Page 25 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird
“Ye still breathin’ back there?” she asked, her voice hushed but edged with amusement.
A moment passed before he answered. “Aye,” he muttered. “Fer now.”
She smirked, but the satisfaction was short-lived. The air shifted, carrying with it a faint whisper — not of voices, but something else. A trick of the tunnels, she told herself. The underground passages did strange things to sound, warping it, stretching it, making one feel watched even when no eyes were upon them.
The silence pressed on, thick and unnatural. A shiver ran down her spine, her feet hesitating just a second too long?—
Finley collided into her from behind.
Warmth pressed against her back, hands instinctively catching her arms to steady her. The breath caught in her throat at the sudden closeness, the brief weight of him before he took a step back.
“Edin,” he muttered, his voice low, rough. “Warn a man before ye stop like that.”
She exhaled sharply. “Perhaps if ye paid attention, ye wouldnae go barreling intae me.”
His hands lingered a fraction longer than necessary before he let go, the absence of his touch almost more startling than the impact itself.
She shook off the strange tension curling in her chest and pressed forward.
The passage seemed endless, each turn promising an end that never came. The ground sloped downward in a slow descent. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to ignore the way her instincts whispered that they were not alone.
At last, after twenty minutes of trudging through the dark, the passage widened. The air felt different here — less confined. She could see nothing ahead, nothing behind. The only thing grounding her in the void was the steady presence of Finley trailing behind her — his footsteps, the quiet rustle of his coat, the occasional brush of his breath when they moved too close.
It was a strange kind of comfort. One she refused to dwell on.
Then, without warning, a dim glow flickered ahead. Edin slowed, stepping cautiously as the tunnel opened into a vast chamber.
The sight was as familiar as it was foreign.
Torches lined the walls, their flames casting erratic shadows over the rough stone. At least ten women sat around the wooden tables scattered throughout the chamber, their voices a low hum of conversation. Their faces flickered in and out of view as the torchlight danced, half-lit and unreadable. The scent of burning herbs thickened the air, mingling with the sharper tang of ink and parchment. This was the knowledge center — a place of study, of secrets, of learning passed down through generations of women who had walked these tunnels long before Edin had even drawn breath.
She had thought herself prepared for this moment. She had thought she knew what to expect. But something about stepping into this space again — after so long, after all that had happened — made her stomach twist.
A low whistle broke her thoughts.
Finley stood beside her, his gaze flickering across the chamber. His earlier irritation had faded, replaced by something else — something almost like awe, though she was sure he would never admit it.
“God almighty,” he muttered. “What is this place?”
Before Edin could answer, a voice cut through the air like a knife. “Well now, if it isnae little Edin.”
Edin turned, her breath catching for just a moment before she schooled her expression. Margaret stood before her, arms crossed over her chest, dark eyes gleaming with something between amusement and curiosity. She looked much the same as Edin remembered — sharp, keen, a presence that commanded the room without needing to raise her voice.
“I cannae mind the last time I clapped eyes on ye. Come here, let me have a look at ye.” Margaret stepped closer, cupping Edin’s face in both hands. “Aye, ye've fair grown.”
“Aye,” Edin said, her voice steady. “It’s been some time.”
Margaret hummed, glancing past her at Finley. “An’ what’s this, then? Ye’ve taken tae bringin’ men into our halls now?”
Finley bristled at that, shifting his weight like he was ready to start an argument. Edin shot him a look before he could speak. “He’s wi’ me,” she said simply. “An’ he’ll keep his tongue unless he wants tae lose it.”
Margaret smirked. “Good. We dinnae tolerate foolish men here.”
Edin’s eyes swept the room, taking in the familiar faces among the crowd. Josephine sat near the back, her fingers idly tracing patterns over the surface of a wooden table, just as she used to when they were younger — a subconscious habit that meant she was deep in thought. Agnes leaned in close to another woman, her expression intent, whispering words that Edin couldn’t hear. They had trained together once, she and these women. They had bled together, had been sharpened by the same lessons, their hands ink-stained and their minds honed like blades.
She belonged with them.
A hollowness settled in her chest as she took it all in, a slow, creeping ache that she hadn’t expected.
