Page 19 of Midnight Conquest

He’d run until dawn pressed its weight on the world, then burrow into earth or shadow until night reclaimed the sky.

Seeing her again had sealed it.

Broderick’s grin stretched into something feral as he hurtled through the trees.

He would have her—body, blood, and soul.

And then, perhaps, this cursed obsession would finally bedone.

∞∞∞

The castle had gone still again after the earlier chaos, the silence almost sacred. Only the faint crackle of the kitchen hearth broke the quiet as Davina crouched before it, coaxing flame from ember. A single log caught and flared, its warm glow spilling across the cold stone.

She sat alone at the long wooden prep table, clutching a ceramic jar of honey in trembling hands. Her bruises pulsed—thighs, ankles, lips, palms—all echoing with the memory of MacLeod’s meaty paws. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the phantom weight of his hands away. With no one watching, she unraveled.

The honey jar sat open before her, its golden scent drifting up like a balm. Her fingers brushed the smooth wooden wand beside it—the old kitchen tool, simple and familiar.

She dipped it into the jar and twisted gently, watching the thick amber thread cling to the grooves. Then, slowly, she drizzled a drop onto her fingertip.

The glow of the hearth caught the honey like sunlight.

She hesitated.

Kehr’s laugh echoed in her mind—bright, wild, full of mischief. Gods, they’d been so young. Two little rebels sneaking into the kitchens after dark. “Quick, Dee,” he’d whispered, already wrist-deep in the jar, grinning like a thief. “Before Cook catches us!” She’d giggled as she’d followed suit, both of them sticky and sweet and free.

Now, the memory cut deep. Sweet and biting all at once.

She blinked hard, refusing the tears.

Kehr would’ve protected her.

No one did now.

She brought the honeyed fingertip to her lips and licked it clean. The taste spread across her tongue—familiar, grounding. For a heartbeat, she was that girl again. Safe. Whole.

And then it slipped away.

Fergus MacLeod hadn’t seen a woman. He’d seen a prize. A body. A thing to be taken.

Her jaw clenched, her free hand curling into a fist on the table. She hadfought.Fought with all she had.

Still, the bruises lingered. Silent reminders of how fragile her power truly was in a man’s world.

Another drop of honey. Another lick. Kehr used to say honey could heal anything—cuts, heartbreaks, even heavy souls.

She wasn’t sure she believed that anymore.

But she clung to the ritual like a prayer. It was all she had left of him.

All that made her feel safe.

Even if just for a moment.

∞∞∞

By early the next evening, Broderick approached the Romani camp, the faint glow of low-burning fires flickering across the ring of wagons. The hollow where the caravan had settled lay nestled among the trees, shielding them from the bite of the autumn winds. His boots crunched over fallen leaves, each stepeasing a fraction of the tension coiled in his spine.

The camp murmured with quiet life—women stirring pots of stew, the clink of ladles and spoons, the scrape of whetstone on steel. Children darted past in bursts of laughter, weaving between wheels and firelight. A few men glanced up and gave him nods of acknowledgment before returning to their tasks.

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