Page 43 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird
“I ken ye want tae run in there, but ye have tae think,” she said, her voice lower now, steadier. “Even if we got inside, even if by some miracle we took those guards down, the whole castle would be on us in seconds. An’ then what? We die here, an’ yer sister rots in that cell.”
Finley exhaled sharply. He was still on the edge of reckless abandon, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew she was right, so he turned his head away, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “What dae we dae, then?” he asked, the frustration heavy in his voice.
“We leave,” Edin said firmly. “We go back tae the inn, an’ we plan. This isnae somethin’ we can rush.”
He didn’t move for a long moment. Then, finally, with a low curse, he turned away.
“We’ll get her out,” she said quietly. “But we have tae be smart about it.”
Finley looked up at her, his eyes dark with emotion. “An’ if we run out o’ time?”
“I cannae make any promises, but if she’s been there this long, I dinnae think they are in a rush tae get rid of her,” Edin said, thinking out loud. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the key she’d stolen earlier, letting the dim light glint off the metal. “And if we dae this right,” she said, “time willnae matter.”
Finley stared at the key, then back at her, his expression unreadable. Then, he gave a slow nod.
They had work to do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The walk to the inn was shrouded in silence. Not just because of the absence of words, but something heavier — the unspoken thoughts, pressing against them like the damp night air. Edin could feel the heaviness radiating off Finley, she could see it in the way his shoulders were set rigid, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. She didn’t say anything.
She had never been the kind to fill silence just to have something to say. Finley needed time to process — to settle whatever storm was raging inside him — and Edin wasn’t about to discuss it before he was ready. Nonetheless, the quiet was unsettling. A coil of anxiety had lodged itself deep in her chest, twisting tighter with every step they took towards the inn.
They slipped inside unnoticed, the common room near empty save for a few figures hunched over their drinks. The innkeeper barely looked up as they passed, the worn wooden floors creaking under their boots.
They climbed the stairs, Edin’s fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger out of habit, the tension suffocating.
The moment their door clicked shut, Finley crossed the room and collapsed into the nearest chair, his elbows braced against his knees, his face sinking into his hands.
Edin couldn’t bear the pain radiating off of him.
Finley just sat there, hunched forward, his broad shoulders bowed. His fingers dug into his hair, knuckles white, as if he were trying to hold himself together, to keep from shattering right there in front of her.
She hesitated, shifting her weight between her feet before stepping toward him. Her hand hovered just above his shoulder, unsure, unsteady.
“Finley…” she began softly.
His hand shot up, stopping her before she could touch him. The gesture wasn’t violent, but it hurt just the same, a rejection after the warmth they had shared.
Edin swallowed against the lump forming in her throat and sat down on the edge of the bed opposite his chair. Her fingers curled into the fabric of the sheets as she watched his shoulders rise and fall in uneven breaths.
The air between them felt charged, as though one wrong word would shatter whatever fragile balance there was between them at that moment. She waited.
Minutes passed, laden with pain and silence.
Then, finally, he spoke, his voice muffled by his hands. “I made a terrible mistake.”
Edin’s pulse stuttered. She sat forward slightly. “What mistake?”
Finley exhaled sharply, but it wasn’t relief — it was anger, frustration, regret. “Leavin’ Davina behind,” he said, voice hollow, “when we had the chance tae get her.”
Edin’s chest ached at the grief laced in his words. She had expected that, the moment she had suggested it. She had known it would pain him to do so, and that he would direct his anger at her for suggesting it, but it had been the only reasonable choice.
However, knowing it didn’t make it any easier to hear.
“Finley…” she started, choosing her words carefully. “There was naething we could have done. It would have been a suicide mission.”
“Ye dinnae understand,” he muttered, his face still hidden behind his hands. “Ye cannae.”
