Page 105 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
The passageway was empty, like it always was every morning. He passed the chamber where the servants were already lighting the lamps, though the morning had just dawned. He did not look inside.
He hurried down the stairs and eventually got to the main doors. He pushed one open, and the cold morning air immediately hit his face.
The courtyard was quiet. A few stable boys moved across the fields, feeding the animals. A few others were working in the garden, where the wedding would take place. One of themstraightened when he saw Ciaran and dipped his head, his eyes downcast. He did not speak.
Ciaran gave a brief nod in response and headed to the stables.
His horse was ready, as if someone had known he would not wait. The beast tossed its head when he drew close, and he slid his sword through the strap along the saddle. He looked around, took another deep breath, and swung himself up into the saddle.
The cold air outside bit his skin again, sharper than it had been the night before. He bent low over his mount’s neck, urging it to go faster. The fields blurred past him. He did not look back to see the castle shrink behind him.
The wind whipped at his hair as he rode, but he did not lift a hand to brush it back. The road stretched ahead in a line he had followed more times than he could count.
His eyes studied the area around him, but not for too long. Something told him that if Logan was a mile away, waiting for him, he had come to finish things himself.
This was going to end one way to the other, and he could not wait to finally put this all to bed once and for all.
He remembered the first time Logan had called himthe Hound. It was after his first kill. He was fifteen. It was meant as a warning to the people who had been around the castle walls that day. A way for Logan to cement his place, now that he had aweapon by his side. A way to remind the men who watched that Ciaran was there to strike, not to speak.
Ciaran had believed it was better than being nothing. Better than being the boy who had to scramble for his brother’s approval and still not get it. With him being the Hound, he would be able to worship Logan as much as he wanted without batting an eye. He would be able to kill all his enemies for him, so he could become invaluable in his eyes.
He would be able to grow closer to his brother. That was all he had ever wanted.
The horse galloped down the narrow path, and the sky grew brighter with each passing minute.
His mind immediately flashed to the night Logan had sent him to cut a man’s throat. A laird who had captured some of Logan’s men and had refused to let them go. He had starved and punished the men in severely inhumane ways, and all attempts to reconcile with him had failed.
“If ye daenae do this, he will continue to torture me men until they die,” Logan had said to Ciaran that night. “He will kill this clan one by one and take what isnae his.”
Ciaran remembered the power he had felt when Logan put the dagger in his palm, knowing this did not only mean approval, but also trust. Logan needed him to do this. His brother depended on him, and he would do the best he could.
He remembered how the blade shook in his grip after he killed the laird and how the blood stuck to his palms even after he scrubbed them raw in the river.
After his first kill, the guilt ate at him. It was raw and unquenched. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get a good night’s sleep. All he kept seeing was the face of the laird he had killed. Logan had told him after that the laird should be the one having nightmares about Ciaran and not the other way round.
“Ye’re a force to be reckoned with now, Braither,” Logan had praised. “Trust me when I say that it is going to get easier. When it does, people will nae only respect ye, but they will also fear ye. Nobles and commoners will go out of their way for ye. Crowds will part to let ye pass, and the mere mention of yer name will strike fear in the hearts of thousands of men. Brave men will choose to die rather than face ye in battle. Ye will be kenned as the Hound.”
When Ciaran reached the edge of the woods, a mile and a few yards away from the castle, he slowed his horse. The trees stood close, their barks black against the morning light, and he heard the horse’s breathing quicken.
He dismounted without tying the reins. The horse would stay. It knew him well.
“Alright, Logan,” he muttered, yanking his sword from the saddle and watching it gleam ever so slightly. “Let us end this properly.”
