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Tired, that’s how you’d felt for the past seven months.

Of course, you were happy, overflowing with love for the life growing inside your belly. But God, did you wish they were born already. This wasn’t your first babe, after all. You already had a few little Mactavishes running around to look after, and now, you were growing another.

It had been years since that fateful night. Years filled with discovery, with life in the Highlands. Your body, mind, and soul had taken to the changes well, once you'd accepted that fate had brought you here for a reason.

And that reason stepped out the door, stumbling into the sunlight at just the right moment.

He was broader now, if that were even possible. Maybe he’d put on some weight alongside you during the pregnancy, his own strange way of offering support. He was softer, yes, but you loved him all the same. His thighs were still thick with muscle, strong enough to lift you whenever you needed, you or the little ones who now raced across the garden to meet their father.

If there was one thing you could never fault Johnny for, it was his boundless love for his children. From the moment the first was born, he had been nothing but a devoted father, tending to every need before you even had to ask. Even as the chief of the clan, he never once let his duties as a father fall by the wayside.

Johnny had always loved children, always dreamed of a big family. Growing up with seven siblings would do that to a person. You’d once told him, back when you married, that you wouldn’t go through eight pregnancies. And yet, here you were now, safely carrying the fifth.

Yours had been the sweetest of marriages, a blend of christian traditions and sacred Celtic rites, the perfect union of you and Johnny, in every way that mattered.

Nerves were eating you alive.

Left alone after Johnny’s sister helped you dress, you stood before the mirror, watching yourself. Waiting. For what, you didn’t quite know.

It felt strange to be in a wedding gown again, especially after what had happened the first time you wore one. The memory threatened to pull you into panic, but you reminded yourself: it wouldn’t happen again. The war was over, it had been a year and peace lasted. No one was looking for you anymore.

Not even your own family.

News of your mother’s passing had reached you months ago, and the grief still lingered. She had likely been the only one back home who still believed you were alive. After her death, and still burdened with guilt over the battle that had taken place here,  you had made the decision to stay.

To stay forever.

Perhaps Johnny had something to do with that choice.

The way he looked at you. The way his hands always lingered, warm and steady. The way he had held you through your mourning. The way he’d gone and called for a new priest when the village’s old one passed. When he asked, formally, to bind his life to yours, you had said yes without hesitation. All those quiet, loving gestures… they made you fall for him.

And now, here you were.

A firm knock pulled you from your memories.

When the door creaked open, Sir John stepped inside. Though, he simply went by John now—the French knight was long gone. He was a Highlander these days, through and through. He trained the village’s young men, sat at Johnny’s council and had even found himself a woman to share his life with.

She had lost her husband in the battle, left to raise two babes on her own. And John, ever the quiet protector, had stepped in. They had met when the council had offered help to widows and families that had lost their father, brother or son. From the second he had seen her, John had felt the need to help her—after months of kindness and warmth, she had fallen in love. Just like John had.

He loved her children as though they were his own, and his affection for their mother was plain in every glance, every touch.

Once, as your personal knight, he had sworn an oath never to marry. His life had belonged to you , his sword, his loyalty, his every breath. It was heartwarming. Now, as your eyes caught the glint of a simple ring on his finger, a soft smile spread across your lips. You were happy for him.

He was still by your side, always, but things had changed. His priorities had shifted, and you were no longer a woman in danger. No one in the clan would dare harm you now, not the future bride of their Chief. He was ready to let another take care of you.

More than that, you had found your place here. Slowly, quietly, you’d begun walking the village paths, speaking with the people, learning their ways, their stories, their customs. And in time, they welcomed you. Loved you. As deeply as you had come to love them.

There was no talk of war anymore. No whispers of kingslaying, no embers of revolution. The French court, once the centre of your world, was far behind you now. Left in the past, a past you had once clung to with shaking hands, unwilling to let go.

But you had. At last.

"You look beautiful," John said softly, his eyes filled with quiet wonder at the woman you had become.

"Thank you," you whispered, still gazing at the delicate details of your dress, fingers brushing over the fabric as if grounding yourself in the moment. "You think he's going to like it?"

The dress was far more extravagant than the first one you had worn—the one that had ended up stained with blood. That dress had been plain and simple, nothing like the one you were wearing now. The lace detailing was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen: an intricate blend of leaves and flowers carefully sewn into the fabric.

“He’d be a fool not to,” John chuckled, clearly amused by your doubts, as if Johnny could ever dislike anything about you. “The boy worships the ground you walk on. I’m certain he’ll be overjoyed to see you in a wedding dress, darling.”

That made you laugh a little too. Johnny had been nothing but loving toward you since what happened in the chapel. Just thinking about this night made you feel guilty, the way you had been sinning in God's house, but it had felt so good, you didn't truly regret it. If anything, you were eager for more. 

Johnny had always been ready to give everything, to wait for you as long as you needed, but you had insisted on remaining pure in the eyes of God until your wedding. Even if he didn’t share your beliefs, he had never pressured you.

“Are you not happy?” John asked gently, his hands settling on your shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

“Of course I am,” you replied immediately, conviction in your voice. “I just… I cannot stop thinking about what happened the last time I wore a wedding dress.”

John sighed softly behind you before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “Nothing like that will ever happen again,” he said, trying to reassure you.

And while you wanted to believe him, fear still lingered. That day had been traumatic, just like the night the Englishmen had attacked the village. It had all been because of you. Men had died for you, and you had never wanted any of it to happen.

But the war was over. The Highlands were quiet now, and across Scotland, the echoes of battle had finally faded. The English had retreated, no one was hunting you, no banners waved with threats. Safety, at last, had wrapped its arms around you, but your mind refused to follow.

Guilt clung to you like a shadow, forged into your bones since childhood. Guilt for being a woman and not a warrior, guilt for surviving when others had fallen, guilt in the eyes of God for daring to love a man who did not share your faith. Even now, surrounded by calm and laughter, the memories of blood and screams clawed at the edges of your consciousness.

“Stop all this,” John’s voice broke through, firm yet gentle, dragging you back to the present. His hands rested lightly on your shoulders, anchoring you. “Today we celebrate. Everything else, leave it for another day.”

And all the guilt, all the fear, was instantly forgotten as you walked up the aisle of the small castle chapel, guided gently by John.

The wooden floor creaked softly under your steps, the faint scent of burning candles mingling with the fresh Highland air drifting through the open windows. Sunlight streamed through the small stained-glass panels, painting fragments of colour across the stone walls, falling on your dress and making it glow with a soft warmth.

Johnny waited at the altar, a calm yet radiant presence, his posture straight, shoulders squared, yet there was a tension in him you could almost feel even from this distance. He was clad in a black wool jacket, a matching belt cinched over his kilt, the tartan draped over his shoulder blending seamlessly with the Mactavish Clan colours, perfectly mirroring the pattern of his kilt. Even the same tartan traced along his knee-high socks, subtle but deliberate. A symbol of loyalty, heritage, and pride.

A memory of his father and his legacy.

The very same colours that would soon become yours seemed to blaze brighter in that light, marking the beginning of something unshakable, something eternal.

Every step you took brought you closer, yet time itself seemed to slow. The soft rustle of your dress echoed in the quiet chapel, mingling with the faint scent of lavender from the bouquets lining the aisle. The warmth of John’s hand guiding yours was an anchor to the present, grounding you, reassuring you that this, this was right.

Johnny was watching you with a storm of emotions in his eyes. He tried to hide it, as he always did, but it was impossible, impossible for either of you. Your own eyes were already glistening with tears, and the moment his gaze met yours, just after he had taken in the sight of you in your wedding dress, every thought and worry melted away.

And when you finally reached him, standing before him in that quiet chapel, you knew that every danger, every tear, every moment of fear had been worth it. The world outside could rage on, but in this moment, nothing existed but the promise in his eyes and the tartan that now bound you together.

Now that you were by his side, even with the white veil concealing part of your vision, you could see the tears lingering in his eyes as he took your hand from John's. He nodded respectfully to your old knight.

It was symbolic. John had spent your entire life protecting you. Now, he was finally letting go.

The ceremony was simple, soft, and intimate. Even though Johnny had not been a believer for a long time, he honoured your faith, speaking his vows under the protection of the God you believed in.

For the past year, you had drifted away from your faith, only to return to it changed. You had washed away your sins, but you had also renounced the guilt you once felt over the love and pleasures life had to offer. You still believed, but you were no longer the utterly faithful woman you used to be.

However, t was still important to you to be married in the eyes of God. When you had explained your feelings to Johnny, worried about how he might react, he had simply agreed. Almost like it wasn't that big of a demand—even though you were asking to be married under the God he believed had killed his mother.

He had been with you through every moment of doubt, through every conversation and every question. He knew it all. Accepting it had not been difficult for him, so long as, at the end of the day, he could call you his wife. He had once believed in the same God. He would oblige.

