CHAPTER ELEVEN
N icholas stood near the hearth, the fire casting flickering shadows across his grim expression in his study. Marcus leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, his brow furrowed deep with unease.
The mood between them was heavy, thick with unspoken fury and disbelief. Outside, the sun was bright and cheerful in contrast to Nicholas' black mood.
“I dinnae think the old bastard capable of takin’ Charlie,” Nicholas muttered, his voice low and edged with steel. “It’s one thing to run his mouth, but to steal a bairn—me son? I should’ve snapped his neck when I had the chance.” He turned away from the fire, jaw tight, fists clenched.
Marcus exhaled slowly, his eyes following Nicholas. “Have ye questioned him yet? Asked him why he did it?”
Nicholas shook his head, slow and deliberate. “Nay. Let the bastard rot for a few days in the dark. Let him think on what he’s done.” His tone was cold, unforgiving. "I'll question him soon enough. For now, he is to have nay visitors and nay food or water. He must suffer for what he's done."
Marcus scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Aye, but what if he’s got more planned? What if this was only the start?”
“He’s got naught left to plan. Nay allies, nay power. He’s nothin’ but a bitter old man with madness in his eyes.” His voice was hard, but something in it betrayed sorrow.
“Still,” Marcus said, stepping forward, “this is nae the Oscar we kent all these years. He was sharp once. Cold, aye, but nae mad.”
“Since Annabeth died, he’s been slippin’. The grief twisted him into somethin’ unrecognizable. I thought it harmless ramblings at first—talk of spirits, of blood debts, of the ‘old ways.’ But this... takin’ Charlie—he’s gone too far," Nicholas said.
Marcus’s expression tightened. “Ye think his grief for Annabeth has driven him mad?"
“I ken it has. Look what he's done. Abductin’ his own grandchild,” Nicholas’s voice dropped, the words weighted. "She was his only child, so I have some understandin’. Almost losin’ Charlie near drove me to madness as well, but it's nae enough for me to forgive him."
Marcus gave a grim nod. “What’s yer plan then? Keep him locked up forever?”
“Maybe,” Nicholas said with a shrug. “Let him waste away in the dark with only his guilt for company.” His hands curled into fists again. “He touched me son. There’s nay comin’ back from that.”
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the snap of the firewood. Marcus finally said, “If ye need me, I’ll help with whatever comes next.”
Nicholas nodded once. “I’ll hold ye to that. There’ll be consequences for what he’s done—aye, and for all the years of poison he’s poured into this clan.” His voice dropped again, softer but no less dangerous. “Nay one harms me kin and walks free.”
His thoughts remained clouded. It wasn't just Oscar festering in the back of his skull. It was her—Alexandra.
She’d been ghosting about the castle like a spirit, eating in her chambers, avoiding his eyes like he were plague-ridden. And after that kiss…
Saints, that kiss... I’d felt the fire of it for two nights straight, and still it burned. But she acts like it had never happened.
Aye, she was proud, that one—sharp-tongued and stubborn as a mule—but he’d seen the way she’d melted against him.
Her breath had caught, her lips had parted, her hands had gripped his tunic like she wanted more.
It hadn't been one-sided, no matter how much she tried to pretend.
And now she was running, and it crawled under his skin like thorns.
He clenched his jaw, arms folded tight across his chest. Maybe it was guilt that kept her away. Maybe she regretted what she’d felt—what they’d shared. But damn it all, she had no right to act like he was the one who’d done wrong.
Nicholas sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. Oscar rotted in the dungeon, his past clawing back to haunt them all—but it was Alexandra who twisted his thoughts the worst. He could fight armies, crush traitors, and survive betrayal.
But one lass with fire in her eyes and silence on her tongue had him bloody well losing sleep. His brow was drawn, jaw tight, arms folded as if they alone held his thoughts from bursting free.
“I ken that face. What’s gnawin’ at ye, then?” Marcus asked, stepping forward with a tilt of his head. “Ye’ve been glowerin’ like a man and I ken it's nae about Charlie.”
Nicholas didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Marcus waited a beat longer, then added, “This about the lass?”
At the mention of her, Nicholas’s growl was low, half warning, half admission.
“Aye, she’s been avoidin’ me since… I kissed her.” He shifted his stance, voice rough like gravel. “Daenae ask me why I did it. I got carried away.”
Marcus crossed his arms and gave him a look. “That’s nae like ye, Nicholas. Ye’re nae a man who loses control.”
Nicholas met his eyes for a breath, then looked away again.
“I ken,” he muttered. “But she… she gets under me skin. And now she’s hidin’ in her room like I’m the devil himself.” His tone was bitter.
“Maybe ye should talk to her,” Marcus said gently. “Tell her it willnae happen again so she can stop avoidin’ ye. Or is it that ye want to be close to her?"
Nicholas gave a short laugh with no mirth. “That’s just it. I cannae be close to another. Nae again.”
