#highlander!au

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 agonising 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⭑ last part.

In the year of our Lord 1688, your life was torn apart.

You had been sent away to England, leaving behind the quiet French countryside where you had spent your childhood. It was no surprise—your entire life had been a preparation for this, molded by lessons in English manners and language. You were born into an era of war between England and the United Provinces of the Netherlands, with your homeland standing beside its allies. Yet, in a fleeting moment of peace, destiny was sealed: a French princess was to wed an English prince.

Leaving France had been heartbreaking. Under the reign of Louis XIV, royalty had flourished like never before. You had visited the Great King many times with your family—at the Louvre or in the gardens of Versailles—dreaming of a life of splendor for yourself. And such splendor could never be found across the sea. 

Your family held enough power for you to be chosen as a token of peace between the realms. Jacques II, the cousin of your king, saw fit to unite the nations. His pro-French policies unsettled his people, making your arrival unwelcome. You had arrived with maids and knights, all there to serve you. This was seen as an insult, as if your family—and by extension, France—did not trust England to provide assistance and protection. 

Furthermore, you were a Catholic princess. Even with a Catholic king on the throne and the Declaration for Liberty of Conscience proclaimed just a year prior, you could still feel the deep-seated resentment of the Anglicans. Anti-Catholic sentiment ran high, and despite King James II’s efforts to promote religious tolerance, many viewed Catholicism as a threat to England’s Protestant identity. Your future husband was also Catholic, and your impending marriage was denounced as unholy by most Anglican clergy, further fueling the unrest. 

All of it had been a mess from the beginning. 

As your maids placed the last pin in your hair, you gazed into the mirror. You wore a simple white dress—nothing too extravagant, for fear of being accused of bringing French excess and debauchery to England. Had you been married in your homeland, you were certain your mother would have insisted on finding the finest tailors and the richest fabrics for your gown. It would have surely been crafted by the royal family's own tailors, and you would have had a true princess’s wedding. But England was different. The threat of war loomed once more, leaving little room—and little money—for luxury. 

Watching the lively city through the window of the carriage, anxiety gnawed at you. All your life, you had dreamed of your wedding day. In those dreams, your mother and sisters were by your side, their presence a constant comfort—one that was lost to you today. Instead of an English ceremony, you had envisioned marrying a French nobleman in the royal chapel, with your king himself blessing your union. But reality had rewritten your fate.

Quiet tears ran freely down your cheeks, your only comfort the necklace clasped around your neck—a token from your mother, a symbol of her love. You were the only one of her children to be sent away. All your sisters had married noblemen from your province, and your brothers served as knights for the King, never more than an hour’s ride from your family’s lands. But you, the youngest—though already older than most brides—had been saved for the Brits. Their kings had to be bound by blood to yours, and so, duty had torn you from home.

You were pulled from your thoughts by your knight, Ser John, as he silently handed you a handkerchief. He was another source of comfort. From the moment you were old enough to venture outside alone, he had been your personal knight—an unwavering presence throughout your childhood. Always near, never overbearing. A quiet protector. Learning he would accompany you on this journey had eased your nerves, if only slightly. In a world of uncertainty, you had longed for something familiar, and in this, God had answered.

Now, as you waited in front of the chapel, something felt off. Ser John stood by your side, the father figure entrusted with giving you away. At a glance, he appeared composed, but you knew where to look. His grip on the hilt of his sword was tight—too tight—betraying his unease. His sharp eyes swept over the room again and again, scanning for unseen threats. His posture was rigid, more so than usual, and a single bead of sweat traced its way down his temple.

If one looked closely, everything about the knight spoke of discomfort. He was tense, coiled like a hunting dog straining against the leash, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

September was a dull month for a wedding, yet here you were. Your hand rested inside your knight’s arm as he guided you down the aisle. It was a small ceremony in the royal chapel—you still deserved the finest location, just not the finest funding. As you glanced around, you noticed unease etched onto some of the guests' faces, mirroring your own anxiety. The tension in the air was palpable, unnatural. Guests were never meant to look this nervous—unless…

Stopping in front of your future husband, Ser John bowed respectfully before stepping aside to join the other knights. The king stood before you, prepared to bless the union before the priest began the ceremony.

