Page 140 of Midnight Conquest

Ian lifted the dagger, letting the firelight play along its polished edge as he addressed the room. “As you may have deduced, I am now the master of this house.”

Cailin’s cries rose to a keening pitch, as if she too felt the dread curling in the chamber. Davina’s hold on her mother tightened, Lilias trembling violently beside her, lips pressed together to muffle a sob.

Ian’s grin stretched wider, leering like the wolf he was. With a theatrical flourish of the blade, he continued, “Since my dear father fell on the battlefield…” He placed the dagger hand upon his chest, a pantomime of reverence. “God rest his honorable soul.”

Without missing a beat, he spat on the floor, contempt twisting his features.

“My family’s estates ought to have passed to me,” he said, bitterness lacing every word. “But alas, as the world believed me dead, those lands were given to my cousin Brian. A mistake I’ll soon correct—after I tidy affairs here.”

His gaze snapped to Davina, the dagger lowering to point at her like an accusation. “And for my absence, I have your brother Kehr to thank.”

Cold spread through Davina’s chest.

A sneer curled Ian’s lips as he tugged up his shirt, revealing the grotesque scar carved across his ribs and belly. The disfiguredflesh gleamed in the firelight, a brutal testament to violence survived.

“This,” Ian growled, his tone dripping with menace, “was Kehr’s handiwork.”

Fear gnawed at Davina’s heart, yet beneath it sparked a flicker of grim satisfaction. Kehr had sworn before leaving for war that he’d make her a widow if the chance arose. It seemed he had tried—fought bravely for her freedom—and paid dearly for it with his life.

Ian’s eyes narrowed, his sneer deepening like a gash carved into his face. “But fear not, devoted servants,” he drawled, voice slick with false reassurance. “Kehr got exactly what he deserved. I remained conscious long enough to see him die.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking on Davina, words curling into a cruel whisper. “Ah, Davina, how glorious it was. To see an English spearhead burst through his chest like a foal crowning at birth, slick with blood and bits of flesh. Such an exquisite sight.”

Davina’s throat burned, her eyes stinging as she fought back the tide of tears clawing for release. Around her, Beatrice and several of the women stifled their sobs, though their trembling bodies betrayed them. The guards held their posts, jaws clenched tight, faces drained of color beneath the weight of terror.

Ian straightened once more, slipping back into mockery as easily as donning a favored cloak. “And since Parlan also fell in battle,” he declared, spreading his arms grandly, “that leaves me, Davina’s loving husband, as the rightful heir to these estates.”

Davina’s heart plummeted like a stone hurled into the dark waters of a loch. She yearned to rise, to scream her defiance, to strike him down where he stood—but she dared not. Not while Cailin dangled in his grip, a hostage to his madness.

Ian’s gaze swept the hall. “Now, I’m no tyrant,” he continued, voice syrupy-sweet. “None of you expected my return, and I understand if you hold a poor opinion of me.” He paused, as if granting them space for protest. None came. “I bear no grudge. Truly, I do not.”

His smile softened, an actor slipping into the role of benevolent lord. For a heartbeat, it might have seemed genuine to anyone who did not know the rot beneath the surface. But Davina saw it for what it was—poison wrapped in silk.

“You have a choice,” Ian went on smoothly. “Remain here in service to your rightful master…or depart.”

Silence weighed heavy as a burial shroud until Beatrice, trembling, summoned her courage. “I… I’d like to go,” she whispered, her voice threadbare with fear.

Ian’s eyes glinted, a genuine smile spreading his mouth wide. “Fair enough,” he said, too lightly. “Guards, before she departs, strip off her shirt and give her fifty lashes.”

Beatrice froze, her face bleaching to a ghastly pallor.

The guards hesitated, glances flicking toward Davina as if silently begging for reprieve.

Ian’s brows lifted toward his hairline as he waved the dagger, its point drifting dangerously close to Cailin’s fragile skin. “Lash the maid,” he commanded, his tone chilling in its finality, “or I’ll start giving the babe decorative scars.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, drowning beneath the weight of Ian’s threat. Beatrice’s wide, terrified eyes met Davina’s, desperate and pleading. Slowly, the maid stepped back into line, her body trembling like a leaf clinging to a winter branch. “I’ll stay,” she whimpered.

Ian’s grin returned, triumphant. “Splendid.”

He turned to the guards, eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. “Close the gates.No oneleaves or enters—not even Tammus.”

The six guards exchanged uneasy glances, the edges of their composure fraying. Yet fear tightened their spines, and they obeyed, filing out of the hall to carry out his decree.

With a lazy flick of his hand, Ian dismissed the rest of the household like cattle at market. His gaze settled on Davina then, cold and predatory, his smile honed to a cruel point beneath a mask of civility.

“Tell the kitchen to prepare a fine platter—dried meats, fruit, and sweet wine,” he commanded. “I’ve moved my things into the lord’s chamber, where I belong.Youwill bring it to me.”

He prowled closer, the dagger’s tip grazing Davina’s chin with sinister intent. She hissed as it kissed her skin, enough to draw a thin, stinging line of blood that trickled hot down her neck.

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