After a kiss made you a married woman, you walked down the aisle with your husband under the cries of joy from the crowd.

Gone was the name that tied you to the French monarchy, you had become a Highland woman, symbolised by the ring resting on your finger. It was simple, but you could see the countless hours the jeweller had spent crafting it, along with the soft stone carefully carved into the gold band.

On Johnny's finger rested a simple gold band, one he had chosen himself, not wanting anything too fancy. What you had yet to notice were your initials engraved inside it, just as his were engraved inside yours—a small surprise he planned to reveal later.

While everyone else headed to the main hall for the celebrations, you and Johnny parted ways with the crowd and made your way to his mother's clearing, beneath his favourite tree. Under its branches stood Duncan, a man who had been like an uncle to Johnny his entire life, ready to unite you in the way of the Clan.

This had been Johnny's compromise. He would marry you under the eyes of a God he no longer believed in but he would also marry you in the way of his people—the traditional ceremony he had dreamed about since the moment he had set eyes on you.

As he held your hands and repeated the sacred words along with you, you saw the longing in his eyes. Sadness briefly overtook him as he wished the man standing before you could have been his father.

The feeling vanished as quickly as it had come when he turned to look at you.

Draping his tartan over your shoulders, he promised to care for you, love you, and cherish you until the end of his days. It was a promise you repeated back through tears. It had been so long since you had cried this much, but this time, it felt good.

After the vows had been exchanged once more, you turned toward Duncan as he tied your hands together. The ribbon was, as expected, made in the colours of Clan Mactavish. It was a sweet ceremony, one that felt real and sincere.

When you entered the main hall where everyone had been waiting for you, you were greeted by loud applause and joyful cheers. Hand in hand, you smiled as you made your way to the largest table, sitting in the centre beside Johnny—starting the feast.

The joy of the feast was heartwarming as you ate, drank, danced, and laughed.

There was nothing but smiles and love, everyone united like one large family. For someone so far from her own, it filled an empty place in your heart, even more so now that you were sitting on Johnny's lap.

It would not have been considered proper in France, but things were different here. No one batted an eye when Johnny pulled you onto his lap after you returned from dancing with his sisters.

The wine flowing through your veins made you less concerned with etiquette, so you simply accepted it.

It was nice, and it felt even better when Johnny fed you pieces of meat from his plate. Something primal inside you burst into flame as you felt the strength of his body pressed against yours while he cared for you, fed you.

Every now and then, he would press kisses to your cheek or neck without a hint of shame. He even did it in the middle of conversations with John sitting right beside him. Both men were slightly drunk on wine, neither of them finding anything improper about it.

The sweet moment shattered when you felt Johnny's body stiffen beneath you.

Pausing your conversation with one of his sisters, you turned toward him and watched his expression harden as he stared at the main door.

There stood Isla.

Although a year had passed, Johnny had yet to forgive her. She had been cast out of the castle, though not from the town as she lived alone.

From time to time, you visited her, knowing what it was like to be consumed by guilt. She had always been kind to you, you did not blame her for what had happened. If anything, you still blamed yourself—a thing Johnny hated, always trying to change your mind.

Johnny did not like that you went to see her, but he allowed it. Deep down, you knew it was because he wanted news of his sister as well. He simply needed time.

"I invited her," you whispered to Johnny.

Frowning, his eyes turned toward you. The moment they met yours, they softened. Tilting his head, he clicked his tongue and released a long sigh.

"Mo ghràdh..." he muttered, shaking his head. "I—"

"You need to forgive her," you cut him off. "Every time I visit her, you pretend not to listen when I tell you how she's doing, but I know you are."

He was already preparing to deny it, as he always did whenever Isla was mentioned, but you spoke first.

"Do not lie to your wife now," you scolded, holding your index finger in front of his face.

He closed his mouth. Then a spark of mischief crossed his eyes, and he nipped lightly at the finger pointed at him. Laughing as you pulled your hand away, you swatted his shoulder before rolling your eyes.

"It's time to make amends, my love," you whispered, your hands cupping his cheeks.

"If it wasn't for her," he started, his voice low as he looked anywhere but at you, "my father would have been here."

"No, Johnny," you replied softly, shaking your head. "The English would have come here eventually, and you know it. You know it, but it's easier to blame her."

Looking back toward the large doors, you watched Isla staring at the two of you. Her eyes were filled with tears she refused to let fall. Her fingers twisted together anxiously, as she looked like she might faint at any moment.

When you turned back to your husband, his gaze had returned to his sister. You could see the turmoil in his eyes, the battle raging within him as he struggled to decide what to do.

"Alright, yes," he sighed, dropping his head onto your shoulder.

Before lifting it again, he pressed a kiss to your skin.

Then he gently got the both of you up before helping you back into his chair, finding comfort in seeing you seated in a place that belonged to him.

With soft eyes, you watched him cross the room toward his sister. He did not stop directly in front of her, merely spoke a few words you couldn't hear before the two of them left the hall together. Taking a deep breath, you hoped with all your heart that this would end well.

One of the reasons you had fallen in love with Johnny was the depth of his love for his family, for his siblings. For what it meant to be the eldest brother.

You had watched him care for the younger ones and patiently listen to the complaints of the older ones. He truly cherished the role he had been given. You knew he missed Isla and this reconciliation was long overdue.

To take your mind off them, you decided it was time to dance again. The music was lively, and you joined the children, taking their hands and following their playful steps. The moon climbed higher into the sky, and fatigue began to settle pleasantly into your bones—a reminder that the day had been full and fulfilling.

With no sign of Johnny, you eventually returned to your table, sitting down with a contented sigh as your muscles relaxed. Beside you, John glanced your way, offering a warm smile before returning to his conversation.

That was when Johnny reentered the hall, Isla following close behind.

Even from across the room, you could tell they had both been crying, their eyes were red, but matching smiles rested on their faces. The moment Johnny's sisters spotted Isla, they rushed toward her, pulling her away to dance.

You knew they visited her often. The only member of the family who had never gone to her new home was Johnny.

Once he reached you, he leaned down and kissed you firmly. A kiss that said a lot. Thank you. I love you.

At the same time, he pulled you up before he dropped into his chair and you onto his lap with a single tug, making you stumble into his arms.

"Thank you," he murmured against your ear before pressing another kiss to your cheek.

His words needed no response. You simply smiled and kissed him again.

Together, you watched as all of his sisters danced across the hall, laughing loudly as they spun in circles hand in hand, filled with a childlike innocence.

Nearly another hour passed before exhaustion finally caught up with you. The night was still young, but keeping your eyes open was becoming increasingly difficult. Johnny noticed.

With you still perched on his lap, he helped you to your feet before standing himself. Without a word, he took your hand and began leading you toward the side door that connected to the main chambers.

The chambers you would now share.

No one commented as you crossed the room, but the knowing smiles and amused glances were enough to make your cheeks and neck burn with both excitement and apprehension.

You knew exactly where Johnny was leading you.

Even though you had dreamed of this moment ever since that day in the chapel, a small part of you remained nervous. His hand remained warm around yours as he guided you along int the corridors and into your new chambers before quietly closing the door behind him.

His eyes lingered on you as you stood awkwardly in the centre of the room.

His head tilted slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. For the first time all day, it felt as though you were truly looking at him and he was undoubtedly the most handsome you had ever seen him.

He was broader than when you had first met, the responsibilities of being Chief strengthening him both physically and mentally. His thighs were powerful—almost unfairly so—and he flexed them deliberately when he noticed your gaze lingering, like he always did.

A slight frown crossed your face when your eyes landed on the stubborn scar on his knee, the one that refused to heal properly because Johnny refused to leave it alone.

His stomach pressed faintly against the fabric of his shirt tucked into his kilt, while his arms bulged as he crossed them over his chest. You had never imagined yourself being attracted to a man with his physique—strong, broad, and imposing.

Perhaps it was because men like him simply did not exist where you came from.

"Like what ye see?" Johnny teased, his smirk widening. "Ye should, I am yer husband now. I sure like how me wife looks."

The word made you smile immediately. It was a childish reaction, perhaps, but you could not help it.

In return, Johnny gave you the same bright, excited smile, remaining on his face as he approached. He moved with the confidence of a predator, his gaze fixed entirely on you. And in a way, you were his prey.

The difference was that you had no desire to run.

Yet the pounce never came. Instead, Johnny circled around you and stopped behind your back. His hands settled on your hips before sliding across your waist, drawing you gently against him.

Once satisfied with the closeness between your bodies, he lowered his lips to your neck and bare shoulders, placing soft kisses against skin untouched by fabric.

"Ye're the most beautiful lass I have ever seen in me life," he whispered against your skin, his lips barely leaving it. "From the first time I saw ye... I ken it was ye."

His words brought tears to your eyes. Your hands settled on his forearms, which were wrapped around your waist.

