Blood and Bone
The echo of Isla’s slap still rang in Lachlan’s ears. His cheek stung, but it was the sorrow in her eyes that gnawed at him.
The imprint of her palm still burned on his skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire raging inside him.
No one had ever struck him before.
Not warriors. Not enemies.
Certainly not a woman.
And yet, her tears had undone him.
He had stopped—not because of the slap—but because of her tears. Something about the way she’d looked at him… broken, betrayed… it had torn through the shield he’d built around himself. For a moment, he had seen her pain as clearly as he’d seen her body beneath him.
And he hated it.
He hated the guilt twisting inside him. Hated that it tasted like shame.
He tore down the hallway, boots thudding against worn stone. Torches flickered in their iron sconces, casting long shadows on the walls—ghostly arms that reached for him as he passed. Each step felt heavier than the last, weighted by something he couldn’t name.
Outside, the Highland wind screamed against the castle walls like a wounded beast. He welcomed its bite as he stalked into the training yard, breath curling in the night air like smoke from a pyre. His tunic clung to his back with sweat, though the chill should’ve numbed him.
He hated that he wanted her still. That even now, thinking of her naked and shaking, his body responded with heat and hunger.
But more than that—he hated the doubt.
Was she truly his fated mate?
Or had Elspeth’s prophecy misled him? Toyed with him?
“She’ll betray you.” The witch’s voice echoed in his skull, a thread of silk tightening around his temples. He pressed his palms to them, trying to smother the memory of Isla clad in black, lips moving in silent chant, the world crumbling beneath her spell.
The image clung like ash, poisoning everything it touched.
He wanted—needed—to believe in her.
But what if belief wasn’t enough?
He roared and unsheathed his dagger, hurling it across the yard. It struck the straw target dead-center. Still not enough. He crossed to it, yanked it free, and began to slash. Again. And again. Straw ribs burst like organs, the stuffing spilling to the frozen earth.
The vision flared again behind his eyes—fire licking the hills, rivers dry and blackened, Isla at the center of the ruin. Her voice a lullaby. Her face a mask.
Gods, he wanted her. Wanted to taste that defiance, to bend her to him and beg her—demand—she never turn from him. But desire wouldn’t save her. Wouldn’t save them.
Only the blood vow could.
And yet...
Elspeth’s final warning rang like a tolling bell: “If even a sliver of darkness lies within, the vow will reveal it.”
What if it did?
What if he looked into her soul and found her reaching for power... not love?
His breath hitched. His brother’s face surfaced—Alastair’s smile, cocked just so. Isla’s laughter beside him, light and effortless. Too effortless. That sound echoed louder than battle cries now.
Would she betray him?
He gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into the stone wall. A crack splintered through the ancient rock, the vibration jarring up his arm. Blood welled between his knuckles, warm and thick.
Good. He welcomed the pain. It was something he could understand.
A flicker of movement—he turned. A young servant stood at the edge of the corridor, eyes round as coins. Their mouth opened to speak, then snapped shut.
They vanished like smoke.
No one questioned the prince when he bled. Especially not when rage and ruin danced in his eyes.
He strode back into the castle like a thunderhead, trailing the scent of iron and despair. When he reached his chamber, he stopped in the doorway.
One of her ribbons lay on the floor. Pale blue. Crumpled.
He stared at it as though it were a serpent. Then, slowly, he bent and picked it up with bloodied fingers. It still carried her scent—jasmine and something wilder, like rain on stone.
He pressed it to his face. Then cursed and flung it into the hearth.
The fire hissed in response, devouring the ribbon as if it, too, had been waiting.
Still, he ached.
He sank into the nearest chair, muscles trembling, and buried his face in his hands.
“You are unraveling,” he muttered. “And for what? A woman you barely know?”
But he did know her.
Every word she’d spoken had etched itself into his bones. Every look, every glint of defiance, every softness she tried to hide. He knew the rhythms of her breath, the way her voice cracked when she tried not to cry. He knew her.
And still… he didn’t know what she would choose.
The prophecy surfaced once more, unbidden—not just the betrayal, not just her in black—but the line Elspeth had spoken as an afterthought, as if it meant nothing and everything all at once:
“The blood will choose, but the stone must break.”
He had never understood that part.
Was he the stone? Hardened by war, pride, and legacy?
Or was Isla?
Or had their bond already cracked under the weight of mistrust?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that his heart no longer felt like his own.
No other woman had ever affected him like this.
No other woman had ever made him feel like less of a man… and more human.
And that terrified him.
He sank into the nearest chair, muscles trembling, and buried his face in his hands.
He had failed before—too many times to count.
As a brother, he’d let Alastair take the fall for mistakes born of his own pride. As a prince, he’d chosen power over mercy, commanding with a fist when perhaps a softer word would’ve sufficed. And as a man… he had become something brittle. Hardened. Obsessed with control.
But Isla…
She’d seen past the armor. Had looked at him—really looked—like he was more than titles, more than bloodline and blade. She hadn’t feared him, not truly. Even when she should have.
With her, he wasn’t Lachlan the heir or the war-born son. He was just Lachlan.
And that terrified him.
She made him want to be better—not for duty, not for legacy… but for her. For the man he glimpsed in her eyes.
Maybe even for himself.
He rose from the chair and crossed to the hearth. The fire had consumed her ribbon entirely. Only a curl of smoke remained, ghosting up the chimney like a final breath.
He watched it disappear.
Then, softly:
“Tell me what lies in your heart, Isla,” he whispered to the flames, fists curling at his sides. “Before I offer you mine.”