As the king spoke, you stole a glance at your betrothed. He was… acceptable, you supposed. Not to your taste, but that hardly mattered—this marriage was a means to an end, not a matter of personal desire. His hair was cropped short, though his hairline was already receding despite his youth. His beard had been trimmed neatly, yet it still looked rough, as if he hadn't put much effort into grooming. His reputation preceded him—not unclean, but undeniably careless.

Your mind drifted back to the noblemen of France—all the gentlemen you had met throughout your life, each more handsome than the man you were now bound to. You could only hope that your future children would take after you and your family, rather than him.

Just as the king stepped aside, a commotion erupted outside the chapel doors. It was not unusual for crowds to gather during a royal wedding, but this sounded different. The distant hum of voices grew sharper—screams and insults echoing all the way to the altar, sending a chill down your spine.

This was no celebration. It was anger. Hatred.

A revolution.

Without warning, something warm and wet splashed across your face. Was the priest already blessing you? Confused, you turned—just in time to see a sword slicing through your groom. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze dropped to your dress, now speckled with red.

A chilling scream pierced the chapel, and only then did the horror truly sink in.

Traitors among the guests had turned on the true attendees, clashing violently as they fought to strike down the royal family. Chaos engulfed the chapel, swords clashing, bodies falling, and desperate cries echoing through the sacred halls.

Amid the turmoil, a man with fury burning in his eyes spotted you, frozen at the altar—too shocked to move. To him, you were not a bystander, nor a foreign princess. You were simply a Catholic woman, an enemy, a symbol of everything he despised. And to serve his cause, you were a sacrifice worth making.

Bolting straight toward you, dagger poised to strike, the attacker was met with Ser John—one of the finest swordsmen in the entire French kingdom. The heathen never stood a chance. The moment he lunged, your knight intercepted him with ruthless precision. Without hesitation, Ser John seized your hand and led you swiftly toward the back rooms of the chapel—the passage that granted access to the royal castle.

Escaping through the main doors was impossible. The chaos outside had already breached the chapel, and the royal guards lay lifeless on the ground, their duty fulfilled in death.

Scanning the room frantically, you searched for the king—but he was nowhere to be seen. Panic tightened around your chest as your gaze dropped to the lifeless bodies before you.

Your betrothed lay in a pool of his own blood, his once-sloppy appearance now eerily still, frozen in death. Not far from him, the priest had collapsed, his lips parted in an unfinished prayer, his glassy eyes staring at the heavens he had tried to reach in his final moments.

Your maids had been slaughtered as well, and when you turned your head to where they had once stood, you were met with a sight so vile it made your stomach churn. Men were upon them, defiling their lifeless bodies as if they were nothing more than common whores. The sacred walls of the chapel echoed with your screams—of agony, of terror, of suffering beyond words. The horror of it all burned itself into your mind, a nightmare you would carry for the rest of your days.

The air reeked of iron and incense, an unsettling blend of the sacred and the profane. The chapel, once a place of holy union, had become a slaughterhouse.

Blasphemy. Savages—the lot of them—desecrating the house of God.

You had heard tales of war, of the cruelty that consumed men when they felt threatened—but you had never imagined witnessing it with your own eyes.

Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, showing no sign of stopping, as you let your knight—your only chance of survival—lead you through the twisting corridors of the royal castle. He moved with purpose, unwavering, cutting down anyone who stood in his path. In this moment, everyone was a potential threat to your safety, and by extension, to him.

His only goal was to reach the stables, find a horse, and ride north—far from the fallen city, now in the hands of the enemy. Ser John had heard of clans in the distant north, ones who owed allegiance to neither king nor queen. They would help you return to France. And if they refused—he would find a way to make them.

The task at hand was far more difficult than expected—the savages had planned well. They had attacked the chapel and the castle simultaneously, using the fury of the masses to swell their numbers, making it easy to breach the palace doors. Now, they were everywhere. And in your white wedding gown, slipping by unnoticed was nearly impossible.

But Ser John didn’t care. He was better than any of them—better than any royal guard this country had to offer. One by one, those who dared to face him fell, slaughtered with ease, their blades barely leaving a scratch on his skin. And even if they did, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that your skin remained untouched. 