"It wasn't mutual," you joked, though Johnny already knew how you had felt about him back then.

Against your skin, you felt the rumble of his laughter. His arms tightened around you for a moment before they disappeared but not his body. His warmth remained right behind you while his fingers worked at the ties of your dress.

He moved slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop him if you wished.

Once the dress was completely untied, feeling strangely like déjà vu, he pushed the heavy fabric from your shoulders, pooling at your feet with a soft thud.

There you stood, dressed only in your underdress. The fact that he remained behind you made you uneasy, you wanted to see him, to see his eyes.

What if he did not like what he saw?

You wanted to look at him and know that he still loved what was before him. Your mind worked against you as your arms rose instinctively, trying to conceal your breasts through the sheer fabric, as well as your stomach.

"Nae, nae, nae," Johnny murmured softly from behind you before stepping around to stand in front of you.

There they were. His eyes. Filled with nothing but love and concern.

"I just want to see you," you whispered, unable to speak any louder.

"Aye," he replied with the gentlest smile.

A moment later, his lips found yours.

Instinctively, your arms dropped, only to rise again around his neck. Against your lips, you felt him smile at the gesture before his hands returned to your hips, pulling you closer.

For several long moments, you stood kissing in the middle of the room.

It had been a year since you had felt his lips. Though he had courted you—and you had accepted his courtship—you had denied yourself nearly all physical affection beyond holding his hand or allowing him to kiss your forehead and cheeks.

Only now did you realize how much you had missed it. How much you had missed him.

"My wife," Johnny murmured against your lips as he slowly guided you backward toward the bed.

Once you were seated on its edge, he remained standing before you. With a teasing nod, he silently encouraged you to move farther back toward the headboard.

You obeyed carefully, aware of how shaky your hands felt, until you were settled against the heavy pillows. Once you were comfortable, Johnny removed your shoes, pressing a kiss to the top of each foot before tossing both shoes and stockings behind him.

He did the same with his own before pulling his shirt over his head.

It was a sight for sore eyes.

The candlelight, lit by the maids before your arrival, cast a warm glow over him. The room felt impossibly intimate, as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

The stone walls were thick enough to silence the celebration still raging elsewhere in the castle.

Here, now, you were alone with your husband.

Warmth returned to your cheeks and neck as Johnny climbed onto the bed beside you. As gently as possible, he settled over you before kissing you again. It was the first time your hands explored his body without even a trace of shame or guilt.

Those feelings were gone. All that remained was the excitement of sharing your love with him.

His body pressed against yours, every movement making the muscles beneath his skin shift and flex.

"Johnny," you breathed softly against his lips when you felt him press closer.

You might have been a virgin, but you understood how these things worked. Back in France, you had spoken with women who were far more reserved than the women you had met in Scotland.

Here, women did not speak of intimacy as a burden to endure. They spoke of pleasure, trust and sharing a part of themselves with someone they loved. It was exactly how you had hoped your first time would be—especially with Johnny.

A man you loved with your whole heart.

"I'm here," Johnny whispered back before gently catching your lower lip between his teeth.

As though reassuring you, one of his hands drifted from your neck down to your hip, where he squeezed lightly. In doing so, he shifted your underdress slightly higher, exposing more of your skin to the warmth of his body.

"So soft," he murmured, his hand lingering there.

As the fabric gathered higher around your thighs, you instinctively parted your legs enough to make room for him. Johnny settled between them without hesitation.

A small sound escaped your lips.

"Oh." The breathless whisper seemed to delight him.

Johnny leaned back on his haunches as his fingers slowly lifted the fabric of your underdress.

As it rose, his gaze followed the soft curves of your body and the pale marks that crossed your thighs and stomach from the weight you had regained. Those marks, along with the hair between your legs, had always made you self-conscious.

Yet there was nothing in his eyes except genuine affection.

When the fabric reached the underside of your breasts, the urge to pull it back down nearly overwhelmed you. Even after everything that had happened in the chapel—after his hands had already explored so much of you—you still felt shy beneath his gaze.

A moment later, the garment disappeared over your head entirely.

The cool air raised goosebumps across your skin, making you shiver—your first instinct was to cover yourself. But before you could, Johnny's warm hands gently caught your wrists.

His eyes raking over your body, the anxious feeling nagging at you and the chill of the room made your body shake while his hold on your wrists loosened. Once they were free, you didn't know what to do with them—until Johnny laid back on top of you.

Carefully. Making sure he wasn't putting all his weight on you.

It was the first time he had seen you naked, but he seemed to remember that it was also the first time you had been naked in front of a man.

Johnny had never hidden that he had been with women before. He had told you very soon after the courtship started, wanting you to know who you would be accepting as your husband. You hadn't tried to know more, only that he wasn't seeing those women anymore, which he promised he wasn't.

That had been enough.

And in a way, it was reassuring that he knew what he was doing because, even after gossiping with the women here, you had no idea what you were doing. All you could do was follow his lead.

His lips were back on yours, his warm chest now bare against your own exposed one. The feeling of his skin was addicting. The second you felt his warmth, your shaking stopped.

Almost as if your body knew it was meant to be beside Johnny.

His kisses were growing deeper, his tongue becoming bolder by the second, and his hands were no less relentless. While he never stopped kissing you, his fingers fondled one of your breasts while his other hand kept his body from completely crushing yours.

For a few minutes, he played with your breast, making your breathing quicken and making it difficult to kiss him back. Every time you pulled away from his lips to let out little moans and whines, you could feel Johnny smiling. It was intoxicating, like you had drunk too much wine.

Before long, his fingers left your nipple and drifted between your legs, feeling how soaked you were. Even when you had tried things on your own in the middle of the night, you had never felt like this, and it had never felt as good.

Not as good as when Johnny's fingers started rubbing the little sensitive bud between your legs. He wasn't rushing, nor was he hurting you, it was the perfect amount of pressure—something you hadn't even learned for yourself.

His body leaned a little more against your right thigh, letting you feel something hard pressing against the fabric of his kilt. You didn't know if Johnny was doing it on purpose, but he was rutting softly against your skin. It felt so good, you were starting to lose your mind.

"My wife," Johnny breathed against your lips, his head dropping to your shoulder.

It was as if he was intoxicated himself, the gaelic slipping out of his mouth without him noticing. Between your legs, his fingers stopped rubbing and instead drifted lower until they were teasing your fluttering hole. At the sensation, your body immediately stiffened.

The unfamiliar feeling caused the reaction, even though you trusted Johnny with your life. Sensing it, your husband lifted his head from your shoulder and looked into your eyes.

"We dinnae have to do anything, mo ghràdh," he whispered, trying not to break the moment with speaking to loudly.

"I want to," you said in a meek voice, shifting slightly on the bed. "I'm just nervous."

After your words, Johnny sat back, looking at your face with the softest eyes you had ever seen on him.

However, the nervous feeling returned when he left the bed. Frowning, you were about to apologize, though you weren't entirely sure what for. The words died in your throat when he undid the belt of his kilt, leaving himself bare beside the bed.

Unable to stop yourself, your eyes settled on what was between his legs.

Just like the rest of him, it was covered with hair—oddly well-kept, however—with his penis resting against the lower part of his stomach. It was flushed, veined, and leaking slightly. In a strange way, you found it fascinating... and pretty.

With a gentle smile, Johnny sat back on the bed and pulled you up in front of him, sitting your up. Sitting bare before one another felt more intimate than anything you had ever done in your life.

It was the first time a man had seen your body, and the first time you had seen a man's.

Baring yourself like this, even in the dim candlelight, made it feel as though Johnny could see every one of your flaws.

However, your husband seemed to see only a dream come true.

"Ye're so pretty," Johnny whispered, unable to speak any louder.

Awkwardly, you laughed, looking down at your hands resting in your lap.

"You're really pretty too," you whispered back, meeting his eyes.

Taking your hand in his, he gently pulled you closer until you were sitting in his lap once more.

Any doubts you had once had about your weight were long gone, especially after seeing the softness on Johnny's stomach and finding it beautiful.

If you loved his softness, why wouldn't he love yours?

Once you were settled, he kept your hand in his and looked into your eyes before guiding it down, between his legs. It was warm, firm, and surprisingly soft. Your gaze fell to your hand, noticing how much larger his was than yours and how small your hand looked in comparison.

"Is this okay?" Johnny asked, his eyes never leaving your face.

Nodding, you squeezed your hand slightly, earning a sound from your husband.

When you tried to pull your hand away, worried that you might have hurt him, Johnny's hand simply tightened gently around yours—a silent reassurance that you hadn't.

After a quick glance at his face and the reassurance in his eyes, you looked back down and squeezed him again. Against your hand, you felt him twitch slightly, making you giggle.

You were becoming more familiar with him, moving your hand a little more, squeezing slightly harder here and there. It was comforting to feel his hand covering yours—simply rested there, not moving, letting you explore him.

