and drove the blade into the man’s side right as the assassin’s blade hit his wide shoulder.

With a hiss, Damon twisted his weapon with brutal efficiency, and the assassin gasped, a guttural sound that filled the room as he crumpled to the floor.

Damon stood over him, breathing hard, his dagger dripping with blood.

“Who sent ye?” he asked again.

But the man’s lips moved without making a sound. The life left his eyes before he could offer any answers.

His face, unveiled, was still unrecognizable, and in the darkness of the night, Damon couldn’t place where he had encountered such swordsmanship or dueling tactics.