Page 40 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

“I’d like to raise me concerns about recent raids along the western border,” Councilman Douglas Graham spoke first. “Rumors of bandits, perhaps deserters from rival clans, have grown and we need to increase patrols or fortify key outposts.”

Michael leaned back in his chair, his sharp blue eyes cutting across the room. “The patrols are doubled already, Douglas.Reinforcements will take time, and the harvest is nearly upon us. We cannae leave the fields unguarded.”

Andrew MacLeod cleared his throat. “Speakin’ of the harvest… reports say the yield looks better than last year’s, but there’s still the matter of storage. If winter hits hard again, we’ll be needin’ trade agreements in place. Perhaps the Camerons… or even the Grants.”

“Trade?” Henry Ross scoffed, stepping closer to the desk. “What we need is security, nae bargains with neighbors who could turn on us in a heartbeat. Alliances are built through blood, nae barley.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “And what would ye suggest, Ross?”

Henry spread his hands. “Marriage, me laird. A strong match could tie us to another clan’s strength. With yer son still sickly, aye, gettin’ better, but still frail, the clan needs more heirs. Ye cannae ignore it forever.”

Michael’s hand slammed down on the desk, rattling the inkwell and scattering papers.

“Enough!” he roared, rising to his full height. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Ross’, and the room fell into a tense silence. “I warned ye the last time this was mentioned, did I nae? Ye seem to think me a man to make idle threats.”

Ross’ smirk faltered, his complexion paling. “Me laird, I meant nay offense?—”

“Guards!” Michael barked. The door flew open, and two armed men stepped inside, their expressions stony. “Take Councilman Ross to the cells. He’ll cool his heels there until he learns to hold his tongue.”

Ross’ protests were swift and loud. “Me laird, this is an outrage! Ye cannae treat a member of the council with such disrespect!”

“Disrespect?” Michael’s voice was deathly calm now, more dangerous than his shout. He stepped around the desk, towering over Henry. “Disrespect is ignorin’ the word of yer laird, flingin’ yer petty schemes at me when the clan’s survival is already me every thought.”

The guards hauled a sputtering Henry from the room, his protests fading as the door shut behind him. Michael turned his icy gaze on the remaining council members, who shifted uneasily under the weight of his fury.

“Let this serve as a warnin’ to the lot of ye,” he said, his voice like steel. “Mention marriage—or heirs—again, and ye’ll find yerselves keepin’ Ross company in the cells. Do ye understand me?”

“Aye, me laird,” came the murmured chorus.

Satisfied, Michael strode back to his desk, the tension in the room thick enough to choke. He sat down heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. These men had no idea the weight he bore, the sleepless nights by his son’s bedside, the endless battles to keep the clan thriving despite the constant threats from within and without.

“Get out,” he said wearily. “And next time I summon ye, come prepared to speak on matters that truly matter.”

The council filed out in silence, their usual arrogance tempered by fear. When the door closed behind them, Michael leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames. The firelight reflected in his eyes, a reminder of the simmering rage he kept tightly leashed.

Michael stormed down the dimly lit corridor, his boots striking the stone floor with purpose. The echoes followed him, but his thoughts drowned out the sound. Fury still burned in his veins from the council meeting, but beneath it lurked something else, a restlessness he couldn’t shake.

Without thinking, his steps carried him to Freya’s chamber. He didn’t knock. He refused to this time.

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside.

Freya stood near the vanity, her back to him, dressed only in her shift and stays. Her long, auburn hair spilled down her back, half-loose from its braid. She turned at the sound of the door, her eyes widening in alarm.

He froze. The sight of her, bare shoulders glowing in the candlelight, lips parted in surprise, hit him like a fist to the gut. His breath hitched, and for one treacherous moment, he couldn’t look away.

Heat curled low in his stomach, tightening like a snare. She was beautiful, more beautiful than he could have imagined, and far too tempting.

Before he could say anything, Freya stepped toward him, her expression softening. “Michael?”

Her voice undid him.

In three quick strides, he closed the space between them, his hand cupping her face.

“I’ve had enough of holdin’ back,” he growled, and a moment later, his lips crashed down on hers.

She gasped against his mouth, but her surprise melted into something else, something dangerous. Her hands slid up his chest, and he groaned, pulling her closer, as if he could devour her whole.

The kiss deepened, fierce and desperate, like a man drowning and clinging to the only thing that could save him. He tasted fire and honey, and for a moment, nothing else mattered… not the council, not his son, not the weight of his clan’s expectations. Only her.