The more comfortable you became, the more comfortable Johnny seemed to become as well.

His own exploration resumed, but this time his attention returned to your trembling hole, between your legs. You felt his fingers wander for a moment, gathering some of the wetness that had begun to coat his skin.

When he felt no resistance and sensed that your fear had eased, Johnny slowly pushed a finger inside.

"Oh," you breathed out, your fingers tightening involuntarily around him.

This continued for several minutes, your hands moving in sync as pleasure slowly built for both of you. Johnny added a second finger, his movements as slow as possible, yet enough to make you feel good.

When he touched a particular spot inside you, your forehead dropped onto his shoulder. As Johnny's shoulder shook with laughter, you couldn't help but smile along.

That smile was quickly cut short when your husband withdrew his fingers, leaving behind an emptiness you had never felt before. His hands remained gentle as he removed yours from him.

You were about to complain, but he cut off your protest, kissing you sweetly while lowering you onto your back once more.

When your head settled against the pillow, you felt more relaxed than before, though your breathing remained shaky with both pleasure and anticipation. Just as before, when Johnny leaned over you, your legs parted on their own, making room for him. This time, he pulled one of them over his hip, drawing himself closer.

"Ye're okay?" Johnny asked softly, his eyes fixed on yours.

You couldn't speak. All your emotions seemed to melt together, leaving you able to do nothing more than nod. His head tilted slightly, as though he were waiting for something more, while a faint smirk tugged at his lips.

"Yes," you finally whispered.

That was all Johnny needed before he kissed you again. It served as a small distraction as you felt a warm, hard length push into you. It wasn't painful per se, but it was filling. A sensation you weren't used to, more uncomfortable than truly painful.

It didn't stop the little uncomfortable whine from leaving your lips. It was instinctive. Johnny hadn't even moved as he was now fully inside you, he had waiting for you to adjust without you saying a word. His own instincts kicked in as well, one hand cupping your cheek as he looked into your eyes.

You knew what he was seeing: the tears gathering there, tears you refused to let fall. They weren't relevant to how you felt right now. It was simply a physical reaction, something you couldn't control.

"I'm fine," you reassured him with a smile.

Johnny didn't say anything. He simply nodded, offering a soft smile of his own. You thought that would be enough to make him move, to start thrusting, but he didn't. Instead, he leaned in and planted soft kisses all over your face.

It started with your forehead, then your eyebrows. Two little kisses landed on your eyelids, then the apples of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and both sides of your jaw before he reached your lips. He didn't kiss them immediately. He kissed both corners first, making you reach for him and whine when he barely pulled away.

"Greedy," he laughed against your lips before finally kissing them.

The kiss was soft and gentle, nothing like the rushed ones you had shared earlier. He was making sure you felt all his love and affection before choosing that moment to finally move. It was more uncomfortable than his fingers had been, but at the same time, it brushed against something inside you that made your whole body tingle.

His lips never left yours, and his thumb continued to stroke your cheek. It was comforting and intimate, everything you had always known he would be.

His movements were slow, just like his kisses—almost as if he were following the rhythm you were setting. Your lips pushed back against his, and you noticed that whenever they slowed, so did his thrusts.

Testing your theory, you slid your hands behind his neck and pulled him closer, pressing your lips harder against his. Just as you had predicted, his movements became a little stronger as well. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it more. It felt good, a warmth that spread all the way to your stomach.

Against his lips, little sounds escaped you, making him smile.

As his movements gradually picked up again, his forehead dropped to your shoulder. In response, you pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around him until his chest was pressed firmly against yours.

Your nipples were brushing against his own chest, and you found out that they were more sensitive than you thought. Everything seemed to blur together. The closeness, the warmth of his body, and the growing pleasure twisting low in your stomach.

Johnny pressed his face against your neck, leaving soft kisses along your skin. Tomorrow, the traces of them might make you blush, but right now, they only made your head spin.

Just as much as the pleasure steadily building inside you.

You hoped Johnny was feeling just as good, but it was becoming harder and harder to focus on anything except how you felt. His movements had become more urgent now, barely separating from you. His pelvis was rubbing against your clit more and more, the hair there was emphasizing the pleasure as tickling it.

Every sensation seemed amplified.

When he groaned against your neck, you answered with breathless sounds near his ear. Your legs had wrapped around him without you even realising it, holding him close. It was a little crazy how quickly you had grown used to this—to him—but you certainly weren't going to complain.

"Johnny," you breathed, a little louder than before as the tension inside you tightened.

"I ken, ugh, I ken, love," your husband replied between heavy breaths and moans.

Even the sound of his voice was enough to make your head spin. It was getting harder to focus on anything except the moment itself.

You and your husband, tangled together—body and soul.

It was almost too much. You felt suspended on the edge of something, and you knew the fall was near. You could feel how close you were, and it was reassuring to know Johnny seemed just as close.

"Tha gaol agam ort," Johnny groaned before lifting his face from your neck.

Before you could answer, his lips crashed into yours again. The kiss was hungry, filled with everything neither of you could put into words.

Not long after, the tight knot inside you finally unravelled. Your whole body tensed as you clung to him, pulling him closer. A loud, embarrassing sound escaped your lips, while a similar one left Johnny.

His hips had pushed hard on last time before he stopped completely inside of you, his pelvis against yours.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips, not trying to pull away.

The room was filled with nothing but your heavy breathing—a sort of silence that was broken by your quiet giggle. It was all the nerves finally settling, and you couldn't help it. The little giggle eventually turned into genuine laughter, one that Johnny soon joined.

Without pulling away from you, he kissed all over your face again—once more finishing with your lips. These kisses were sweet. Calmer.

Without meaning to, you felt yourself tighten around him, earning the sweetest sound you had ever heard. That made you giggle again, while Johnny dropped his head against your chest.

"Wanna stay here forever," he murmured against your sweaty skin before pressing a kiss there.

His words only made you laugh harder, to the point where the tears lingering in your eyes finally spilled over. It was a body shaking laugh, the kind that was impossible to stop once it started. It quickly became contagious, and Johnny eventually pulled out, as gently as he could, before settling beside you.

While you were still laughing, he pulled you closer until you were using his chest as a pillow. He was soft all over, making him the most comfortable thing in the room—even more comfortable than the mattress or pillows.

Once the laughter faded, you looked up at Johnny, chin against his chest, as he was now looking down at you. Both of your bodies were still warm and sweaty, but goosebumps began to rise on your skin as the chill of the room started settling in.

Reading your mind, Johnny pulled a fur blanket over both of you while drawing you even closer. Closer, for him, meant that you were now lying completely on top of him. It was a position you tried to change, worried about crushing him, but your husband didn't seem to mind at all.

"Stop moving," he groaned, his eyes closed as he fully relaxed.

Rolling your eyes, you tried wiggling out of his grip once more without success. Instead, you earned a light slap on your arse, one that you answered with a swat to his chest—his smile only widened.

"Are ye okay?" His voice was softer now. "Nothing hurts?"

His concern made you smile as you rested your head on his chest. His breathing was soothing, along with the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek, his strong heartbeat almost lulling you to sleep.

"I'm more than okay," you replied with a long, content sigh.

To reassure him further, you pressed a kiss right above his heart.

"Want to do it again," you teased.

One of your hands, which had been absentmindedly caressing his stomach, began wandering lower—a move that was quickly stopped by Johnny's warm hand. Smiling, you looked up at your husband. In his eyes, you saw nothing but admiration—not the rejection his actions could be interpreted as.

"Tomorrow," he said, guiding your hand back to his stomach. "And for the rest of our lives."

Nodding, you pushed yourself up and kissed him again. The kiss lasted longer than you expected, mostly because Johnny deepened it while his fingers ran through your hair.

Before either of you got carried away again, you pulled back and settled onto his chest once more. Even though you were used to sleeping without candlelight, however, you were far too tired to get up and Johnny seemed just as exhausted beneath you.

Instead, you shifted into a more comfortable position and closed your eyes.

If this was what every night would look like for the rest of your life, you were more than happy with it.

Your smile grew even wider as you thought about a little life growing inside you one day. Your own family, with the man you loved more than life itself. What had once felt forsaken now felt like heaven on earth, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

"The end," Johnny said, feeling exhaustion clawing at him as he sat on the floor.

"Again!" Fionn's little voice shouted as he bounced on his bed.

Shaking his head, Johnny watched his firstborn trying to pull his siblings into his enthusiasm.

Every night, his children demanded the same story—the story of their parents' love. Of course, Johnny indulged them... though he left out a few gruesome details.

Secretly, it was his favourite story to tell as well.

It was one that remained dear to his heart, even seven years later.

With a tired smile on his lips, Johnny watched his other children tucked warmly beneath their blankets, covers pulled up to their chins as they listened with drooping eyes while the oldest tried to convince his father to tell the story again.

