Page 51 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird
Edin’s stomach clenched. She could see Finley was trying to reason, but Mackay would not yield.
And worse, she could feel Mackay’s eyes on her again.
It wasn’t an ordinary gaze — it was something far more insidious. A quiet, measured scrutiny, as if he were already imagining how her neck might break.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
Mackay was not a man consumed by grief. He was something far more unsettling — she saw it in his measured words, in the cold gleam of his eyes under the dim light.
She fought to keep her face unreadable; to stop her hands from curling too tightly at her sides. But she could not stop the chill seeping into her bones.
This was not a man to be reasoned with. This was a man to be feared.
“Mackay—” Finley started.
“Ye should leave, Lennox.”
Finley’s hands clenched tighter. “Me men are waitin’ at the border. If ye refuse tae discuss further, we’ll take the castle.”
Mackay didn’t flinch. “Then come, lad. Come an’ see how little I’ve got left tae lose.”
For a moment, the silence was deafening. Edin felt something shift in Finley, but she wasn’t sure what he was thinking.
Then Finley exhaled sharply through his nose, grabbed Edin’s wrist, and turned on his heel.
“Let’s go.”
She didn’t resist. There was nothing left to say.
They strode through the cold, dimly lit corridors, their footfalls echoing against the ancient stone. The wind howled, rattling against the iron sconces like some restless spirit urging them to leave.
Finley said nothing. He walked a step ahead of her, shoulders rigid, his every movement sharp and purposeful.
When they pushed through the heavy wooden doors, the night swallowed them whole, the wind lashing against their cloaks, curling through their hair with icy fingers. The sky hung low and bruised, thick clouds hiding the stars, threatening rain or worse. Finley’s boots crunched against the frost-bitten earth as he made straight for the horses, mounting without hesitation.
Edin followed, swinging herself onto her saddle with practiced ease.
Still, he didn’t look at her, didn’t so much as glance her way.
The ride back to camp was a silent one, the wind a constant wail in their ears, the hooves of their horses kicking up mud and frost in equal measure.
Mackay’s words settled deep within Edin. They pressed into her like the cold seeping through her cloak, sharp and unrelenting. She couldn’t decide what unsettled her most—the raw bitterness in his voice, the simmering rage barely held in check, or the inescapable truth buried beneath it all. The Triad had failed him. And now, with Finley’s warning hanging in the air like a blade poised to drop, they had promised him war.
When they finally passed through the perimeter of the camp, the fires were still burning, their glow casting long, flickering shadows against the canvas of tents. The scent of roasting meat and damp earth filled the air, but Edin barely noticed it. Finley dismounted without a word, barely pausing before gesturing for her to follow.
“Tae me tent,” he said, his voice rough, clipped. It wasn’t a request.
Edin hesitated, gripping the reins of her horse for a moment longer than necessary before swinging down.
A dozen eyes turned in their direction, but no one dared speak, not when Finley was like this, storm-dark and brooding. She followed him, her steps deliberate, refusing to scurry after him like some obedient hound.
The interior of Finley’s tent was unembellished, yet far from barren. A sturdy table stood near the entrance, strewn with maps, parchment, and a few candles.
A chair sat askew. Against the far wall, a narrow bed lay beneath a heavy layering of furs, smelling of pine and the damp musk of the forest. A brazier in the corner lent the space a surprising warmth, its embers casting faint flickers of orange against the canvas walls.
He stood near the table for a moment, running a hand through his hair before moving wordlessly to the edge of the bed, where he sat. Edin watched him, her own pulse a steady drumbeat against her ribs. She could feel the moment stretching between them, taut and expectant, and she hated it, hated the uncertainty.
She sat beside him, careful to keep a small space between them, though the warmth of his body still reached her.