Marcus sighed and moved closer. “Ye cannae live the rest of yer life behind a wall, Nicholas. Ye’ll choke on yer own solitude.”
Nicholas stared at him, but his expression didn’t soften.
“It’s safer this way,” he said simply. “Feelings make a man weak. I’ve nay place for weakness.”
“Ye’ve a son who’ll need more than strength. He’ll need tenderness too. Love, the kind a maither gives,” Marcus said firmly. “Daenae shut every door just because one slammed in yer face before.”
Nicholas didn’t answer. The words echoed, but he refused to let them settle. Marcus shook his head, defeated for now, and gave the room one last glance.
“I’m goin’ to check the outer walls,” he muttered, stepping back. “Try nae to let yer heart turn to stone entirely.”
Nicholas merely grunted in reply.
After Marcus left, the room fell quiet again.
Nicholas drifted to the window, arms still folded, but his gaze now drawn beyond.
The courtyard below shimmered in sunlight, and there she was—Alexandra—her skirts bustling, laughter on her lips.
Charlie darted around her with a grin that could melt any hardened man’s heart.
He froze, caught by the sight. She had her hands out, chasing the boy gently as he squealed with delight. Every gesture, every look, was full of warmth and ease. She looked… motherly.
A strange ache twisted in his chest, sudden and unwanted. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was good. Gentle, patient. Everything Charlie had lost.
His boy needed more than a father with a blade and a bitter heart. Could Alexandra be that someone? Or was he just a fool dreaming again?
Nicholas turned from the window with a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.
The silence now felt louder than before.
He tried to shake off the image of her hands in Charlie’s hair, but it clung stubbornly.
One day, the boy would need a mother again—and Nicholas couldn’t stop thinking that maybe… just maybe, she could be her.
"Enough of this nonsense, there's work to be done," he said as he sat down at his desk and began to write reports on parchment.
Hours passed as he worked. Candlelight danced across the reports scattered on his desk.
His ink-stained fingers hovered over the parchment, but the words blurred, unreadable and unwanted.
His thoughts strayed—again—to her. With a grunt of frustration, he crumpled the parchment in his fist and flung it aside.
He shoved back from the desk, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. Standing now, muscles tense, he cursed beneath his breath and paced once. Twice. Then he strode to the door. He’d had enough—he was going to find her and end this maddening silence between them.
The halls were dimly lit, torches hissing in their sconces, the quiet of the night pressing down like a weight. His boots struck the floor with purpose, every step echoing down the corridor. He passed a maid who bowed her head and scurried away without a word. He didn’t slow—his direction was set.
But before he reached her chamber, he caught a flicker of movement just ahead. A swish of a skirt, the soft hush of slippered feet. Alexandra. She was walking alone, head down, hands clasped tight before her as if she were lost in her own thoughts.
She looked up and froze when she saw him. Her face flushed instantly, pale cheeks blooming red beneath his gaze.
“M-me laird,” she stammered, taking an uncertain step backward. He didn’t stop—he stalked toward her like a predator, hungry and unashamed.
He cornered her before she could flee, his hand planting firmly on the door beside her head. His body caged hers, heat radiating between them, breath mingling in the narrow space.
“Why are ye avoidin’ me, lass?” he growled, his voice low and rough.
Her lips parted, but no words came for a moment. She blinked up at him, trying to find her voice, her spine pressed flat to the wooden panel behind her.
“Because…” she swallowed, trembling, “because what happened… it shouldnae happen again.”
His jaw clenched at her words, and something sharp flashed in his eyes. “Shouldnae, ye say?” he bit out. “I kissed ye, aye, and I regret nae a damn second of it. But now ye act like I’ve cursed ye.”
“I’m tryin’ to do what’s right,” she said, voice shaking but eyes still steady on his. “We should both ken better. This… this cannae go further.”
His hand dropped from the wall to the curve of her waist, fingers splaying across her side as if he meant to brand her. He leaned in until his breath warmed the shell of her ear.
“Little birdie,” he murmured, voice dark with promise, “ye’re in me territory—and here, what I say is the law.”
Then he bit her ear, not hard, just enough to make her gasp. She trembled beneath him, her hands rising to clutch his tunic without thought. He lingered just a second longer, inhaling her scent—wildflowers and firelight—before pulling away. His smirk curved slow and wicked as he stepped back.
She stayed frozen against the door, lips parted, eyes wide and dazed.
His gaze lingered over her before he turned on his heel without another word, the sound of his boots muffled now in the corridor’s hush.
He didn’t look back, though every step felt heavier than the last. Desire still thrummed through him like wildfire.
But as he strode away, a bitter thought bit at his pride.
Fool. I've lost control again—let her into me mind. She's a storm, a sweet little temptress, and I'm fool enough to stand in the rain with arms wide open.
He clenched his jaw, hating how easily she unraveled him. She didn’t belong to him. And for her sake, he needed to remember that. No matter how much he wanted to forget.