Page 88 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Alistair’s eyes widened, and for a moment, Rowan saw fear there, real fear, the kind that came from staring into the face of death and knowing there was no escape.
But then the old man’s expression shifted, and his smile returned, wider now, more desperate.
“Fine,” he said, and the word hung in the air like a death sentence. “Kill him. Spare me, and I will set her free.”
The young man’s face went white. His hands stopped trembling. His eyes, wide and confused, flicked from Alistair to Rowan and back again, searching for something, an explanation, a reason, a sign that he had misheard.
“Uncle?” His voice was small, barely a whisper. “What are ye sayin’?”
“I am sayin’ that ye are expendable, boy.” Alistair did not look at him. His eyes were fixed on Rowan, watching and waiting. “I have kept ye alive all these years because ye were useful, because yer existence gave me leverage over yer braither. But if I have to choose between yer life and mine, I will choose mine. Every time.”
The young man staggered back a step, and the blade fell away from Elspeth’s throat. The child cried out and stumbled toward the wall, pressing herself against the cold stone, her small body shaking with sobs.
“Ye raised me,” he said, his voice cracking. “Ye told me ye loved me. Ye said ye were the only one who cared, the only one who wanted me, the only one who saw me worth.”
“I lied.” Alistair’s voice was emotionless. “I have always lied. Ye were a tool, boy. A weapon. And now yer usefulness has come to an end.”
The young man’s face crumpled, and Rowan watched as years of manipulation and abuse and twisted loyalty collapsed in on themselves like a house built on sand.
“Ye told me Rowan hated me,” the young man rasped, tears streaming down his face now, unchecked and unashamed. “Ye told me he sent me away because I was weak, because I was aburden, because he couldnae bear to look at me after the plague killed everyone else.”
“I lied.”
“Ye told me that me maither didnae want me, that she abandoned me because I was cursed, because I was bad luck, because I brought the plague upon our family.”
“I lied.”
“Ye told me…” The young man’s breath hitched, and he pressed his hand to his mouth. A sob escaped despite his efforts to contain it. “Ye told me I was worthless. That I would never be anythin’. That ye only kept me alive was because ye were kind, because ye were generous, because ye were the only person in the world who could ever love me.”
Alistair said nothing. He only stood there with the knife still pressed to Sorcha’s throat, watching the young man fall apart with an expression that might have been boredom or might have been contempt or might have been nothing at all.
The young man’s eyes found Rowan’s, and in them, Rowan saw the truth.
Gordon. Me braither. Alive. He has been alive all these years.
The realization hit him, and he staggered back a step, his sword lowering slightly.
His brother. His baby brother, the boy he had mourned, the boy he had buried in his heart, was standing here in this dark and crumbling place with a blade in his hand and tears on his face.
Alistair kept him hidden. He lied. He has been manipulatin’ him all this time.
“Gordon,” Rowan said, and the name came out rough, broken. “Gordon, it is me. It is Rowan. I didnae ken. I didnae ken ye were alive. I thought… I was told?—”
Gordon’s eyes went wide, and the knife slipped from his hand and clattered to the stone floor. “Rowan? Rowan, is it truly ye?”
But Alistair was not finished. His face twisted with rage, and he raised his knife, ready to slit Sorcha’s throat, ready to kill, ready to destroy everything Rowan loved because he could not have it for himself.
Rowan saw the movement and acted before he could think. He drove forward, his sword cutting through the air, and struck Alistair’s hand hard, sending the knife spinning across the floor.
Alistair cried out and stumbled back. Sorcha fell to her knees, free at last, her hands still bound but her throat free of cold steel.
Rowan did not hesitate. He drove his sword forward, and the blade sank into Alistair’s chest, deep and true. He watched the light fade from his uncle’s eyes.
Alistair fell to the floor, his blood spreading across the stone in a dark, spreading pool. Rowan stood over him, breathing hard, his sword still in his hand and his heart pounding in his chest.
It is done. He cannae hurt them anymore. He cannae hurt anyone anymore.
He turned and fell to his knees beside Sorcha, his hands shaking as he reached for the ropes binding her wrists. His fingers fumbled with the knots, and he cursed under his breath. Then the ropes fell away, and she was in his arms, and he was holding her so tightly that he feared he might break her.