"Fionn," Johnny said softly but firmly, glancing toward the youngest, who was already asleep.

The little boy turned toward his father, his smile fading when he saw the look in Johnny's eyes. He flopped back onto his bed, tucking his chin to his chest and Johnny knew he was trying not to cry.

Getting to his feet, the man groaned after sitting in such an uncomfortable position before making his way toward the small bed.

With gentle hands, he pulled his boy into his arms before lifting the covers and settling him back beneath the warm furs. Once he was tucked into bed, Fionn's eyes struggled to stay open, only making Johnny scoff.

"Tomorrow, boy," Johnny promised in a gentle tone. "Like always."

After his son nodded and closed his eyes for the night, Johnny kissed his forehead. He did the same for all four of his children before turning toward the door.

His body felt heavy, tired, and relaxed all at once. As he walked toward his own chambers, the smile on his lips only grew as he thought about what awaited him. His heavily pregnant wife, lying in the bed they shared, waiting for him and his warmth before calling it a night.

It was crazy how the passing years had never made Johnny love you less. If anything, with every year spent together, he only loved you more. With every child you gave him, bringing them into the world through pain and tears, he felt that love grow even stronger.

On his worst nights, he imagined what would have happened if you had returned to France. Those thoughts still haunted him.

Pushing open the heavy door, Johnny shook his head, chasing them away. His eyes immediately landed on you. You were lying on his side of the bed, your belly stretching the sheer nightdress you wore. His own pillow was tucked beneath it, but Johnny couldn't have cared less. If he had to sleep on the floor for you to be comfortable, he would.

There was nothing he wouldn't do for you.

Once fully undressed, Johnny made his way around the bed and climbed in beside you. The weather was still cool despite summer approaching, and when he lifted the covers to join you, the rush of cold air woke you.

"Johnny," you groaned, shifting around in search of a comfortable position.

As though waking up had instantly reminded you of every ache. This wasn't your first pregnancy, but seven months in, it was still exhausting. Even more so when you spent your days taking care of four small children.

"Sorry, mo ghràdh," Johnny whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder.

His body melted against yours, gathering you close and sharing his warmth.

After all these years, you had grown softer and rounder—something that drove Johnny absolutely mad. If it weren't for the exhaustion settled deep in both your bones, he would have happily spent every night worshipping you in the very own way that gave you all your babies.

Something you had never really minded, considering how many children you already had.

"How are you feeling?" Johnny asked, closing his eyes as sleep began to pull at him.

"Fat." Was the only answer you gave, your voice quiet.

Johnny reacted immediately, gently swatting your arse. He never liked hearing you speak badly about the body that had given him his children—the body he had loved from the moment he first laid eyes on it. The body he still loved every day he was fortunate enough to walk in this world.

"Stop," Johnny scolded softly before kissing your neck in apology.

"I want this baby out, husband," you said, your voice tight with exhaustion rather than anger.

"A couple more months," he replied, telling you something you already knew.

As you spoke, his hand drifted over the heavy curve of your stomach after lifting your nightdress. Johnny had always loved skin-to-skin contact, and if you weren't so determined to sleep in a nightdress, he would have had the two of you sleeping naked every night. For the children, you always said as your little kids loved to slither into your chambers.

"No more after this one," you broke the silence.

That only made Johnny laugh behind you, his arm pulling you even closer—if that was somehow possible.

"You said that with Ailie," he chuckled, kissing your skin again. "And with Connell."

"I mean it this time," you clicked your tongue, swatting his hand away.

The moment you felt his warmth leave your stomach, however, you grabbed his hand and placed it back where it belonged as if you were angry he left you—even when you had been the one pushing it away.

Johnny loved how feisty pregnancy made you. He wouldn't have changed it for the world. You could swat him morning, noon, and night, and he'd still be the happiest man alive.

"Sure, mo ghràdh," he smiled against your skin.

He knew there was no real bite to your words. But he also knew that if you truly meant them, he would respect your wishes completely. All he wanted was your happiness and that of his children.

If five children were enough for you—the one carrying them—then five would be enough for Johnny too.

"I love you," you whispered before your breathing finally began to settle.

"Tha gaol agam ort," he whispered back, the smile never leaving his lips.

An deireadh. La fin. The end.

©fromsil.

The night was cold and silent.

All except for the screams of fighting men outside, their gunfire shattering the stillness. Hidden away in a basement chamber of the palace, you were surrounded by half a dozen secret passages leading to the outside world. Just in case. 

Elders, women, and children had all been brought here for safety—especially you. In many ways, you were the reason for this attack. The Saxons weren’t searching for anyone else. They wanted you.

That you had taken refuge among their enemies only added fuel to the fire, giving them yet another reason to strike.

All in the name of the king—the very man the clan so thoroughly despised.

Sitting alone, you had secluded yourself from the others, retreating into the quiet corners of your mind. It had all happened so fast, too fast, and you needed space to make sense of it.

You had freed yourself from the shackles of your faith, torn away the binds that had held you captive for so long—and the divine punishment had been swift. An attack. A war. Blood was shed beneath the same sky you once prayed to.

It was all your fault.

Of course, God had been watching. How could He not? You had sinned in His house, defiled the sacred air with your unholy desires. You had looked upon His son, bound to the cross, and dared to take pleasure in the arms of another.

Now, His wrath had come.

Tightening your grip on the cold metal of your cross, you whispered quiet, desperate prayers. Words of redemption, of repentance, of mercy. You begged God to shield Ser John, who had ridden beyond the walls to fight in your honor. You pleaded for the men of the MacTavish clan, warriors dragged into a battle not of their making, risking their lives for a war that had been thrust upon them.

And then, with a tremor in your voice, you prayed for Johnny.

The man who had thrown himself into the fray, who had risked everything to pull you from the ambush just days ago. The man whose warmth still lingered on your skin, even now.

Your fingers dug into the cross, pressing it hard enough to leave an imprint against your palm. You had sinned, and yet, instead of begging for your own soul, all you could do was beg for his life.

Little did you know, the true reason for this attack sat mere meters away, silent and trembling. Isla’s tear-filled eyes were locked on you, watching as you whispered prayers with unwavering faith. A few tears slipped down her cheeks, unnoticed or, at least, unquestioned. Fear and stress—everyone assumed that was why she cried. But they were wrong.

If she had believed in God, she might have joined you. But her prayers would not have been for protection. They would have been for forgiveness.

Holding her little sisters tightly in her arms felt like a sin. Because it was her fault. All of it.

She was the reason they were trapped in this cold, dark chamber, listening to the distant sounds of war. She was the reason men would die on the battlefield before dawn. She was the reason her brother had returned from the ambush with madness in his eyes, a rage he couldn’t contain.

And you—praying, believing, hoping—had no idea.

She had loved the Saxon—so much that it had blinded her. She had believed every whispered promise, every soft-spoken word. He had told her he loved her too, that they shared the same enemies, the same purpose. That he would marry her.

And she had believed him.

But what he had seen in her was not love. It was weakness. A foolish, pathetic girl, drunk on dreams of romance. He had used her—her trust, her body, her heart. She had been nothing more than a pawn in his game, a means to an end. And she had let him.

Naive, stupid, reckless.

Now, men were dying because of her mistake—because of her naivety.

And unbeknownst to her, a French knight carried the same weight of guilt. Out on the battlefield, as Ser John looked around at the chaos—at the men he had come to know, to train, even to cherish—falling at the bullets and blades of the Saxons, a single, bitter thought plagued him: this was his fault.

He had brought you here. He had sought refuge and aid in the Highlands, never imagining he’d also bring death in his wake. These men weren’t just fighting for their clan—they were fighting for you. The English troops would never have targeted them if it weren’t for your presence.

As Ser John stood amidst the chaos, watching man after man fall to the enemy’s blades, a dark thought clung to him—perhaps he should have followed the king that dreadful day, surrendered to his fate. You would have been safe and sound in your mother's arms. 

These were men he had trained for hours under the sun and rain, men who had welcomed him into their taverns, their homes, their lives. They had trusted him. And how had he repaid them?

By turning their wives into widows. By making their children orphans.

He forced those dark thoughts away—dwelling on guilt wouldn’t save anyone. Not now. There were still lives to protect, men to lead. And if there was one thing Ser John could admit without shame, it was that he might be the best soldier on this battlefield.

His eyes scanned the field, sharp and calculating, searching for a familiar face—Johnny.

The young Highlander had slipped into John's life, and yours, with surprising ease. At first glance, Ser John had pegged him as little more than a cocky troublemaker, always flashing that smug smirk, always quick with a joke. But beneath the bravado was something raw. Real.

