Page 52 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Her throat tightened, but her voice did not waver. “With you. The prisoner remains here. I will not free him. I will not be the instrument of my father’s schemes again.”

The silence that followed was not empty; it was weighted, deliberate. Cameron studied her as if recalibrating something long unsettled.

“I have heard enough,” he said at last. “You did not choose him.”

Her breath caught, though she did not move.

“But do not mistake that,” he continued, his tone firm, unyielding, “for trust restored.” His gaze held hers, steady as drawn steel. “That must be earned.”

She nodded once. “I understand.”

“Your father cannot remain here,” Cameron said. “Not another night.”

Pain flared sharp and sudden, but Destiny did not argue. If it meant her father’s death at the hands of the Mackenzies, then so be it.

“Do what you must,” she said softly. “I will not stand in your way.”

His eyes lingered on her, searching. “Nor will you stand apart from the consequences.”

She lifted her chin. “Nor would I wish to.”

Something shifted then, not mended, not forgiven, but redefined. No bargain. No illusion. Only a choice, made clear-eyed and costly.

Cameron stepped back, giving her space rather than comfort. “We will see what comes of this,” he said.

And for the first time, Destiny understood exactly what that meant. And accepted it.

*

The great hall was hushed when Cameron summoned her father before the fire. A few warriors lingered near the walls, their presence to be witnesses to what must be done. Destiny stood at Cameron’s side, her palms damp in her skirts, her heart hammering with dread.

Her father strode forward, cloak sweeping behind him, his head held high as though he were not a man with no coin, but a lord still in command of his fortune. His eyes flicked to Destiny briefly—accusing, wounded—and then fixed on Cameron.

“You have no right to put me on trial in front of your men,” he said, voice hard. “I am here as your kin by marriage.”

“You are here,” Cameron replied evenly, “as a guest who bartered with our enemies for coin. The Mackenzies paid you for the freedom of their kinsman, and you sought to use my wife to see it done.” His voice sharpened. “That is no kin. That is betrayal.”

Murmurs rippled among the warriors. Destiny’s stomach twisted. She drew breath to defend him, the instinct as old as childhood—yet the words stalled, hollow even before they were spoken. What lay before her would not be denied. She stood motionless, bearing each cutting word.

Her father’s face flushed dark. “Betrayal? You speak of betrayal? Look at yourself, Munro. They call you Butcher for a reason. Do you think I did not hear the stories before I brought my daughter here? Do you think the Mackenzies call you that out of envy? You earned it through blood spilled without mercy. Through slaughter. And now you drape yourself in righteousness, while you accuse me of betrayal?”

The word Butcher echoed through the hall. Destiny flinched, her chest tightening. She saw Cameron’s jaw clench, his eyes narrowing, his fury coiled but contained.

He stepped forward, his presence filling the hall, his voice low and hard enough to chill the air. “Aye, they call me Butcher because when they came with fire and steel, I gave them blood for every man, woman, and child they threatened. I will wear that name if it means my clan stands safe behind these walls.”

The men bowed their heads at his words, grim but approving.

Cameron turned his gaze back to Destiny’s father, cold as winter stone. “But I will not bear betrayal in my own hall from you or your daughter. Since Destiny has promised not to free the prisoner again, she will stay. However, you will leave Foulis by nightfall. And if the Mackenzies seek to use you again, they will find no ally here.”

Her father’s eyes burned with fury.

He looked at Destiny, his mouth twisting. “You chose this man over me? A butcher who will drag you into ruin? Mark my words, child, when the Mackenzies strike again, they will make you a widow.”

Destiny’s breath hitched, but Cameron’s hand found hers, firm and steady, as if anchoring her against the venom.

Her father spat on the floor and turned, his cloak snapping as he strode from the hall. The silence he left was heavy, laced with fear and anger both.

Destiny’s chest ached with shame, grief, and relief all tangled together. She had spoken the truth to Cameron, but hearing her father’s scorn made it all too raw.