Page 122 of Taken By the Vicious Highlander

A horn sounded in the distance. A warning. A signal.

And then another force entered the fray.

Keegan’s men. Brahanne men.

They came from the east, charging fast and hard, their banners snapping in the wind. Sinclair’s warriors hesitated, their attack faltering as Keegan’s forces crashed into them like a storm. But the Sinclairs did not flee immediately. They rallied, turning their focus to the new attackers with renewed aggression.

The battle continued in a blur of movement and violence. Damon drove his sword through one man’s gut before kicking another off his horse. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mixing with the scent of earth and sweat.

A Sinclair brute lunged at him with a mace, but Damon ducked and slammed his blade into the man’s exposed ribs, wrenching it free as the warrior crumpled.

Ryder, though wounded, fought beside him. He was slower now, his left arm pressing against the wound on his side, but his blade still struck true. A Sinclair warrior swung at him, and Ryder barely had time to deflect. Damon cursed and rushed forward, cleaving the enemy’s skull in half.

Keegan’s forces pressed harder, cutting down the Sinclairs with ruthless efficiency. Each man cutting through their ranks like a battle-hardened reapers.

Damon saw his opening.

He spurred his horse forward, slashing his way through the thinning enemy warriors, his eyes fixed on the tree line ahead. He was close. So close. He just had to?—

Another attacker lunged at him. This one was different—his movements quicker, more precise. A commander, perhaps. Damon barely had time to raise his blade before the man struck, his sword slicing dangerously close to Damon’s ribs. He moved like the assassin…

It all started to make sense now.

Damon gritted his teeth, countering with a brutal downward strike that sent sparks flying as their blades clashed. The commander snarled, shoving forward, their strengths evenly matched.

Then, with a sharp pivot, Damon twisted his sword, driving it between the man’s ribs. The man gasped, his body stiffening before going slack. Damon yanked back his blade, letting the body fall unceremoniously to the ground.

And just like that, the remaining Sinclair warriors dispersed. Some fled to the forests, others were cut down as they turned tail.

Finally, it was over.

Damon’s chest heaved, his blood still running hot with the thrill as he surveyed the field. Bodies littered the ground, the scent of blood thick in the air.

Ryder, though injured, was still on his feet, wiping blood—both his own and his enemies’—from his face.

“Ye all right?” Damon asked, his voice rough.

“I’ll live,” Ryder muttered, pressing a hand to his side. He lifted his gaze toward the battlefield, scanning it. “Her horse is nae here.”

Damon’s heart lurched. “Ye sure?” he demanded.

Ryder nodded. “Aye. If they had her, they’d have taken her horse.”

Relief mixed with frustration. If Lilith hadn’t been captured by the Sinclairs, where the hell was she?

Damon turned around, spotting a familiar figure among Keegan’s men—Rodrick, Keegan’s man-at-arms.

He was built like a fortress. Had seen far too many battles and survived them all. His armor was permanently dented and worn, forever prepared for another fight.

Damon dismounted swiftly, striding toward him. “Rodrick.”

Rodrick wiped his blade clean before turning to him. His expression was calm, as if this skirmish was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “Laird McCallum.”

“Where’s Keegan?” Damon demanded. “Why are his men here and nae him?”

Rodrick tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Keegan had… other business to attend to.” His eyes darted between Ryder and Damon.

Damon’s patience snapped. “Enough with the riddles, man. Tell me where me braither is.”