When Johnny had finally opened up—about his past, about the burdens he carried—John had seen reflections of his younger self. Perhaps that was why his instinct to protect him ran so deep. Not just as a comrade, but almost as something closer. A younger brother. A version of himself that still had a chance to be saved. A lost son. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, hurried, purposeful. Years on the battlefield had sharpened his instincts; he could tell friend from foe by the rhythm of a stride alone.

He turned on reflex, blade slicing clean through the air, intercepting the attacker mid-charge. The body dropped at his feet with a dull thud, the young man's final breath escaping in a choked gasp. Ser John didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause to look into the boy’s face, even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty. There was no room left in him for mercy, not tonight. Not with lives on the line.

Compassion had long been bled from his veins. What remained was purpose—unyielding, resolute. He would protect the weak and the young, even if it meant dying with his sword in his hand and guilt in his soul.

Not far from Ser John, Johnny fought like a man possessed.

His movements were a blur of practiced violence—sword swinging with precision, his dagger finding gaps between armor. The battlefield had changed him, stripped him of his usual grin, his charm. There was no trace of the teasing Highlander now. Only fire. Only wrath.

Blood stained his tunic, some of it his, most of it not. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to.

His fury was fueling him, a wild, unfamiliar rage coursing through his veins like wildfire. He had been raised on battlefields, forged in blood and chaos—but this? This was something new.

This was personal.

It wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was anger for his people, for his clan. For his sister, who had cried in silence. For you, hidden away, terrified and praying to a God who had turned His face.

Each swing of his blade was an outlet for that fury, each drop of blood on his sword only feeding the storm inside him. His muscles ached, his breath came in ragged bursts, but still he fought—driven by a need to protect, to punish, to avenge.

He didn’t care if the rage made him reckless. He didn’t care if it consumed him.

So long as it kept everyone safe.

His recklessness fed his inattention, the blood roaring in his ears like a war drum. He didn’t see it coming—only heard it.

A sharp, sickening crack.

Then, before he could process what it meant, the ground rushed up to meet him.

The pain hit a heartbeat later—white-hot, explosive, tearing through his body like fire. It radiated from his knee, spreading outward in violent waves, and the scream that tore from his throat was raw, animalistic.

And just like that, Johnny was down. 

Something—or rather, someone—dragged him onto his back before a crushing weight pinned him down.

A man loomed over him, fury twisting his face into something monstrous. Like Johnny, he was burning with rage—but his was colder, more calculated. Unhinged. The smirk on his face wasn’t cocky, it was madness made flesh.

There was something wrong about him. A darkness that radiated off his skin like heat, his very presence laced with hatred so deep it seemed to rot the air around them.

The blunt iron mass—likely the weapon that had shattered Johnny’s knee—was dropped mere millimeters from his face. Deliberately. A threat.

"You must be the brother," the Saxon sneered looking at the nasty healed scar on the side of his face. His accent thick, his voice dripping with venom. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he spat in Johnny’s face. "Little Isla told me so much about you." 

The mocking tone in the Saxon’s voice poured oil on Johnny’s fury. The bastard was toying with him—just like he’d toyed with his sisters.

Johnny tried to lunge, blind with rage, but the soldier simply shifted his weight, driving it down onto Johnny’s shattered knee. The pain tore through him like fire, forcing a strangled moan from his lips as his body went limp beneath the weight.

"Hmm," the man hummed darkly, smirking as if savoring the control. A sick glint danced in his eyes.

Without haste, he slid a blade into Johnny’s shoulder, slow and deliberate, pinning him to the cold, blood-soaked earth. Johnny hissed, biting down on a scream, the metal burning like it was molten.

Leaning in close, the Saxon whispered, a cruel laugh in his breath, “Your sister made the same noises.”

Red. That’s all Johnny could see.

Rage boiled in his chest, drowning out the pain, the fear. Every nerve in his body screamed, but all he could feel was that blinding, soul-splitting fury.

As the man slowly rose from Johnny’s broken body, a strange feeling gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. Johnny wasn’t dead. He should’ve been. Every part of his body screamed in agony, torn and battered, yet somehow, he remained conscious. It didn’t make sense. The bastard had turned Johnny into a plaything, a living target for his sadistic games.

All around him, the battlefield was chaos—men fell, blood staining the earth, and Johnny couldn’t make sense of it. The sounds of clashing steel and dying cries were muffled by the rush in his ears. Where was John? Where was his father?

The crushing realization hit him like a sledgehammer. He was alone. Fucked.

"Got a little gift for you," the Englishman sneered, his voice thick with cruelty, twisted thoughts gleaming in his eyes.

Something heavy landed beside Johnny’s head with a sickening thud, just opposite the iron mass still lying inches from his face. A warm splash hit his cheek—blood—making him flinch instinctively.

Slowly, with dread curling in his gut, Johnny turned his head.

There it was.

His father's head.

Lying mere millimeters from his own, eyes frozen wide in terror, mouth agape in a silent scream. That expression—raw, helpless, human—was now carved into his face for eternity.

A look Johnny would never be able to forget. Forever forged in his mind. 

Your back pressed cold against the unforgiving stone of the castle wall, a shiver running down your spine that had nothing to do with the chill. A deep, gnawing sense of danger hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. It had been hours since the fighting began—too many hours. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a pale light over the mountains, but not a single sign of the soldiers had returned with it.

Outside, the furious cries of battle had dwindled to a dreadful hush. The clash of steel and the screams had faded, swallowed by silence. And silence, you knew, could mean only one thing. Death. 

Still locked away, hidden like something fragile or shameful, you were numb. You had prayed until the words lost their meaning, whispered pleas to a God who no longer seemed to listen. It didn’t matter anymore. You felt abandoned, like your sins had sealed the distance between you and the divine.

You had stopped crying long ago too. There were no more tears left to give. You were empty. Hollow. Drained to the core.

Now, you just stared at the main door in silence. You had refused water, food, furs—anything that might bring you even a shred of comfort. Undeserving, the little voice in your head whispered. All your fault, it repeated, over and over.

How had hell been unleashed so quickly?

You could still feel the ghost of Johnny’s lips on yours, the tenderness of his hands, the practiced grace of his fingers. It had been overwhelming—in the best way. A moment so euphoric, so intense, you were certain you'd touched heaven itself. Was that what sex was meant to be?

Back home, the stories had been different—grim and cold. Women spoke of indifference, of pain, of duty. Husbands who barely looked at them, who kept thrusting even when it hurt. Who left them for whores once they bore their children. It had painted a cruel picture, one you had accepted as inevitable.

Johnny had shown you how different life could be. How happiness could bloom if you let go of your God. How much you could thrive if you chose to stay here. All of that—promised in mere minutes of sin within a chapel.

But then, it had stopped. The dream had shattered, and the nightmare began. And you... you were the reason. The Saxons were hunting you. They were willing to do anything to reach you—slaughter, manipulation, assault. You were certain they had committed every crime imaginable just to learn your whereabouts.

God was on their side. He had led them here. To punish you.

And it could all end—if only you found the courage to do what needed to be done.

Your gaze drifted past the untouched plate beside you, landing instead on the rusty knife. It looked frail—old and forgotten—but sharp enough to do what was needed.

You stared at it, unblinking, trying to summon the courage to reach for it. To press it to your wrist. To end the storm you had brought with you.

No more princess.

No more war.

It was a sin. You knew it.

In some twisted way, it was your last thread of faith that kept your hand from reaching the knife. That same faith whispered that it would damn you forever—but hadn’t you already been damned?

You had sinned. Gloriously.

And it had felt too good. Too right. You knew, deep down, you would give in again if given the chance. Temptation had sunk its teeth into you, and you weren’t strong enough to deny it.

So what was the point in pretending?

All the pain, all the suffering, all the relentless voices would finally stop.

Just silence. Complete and eternal.

No more shame curling in your gut. No more disgust clawing at your skin. No more guilt pressing on your chest like a weight you couldn’t breathe beneath.

Just… nothing.

And maybe nothing would be a mercy.

Before hesitation could stop you again, your fingers closed around the knife.

You didn’t notice the pair of eyes locked onto you like a hawk—Isla, hidden in the shadows, watching in silence. She had doomed her family, betrayed her blood, and now the very least she could do was ensure the one thing her brother’s heart clung to remained safe.

The blade kissed your skin, sharp and deliberate, slicing through flesh with agonizing precision.

A strangled scream ripped through the air—not yours, but Isla’s.

Then the room exploded into motion. Rushing footsteps. Fabric rustling. Desperate voices breaking the heavy silence.

"Help!" Isla’s voice cracked with terror as she lunged forward, hands trembling, trying to undo what had already been done.

Blood poured from your wrist in warm, steady rivers, as if it were washing away your sins. It felt almost sacred—cleansing, freeing. If not for Isla’s hands pressing down hard against the wound, your life would’ve seeped silently into the stone floor, taking you with it to that quiet land you longed for.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

Pain. That was all Johnny felt—searing, relentless, consuming. His body trembled with despair, each breath a struggle. Someone was shaking him, a voice breaking through the haze, but the words were lost in the fog clouding his mind.

