Page 68 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Leighton’s grin widened. “Took ye long enough.”

Michael dinnae waste words. He lunged, sword flashing toward Leighton’s throat?—

But Leighton was fast. Too fast. And Michael was already tired from fighting. That was Leighton’s plan all along. Exhaust him, make him weaker, and then take him on.

At the last second, Michael twisted, dodging the strike, but before he could recover, a sharp pain lanced through his arm. Leighton had pulled a blade from his belt and sliced deep into Michael’s bicep.

Michael stumbled back, cursing, gripping his wounded arm as blood oozed between his fingers. His vision swayed for a briefmoment, as a strange heat started pulsing through his veins. Then he felt it. His stomach clenched. His limbs turned sluggish.

Poison.

Leighton clicked his tongue. “Ah, now ye feel it, don’t ye?” He turned the small blade between his fingers, the tip still slick with Michael’s blood. “A lovely little mixture, this. Slow enough that ye’ll still ken what’s happenin’ when I gut ye.”

Michael forced his body to stay upright, forced himself to raise his sword again.

Leighton laughed. “Oh, go on, then. Be the hero, me laird. See how far that gets ye.”

Then he moved. Michael barely blocked the first strike. His arm screamed in protest and his vision blurred for half a breath too long. Leighton’s next attack sent him staggering, his knees nearly buckling down.

“A shame, truly,” Leighton mused, circling him. “I thought ye’d last longer.”

Michael clenched his jaw, forcing his body to obey. “Daenae make the mistake of understimatin’ yer enemy.”

Leighton lunged. Michael met him head-on, but his movements were slower now. The poison was spreading, dragging him down like chains wrapped around his limbs.

And then?—

Leighton knocked his sword from his grip.

Pain flared as Michael hit the ground. He reached for his dagger, but Leighton’s boot pressed against his wrist, pinning it to the dirt.

“This is how it ends, Michael.” Leighton crouched over him, pressing his poisoned knife against Michael’s throat. His grin was pure satisfaction. “Do ye have any last words?”

Michael bared his teeth, ready to spit his final defiance?—

But then, a blur of movement and suddenly, Leighton wasgone. Michael gasped, rolling onto his side just in time to see him stumble back, off balance. He quickly realized what had happened. Freya had slammed into him with all her strength. She hadthrownherself at him.

Leighton snarled, regaining his footing, his face twisting in rage, but Michael didn’t waste the chance. With a growl, he forced himself upright, gripping his fallen dagger. The poison burned through his veins, his body threatening to collapse, but he ignored it.

Hewould notfall. Not yet.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Freya barely had time to think.

Her breath came in frantic gasps as she scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering so loud she could hear it over the sounds of battle.

Leighton had nearly killed Michael. She had seen it in his eyes, the cruel satisfaction, the way his blade had pressed against Michael’s throat. If she had waited even a moment longer… she banished the thought from her mind.

Leighton staggered, regaining his balance after her desperate attack. His head snapped toward her, and the fury in his gaze made her blood run cold.

“Ye filthy little wench.” His voice was a growl. His face twisted in a snarl as he took a step toward her. “I should’ve slit yer throat the moment I took ye.”

Freya’s pulse pounded in terror, but she didn’t retreat. She had a knife in her hand, having taken it from one of the dead men, but that was little against a man twice her size, fueled by rage. All she could do was stand her ground, even as he raised his blade, even as he came for her with death in his eyes.

But then, something happened. There was the faintest shift in the air. Something in Leighton’s expression flickered. A realization… but all too late.

Steel plunged through his back. Leighton’s body jolted, his mouth falling open in a soundless gasp. His eyes, now wild with shock, flicked down to the tip of a sword now protruding from his chest.