Page 78 of Taken By the Vicious Highlander

A figure emerged from the shadows, where he had been lurking, keeping a respectable distance yet never straying too far.

“Ryder.”

“Me Laird,” Ryder acknowledged, falling into step beside Damon as they made their way to his study.

“She didnae notice ye at all,” Damon remarked.

“That was the point ye emphasized, Me Laird,” Ryder answered with a shrug.

They entered the study, the heavy door closing behind them with a quiet thud.

Ryder stood at ease, waiting, but Damon could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. Whatever report he was about to receive, it was not good.

“Well?” Damon prompted, pouring himself a drink and leaning against the edge of his massive desk.

I can bend her over this—Ach! Damn it man, focus!

Ryder exhaled, his eyes dark. “Nothin’ around the cavern or rock face. The man left nay trace.”

“Figured,” Damon replied dryly.

“The healer recognized the pigment used in the message painted on the wall outside yer room.”

Damon stilled, having not expected this in the slightest.

Was it nae just paint?

“Go on.”

“It was monkshood.”

A muscle jumped in Damon’s jaw. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. He didn’t need to ask what that meant. Monkshood was not just a plant—it was a death sentence. Every part of it was laced with poison strong enough to kill a man in moments. He knew that handling it carelessly could bring harm, and Lilith had just been standing there.

What if he threw it at her?

“That bastard left more than just a threat—that’s a bleedin’ promise!” he gritted out, his vision darkening.

His body tensed up with the need to act, to kill whoever had dared threaten what was his. His mind was racing, calculating, planning.

Security has to be doubled. Nay, tripled. The festival must be halted. Nay one—I’ll… I’ll gut the piece of?—

“Ye’ll need to find the bastard first,” Ryder said calmly as if reading Damon’s mind, his arms crossed over his chest.

Damon whipped around, slamming his glass on the desk with enough for that the entire thing just shattered under the pressure, liquid spilling everywhere violently. “Iwillfind them.”

“I have nay doubt,” Ryder said unflinchingly.

Silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Damon’s hands curled into fists at his sides. The sting of the liquor seeping into the cuts on his palms was a welcome pain. His breaths came in sharp bursts. Every instinct in him screamed for violence, for vengeance, for action.

I need to do somethin’… anythin’.

Memories of the man he was not too long ago flashed through his mind. The ruthlessness, the slayings, the blood.

I can do it again. Easily…

“Ye cannae go into this blind, Damon,” Ryder advised, using his Laird’s first name cautiously—as a friend. “We dinnae ken who we’re chasin’ yet. If ye charge out there fueled by this rage, ye’ll be playin’ right into their hands.”

Damon turned his glare onto him, but the man didn’t waver.