How was he not dead? He should be. He wanted to be.

Behind closed eyes, the only image burned into his mind was his father’s face—frozen in terror, severed from his body, thrown beside him. A raw sob tore from Johnny’s throat, his lips parting in a scream so broken, so hollow, it barely sounded human. Tears streamed freely now, washing down his bloodstained cheeks, carving their way through the dirt and agony.

Johnny's body was pulled into a hard chest, a steady presence, but he couldn't hear the soothing words being spoken in his ear. His world was drowned by his own screams and the pulsing of blood in his ears, a deafening roar that kept him locked in his agony.

Every inch of him felt like it was being torn apart. His knee—each movement sent waves of excruciating pain crashing through him, an unrelenting reminder that he should be dead. His shoulder, the wound still fresh and raw, screamed with every breath he took. He could feel the makeshift bandages there, tight and rough, surely applied by the same man holding him now.

But everything else... everything else was a blur. The survivors—fellow warriors who had once fought by his side—sat in weary silence, their faces etched with exhaustion and grief. Some of them had witnessed their chief’s decapitation, others had only seen his butchered body lying on the cold ground. But all of them were united in one thing: the mourning of a leader, a brother, a father.

And Johnny's screams, filled with pain and loss, echoed through the stillness, a sound that would forever haunt the survivors. Raw pain of an orphan child. 

Beside Fionn, the young Saxon lay torn apart, his body mutilated beyond recognition. He had been alive when it started; the Scots had ensured he felt every agonizing moment. It was him—the sadist who had orchestrated the attack, who had exploited Isla’s naivety, who had murdered their chief, and who had played with Johnny’s life like a cruel game.

He didn't deserve a soldier's death like the other English soldiers. No, they made sure he suffered.

As he held the grieving boy in his arms, Ser John surveyed the battlefield, his eyes lingering on the remaining survivors. 

The Saxons had sealed their fate the moment they mutilated the chief. Honor and respect had fueled the Highlanders' rage, with revenge burning in their hearts. It was a miracle they had triumphed.

Some Englishmen had attempted to flee, but the remaining soldiers had looked up to Ser John for guidance. Exhaustion was evident on every face, but his voice rang clear, steady as he gave his orders. "Let them run," he commanded. "Take prisoners, kill the rest." The fury with which the Mactavish clan had fought would surely send any other British battalion thinking twice before returning to these lands.

After mourning Fionn, Ser John had immediately sought out Johnny. When he had found him, his heart nearly stopped. Johnny laid in a pool of his own blood, his knee swollen to nearly triple its size. A sword was embedded in his shoulder, blood still seeping from the wound. Beside him, almost carelessly tossed aside, had been his father's severed head—an unholy mockery that made Ser John’s blood run cold. 

The sight had struck him deeply, a cruel reminder of the horrors that had unfolded, and the brutality that had been inflicted upon the young Highlander. He had let out a breath of relief the moment he felt Johnny’s heartbeat—weak, but there.

Ser John had worked quickly, staunching the worst of the bleeding, his hands steady despite the storm raging in his chest. All the while, he begged the young man to wake up, whispering his name like a prayer. But when Johnny finally did, it wasn’t with peace—it was with a heart-wrenching scream of grief that tore through the battlefield like a fresh wound.

John had wished, in that instant, that he hadn't brought him back to consciousness.

Pulling Johnny into his arms, he had cradled him close, like a mother would a broken child. Rocking slightly, he held him tighter with every sob, hoping his warmth, his steady heartbeat, could offer even the smallest bit of comfort in the face of such unspeakable loss.

The knight watched solemnly as the clan’s closest advisors approached, their faces carved from stone, though their eyes shimmered with unshed tears. With heavy reverence, they lifted the chief’s severed head, shielding the gruesome sight from Johnny’s line of vision. Carefully, they draped multiple tartans over the broken body—one final act of respect for the man who had led them with strength and pride. He would be laid to rest soon, beside his beloved wife, as tradition and honor demanded.

Time stretched in that sorrowful silence. It felt like hours before Johnny’s pain finally wore his body down. His cries quieted, his trembling slowed, and he slumped against Ser John, all the fight drained from him. Numb, battered, and hollow, he remained there in the knight’s arms—held, but far from whole.

Makeshift stretchers had been hastily assembled, fashioned from broken shields and snapped spears, to carry the wounded back within the castle walls. The chaos of battle had ebbed, leaving only its cruel aftermath behind—scattered limbs, splintered arrows, blood-soaked earth. The field reeked of iron and loss, a grim reminder of what victory often cost.

Ser John sat on the cold, bloodied ground, Johnny cradled against him, the young man’s good arm clutching his shoulder. Guilt pressed down on John’s chest like a stone. The weight of his decisions crushed him. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t brought you here, if he hadn’t sought Highland aid, perhaps these men would still be alive—sleeping peacefully in their beds, instead of butchered beneath the rising sun.

His composure cracked, his own sobs tearing from him in silence. He held Johnny tighter, grief-wracked and trembling. But there was one sliver of solace—Johnny had survived. And you were still safe, hidden behind stone walls.

It would never be enough, but John made himself a silent vow: he would help rebuild what was lost. He would stand by the Mactavish clan. He would help Johnny heal. And he would never leave your side again. Not until his last breath.

You had no means of going back anyway. Even if the Brits never dared to return to the clan, their eyes would still be watching, waiting—spying on your whereabouts like vultures circling their prey. The moment you'd step beyond the safety of these mountains, they'd find you.

Ser John had come to terms with that reality long ago. He had accepted that his bones would rest far from his homeland, that his final breath would rise into a foreign sky. Now, it was your turn. You needed to accept it too.

And he believed you would.

Because you had to.

After leaving Johnny’s unconscious body to be lifted onto a stretcher and carried inside, Ser John turned back, his eyes drawn once more to the covered form lying still among the wreckage of the battlefield.

Fionn Mactavish.

They hadn’t known each other long, but in that short time, a mutual respect had been forged—an unspoken recognition between two men cut from the same cloth. In another life, John could have been Fionn. And perhaps Fionn could have been him. Both soldiers, both leaders, both burdened by the weight of those who looked to them for strength.

John sank to the ground behind the fallen chief, his body aching as a heavy sigh escaped him. Pain throbbed in every muscle. Exhaustion clung to his bones like a second skin. But more than anything, it was the sorrow that settled deepest—grief not just for the man lost, but for the future that died with him.

This man was leaving behind eight children—the youngest barely six years old. How could anyone explain this to them? They had already lost their mother. They had nearly lost their brother. And now, their father was gone too.

Ser John shut his eyes, swallowing hard against the ache rising in his chest. The sobs he had fought for hours trembled just beneath the surface, barely contained.

With a tenderness that belied the rough calluses of his hand, John reached out and rested his palm on Fionn’s covered back. A gesture of reassurance—though it was more for himself than the man who lay beneath the tartans.

"You can rest now, my friend," he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking as he brushed away a lone tear sliding down his cheek. "I’ll take care of your boy. I’ll take care of your family. I swear it."

Exhaustion. That was all you felt as consciousness slowly crept back in.

You were still alive. Lying on something soft, warm. A bed, perhaps. A gentle hand cradled yours, fingers brushing lightly over your skin in a silent comfort. One of Johnny’s sisters, most likely.

Opening your eyes felt like a battle in itself, your lids heavy, your vision slow to adjust. Sunlight streamed in from a nearby window, a cruel brightness that made you wince.

You were supposed to be dead. Why weren’t you? You should’ve been with God by now—shouldn’t you?

But He hadn’t saved you. No. Isla had. The women had.

God hadn’t done a thing. God hadn’t cared. If He had, you wouldn’t have crossed an ocean to wed a stranger. You wouldn’t have been betrayed. You wouldn’t have tasted such forbidden pleasure and been told it damned you.

God didn’t care. Not about you. Not anymore. Maybe He never had.

Looking to your side, your blurred vision slowly sharpened—and there he was. Ser John.

Seated like a stone sentinel, his eyes locked on yours the moment they opened. He looked older somehow. Weathered, exhausted. But still that same steadfast knight who had sworn to protect you.

If he was here, then it meant the worst had passed. You had won. But it felt like anything but a victory. The weight of the bandages around your forearm pulled at your attention, a silent, pulsing reminder of the cost. Of desperation. Of how close you had come to giving up entirely.

And yet here you were. Still breathing. Was that mercy? Or punishment?

Ser John said nothing at first, but his eyes spoke more than words ever could—relief, grief, guilt. He looked like a man carrying too many ghosts. And now you were one of them too. Almost.

He had cried, you could see it on his face. For you, of course, but there was something deeper—something darker. A deep-seated guilt that you couldn't help but relate to. Was he tormented by the same guilty thoughts? He had been nothing but faithful to you, and then to this clan. There was nothing he had done to harm anyone.

Ser John protected.

"Tell me," you urged, sensing the weight he carried. You saw it in his eyes—he longed to share something, but hesitated, mindful of your current state.

Then, his gaze shifted, settling just behind you. You turned your head swiftly, only to be met with a dreadful sight.

Johnny was lying there, surrounded by his sisters, some of them unable to stop crying. A sinking feeling twisted in your chest as you imagined the worst. Was he dead? Had they tried to save him, but it had been too late?

He looked rough, blood splattered across his skin, multiple wounds joining the collection of scars he already bore. From where you lay, you couldn’t see if he was breathing, especially when one of his sisters blocked your view, crying on his chest.

Desperation clung to your skin. He couldn’t leave you. He wouldn’t. Not now. Not when God had already turned His back on you. Johnny was all you had left, along with your knight.

Turning slowly back to John, you blinked back unshed tears, silently begging him to tell you. You weren’t ready to hear it, but you had to know.

"It's not him..." he started, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn’t place. "He's roughed up, but he’ll be okay… eventually." He took your hand in his, his grip steadying you. "Fionn is dead. The Saxons killed him."

As if the girls could understand him, the youngest let out another pained sob in one of her sisters' arms.

The silence between you both held more than grief—it held guilt, and failure, and all the words neither of you had strength to say aloud. You knew now. He hadn’t just fought to protect this clan. He had loved it. Been claimed by it. And it had cost him more than a knight’s honor ever could.

He looked back at you, voice low and rough. “He was my friend. And I… I brought this war to his doorstep.”

The guilt in his eyes mirrored the one eating at your soul. You reached for him with your bandaged hand, the gesture small and trembling—but he took it anyway. Gripping it tightly, like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

And in that moment, you weren’t knight and lady. Not sinner and guardian. You were two broken souls, mourning the pieces of yourselves left on a bloodstained battlefield.

It had taken weeks for Johnny to be back on his feet, but even as the healer assured him he would never walk the same again, Johnny remained determined. His limp was small, barely visible to the untrained eye, but Ser John noticed it as soon as the young man entered the council room.

What he noticed even more, however, was the absence of the light that had once sparkled in Johnny's eyes. The glint of life, the joy that had always been present no matter the circumstance, was gone. Buried six feet under with the body of his father. Since that day, Johnny had been declared the new Chief of the Mactavish Clan.

There were voices of dissent, of course. Some argued he was too young, too deep in grief, to lead. They doubted his ability, questioned his readiness. But others, those who had watched Fionn Mactavish prepare his son for this very moment, stood firm. Johnny had been groomed for this position his whole life. He had the blood of his father in him, the strength, the wisdom — and with the right guidance, he could be the greatest leader the clan had ever seen.

Johnny, ever determined to prove himself, chose Ser John as his primary advisor. The knight had sworn his loyalty to him the moment he awoke after the battle, vowing to protect the clan and pay for the sins that haunted him.

Johnny had scoffed at his knight's display of guilt. Of course, your knight was plagued with the same remorse as you. It was almost... fascinating. Johnny had accepted the offer, knowing deep down that if Ser John remained by his side, so would you. And, perhaps, that was the one comfort he could hold onto in these dark times.

As the council meeting wrapped up, Johnny lingered, unwilling to join the others just yet. He needed time alone, moments of solitude to clear his mind. His knee was throbbing with pain anyway. 

Even after weeks, there was still something he hadn't shared with anyone — the truth that weighed heavy on his chest. The traitor’s name. His own sister. The clan could never know what she had done. It would tear them apart, unravel the very fabric of their unity. He wasn’t ready to face it, not yet. And perhaps he never would be. 

She had come to him in the middle of the night once, just as she did when they were children, seeking comfort from the rough thunderstorms that rattled the windows. This time, however, it wasn’t fear of the storm that had brought Isla to his chambers — it was guilt. She had cried, pleaded, and begged on her knees for forgiveness, her voice trembling with desperation.

But Johnny was no longer the boy she had once known. He was no longer the boy who had watched over her, protective and kind, blinded by sibling love. The weight of what had happened had forged something darker within him. He held grudges like no one else.

Hatred surged through his veins at the very sight of her. Every time he looked at Isla, all he saw was the decapitated head of his father. The man who had given his life for the clan, for his children. Her father. Their sisters’ father. A father who now lay beside their mother, cold and lifeless, the life ripped away from him — all because of her.

Johnny could no longer see her as the scared little girl who had sought his comfort in the dark. No, now she was the cause of everything that had fallen apart, the reason for the endless pain that echoed through the clan. It was all her fault. Every bit of it.

Shaking his head, Johnny fought to ignore the throb in his knee, a constant reminder of the battle’s toll on him. The pain had become something almost familiar now, something he had come to accept. But it didn't make it any less excruciating. He made his way through the labyrinth of corridors, his footsteps echoing in the quiet castle as he sought a moment of peace. A small clearing behind the castle offered just that — a brief respite from the weight of his thoughts.

This clearing had always been his mother's favorite place. She would take him there when he was a child, when he was filled with a rage he couldn't understand, a fire that burned deep inside him. She would make him lie down beneath the old oak tree, her fingers threading through his hair as they watched the clouds drift by. How he missed her, more than words could say. She had been the one person who had always understood him, who had known exactly how to calm his restless heart.

That tree had always been their secret place — a place where she had never taken any of his sisters, a space that had been his and hers alone. So when he stumbled upon the sight of you lying there, beneath the same oak tree, it took him completely off guard.

You wore a soft green dress, the color so familiar, so tied to memories of his mother. It was her favorite shade, the one she had always worn on days when she wanted to feel peaceful. And now, here you were, in that same color, in the place where she had once comforted him. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring you to him in her stead.

He realized, with a lump in his throat, that she was watching over him. She had sent you to him.

It had been a long time since he had seen you. So much had happened, and he had far too much on his plate to deal with the anger he felt toward you. He had heard the stories of your actions on the day of the battle, how you had been willing to sacrifice yourself for the others.

The news had filled him with rage and frustration. How could you be so careless, so willing to throw your life away without thinking of the people who cared about you? He couldn’t imagine waking up, knowing his father was dead, and then hearing that you, too, were gone. It would have broken him.

But now, as his eyes fell on your peaceful face, all that anger melted away. You looked like an angel, lying so gently on the grass, eyes closed in serene bliss, letting the warmth of the sun bathe you. Spring was in full bloom, and soon it would give way to summer. The air was warm, but it wasn’t the weather that was soothing Johnny’s heart. It was you — your presence, the quiet peace you brought with you.

In that moment, he felt his heart melt, slowly but surely, the warmth of it spreading through him like sunlight on a cold day.

As Johnny approached you, he moved carefully, mindful of his limp. He was aware of every step, every slight shift of his weight, but to him, it all seemed so loud. Yet Ser John had always told him it was just in his head. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that every step was a thunderclap, every movement too heavy, too obvious.

And you heard him. Of course you did. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, as if you had been waiting for this moment. It was as though you had known he would come to you. No words were needed between you two, not anymore. There was no space for them, no room for the clumsy syllables of the past.

A single glance was enough.

In that one look, everything unspoken, every fear, every sorrow, every moment of shared pain and survival, passed between the two of you. It was like the near-death experiences, the battles, the loss, had forged an invisible bond—one neither of you could break, no matter how hard you tried.

It was as if your souls, once adrift, had finally found each other, in this moment, in this life. And somehow, despite all the chaos, all the heartbreak, this was where you both were meant to be.

Gently, Johnny laid his head in your lap, the world around him quiet and still. For a moment, all that existed was the sound of his breath, the warmth of your presence, and the sky above. He let his eyes wander, tracing the clouds like he used to do with his mother, each one a silent whisper, a reminder that she was still with him in some way.

Your hand drifted into his hair, your fingers gently scratching his scalp, a comforting gesture he hadn’t known he needed until now. The touch was soft, tender, a grounding presence in the whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t quite make sense of.

Tears welled in his eyes, running down his cheeks as he allowed the grief and the weight of everything to finally escape. The pain, the loss, the guilt—everything he had buried deep within him. He couldn’t stop them, couldn’t hold them back, not when he was in this peaceful, safe moment with you.

He reached up, grabbing your hand, stilling your movement. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the long scar that marred your skin, a quiet gesture of reverence. Slowly, he let your hand return to his hair, and in the comfort of your touch, he found solace.

In that moment, Johnny knew something profound. Everything was going to be alright. His life, though scarred and full of grief, would be full of hope. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a glimmer of peace.

As his eyelids fluttered closed, and he drifted into a gentle sleep, he swore he saw his parents’ faces in the clouds above, watching over him with love, guiding him forward.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ more to come...