As you let your knight drag you wherever he willed, your numb body was in stark contrast to the frantic pace of your mind. Thoughts raced, but all you could see was death—everywhere. Screams filled the air, women wept, children ran aimlessly, only to be struck down without mercy. The castle was burning. You couldn’t see the flames, but the acrid scent of smoke and ash told you enough—they were erasing every trace of the Catholics.

You had no idea if the king and his family had escaped. Surely, if they had, Ser John would have taken you to them. But he hadn’t. And that could only mean one thing.

Little did you know, your knight had no intention of rejoining the royal family. He had assessed the risks, and staying with them was far more dangerous than fleeing north in search of foreign allies.

As you reached the stables, you were met with yet another horrific sight—men slitting the horses’ throats. Surely, it was to ensure no one could escape the castle grounds. The gruesome scene startled you so much that a sharp gasp escaped your lips. At once, the men froze, then turned, their eyes locking onto you and your knight.

As gently as the situation allowed, Ser John pushed you behind him with the hand that wasn’t gripping his sword. Five against one—an unfair fight, but one he could handle.

He had the advantage of age, his enemies often mistook him for an old, weary soldier. But here, they didn’t know his reputation. In France, these men would have fled the moment they saw him, unwilling to cross swords with Ser John Price.

Good. John had missed the thrill of battle.

His exploits on the battlefield were the very reason he had been chosen to protect you, the princess. Nearly twenty years had passed since he first swore his oath, and though he had come to appreciate the quiet days spent as your knight, the rush of combat was something he had missed—more than he had ever realized.

The smirks on the men's faces told John everything he needed to know—cocky bastards, convinced he was just an old man. A smirk of his own crept onto his lips. He would enjoy this. The only thing that soured the moment was knowing you had to witness this side of him—the side that craved violence, that thrived in the chaos of death.

To you, he had always been the gentle knight, the steadfast protector shielding you from harm. But now, you were beginning to understand—the dangers back home had been nothing but illusions, fleeting worries of a sheltered life.

This was real danger. Life-threatening. Merciless.

You didn’t know what you had done to deserve Ser John, but never in your life had you been more grateful for him.

There were no soldiers like him, no men with his unwavering loyalty. Most knights would have fled, abandoning their oaths the moment the battle turned dire. But not Ser John. He lived by a code—one he would uphold until his dying breath.

As you watched the men close in on your knight, you could see the wicked intentions flickering in their eyes—the vile things they dreamed of doing to you once your protector lay dead at their feet.

You knew, without a doubt, that John could take on all five of them. He was stronger, faster, deadlier. But a shadow of fear crept into your heart nonetheless. What if, by some cruel twist of fate, he lost? 

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, for you knew that if Ser John fell, the fate awaiting you would be far darker than death itself.

The first man who lunged at Ser John lay dead as swiftly as he had attacked. A ripple of shock passed through the remaining four—you saw it in their eyes, the brief flicker of fear. They had realized, far too late, that they had gravely misjudged the man standing before them.

John had moved so quickly, so precisely, that they had barely registered his strike. As their fallen comrade choked on his own blood, the others came to a silent agreement. Four against one.

And they all attacked at once.

Even though the fight was over quickly, with your dear Ser John emerging victorious, the men had not gone down without a struggle. They had managed to land several blows, cutting into John's arms and leaving multiple wounds that would need tending. You were certain he would refuse your help, stubborn as he was, but you had to try—if he didn’t let you tend to him, the blood loss alone could bring him to his knees.

You didn’t know much about medicine or treating injuries, but you knew one thing for certain—blood was meant to stay inside the body.

Just as you had expected, John gently dismissed your attempt to tend to his wounds.

“Nothing I haven’t endured before, Your Highness,” he said softly, guiding you toward the back rooms of the stables.

Inside, the stable boy laid dead, slaughtered like the horses.

As if your body had been waiting for a brief moment of safety, you lurched forward, retching near the boy’s lifeless form. The horror, the blood, the stench—it was all too much. John’s gentle gaze fell upon you, filled with quiet sorrow. He had no way to shield you from the death and destruction surrounding you. He wished he could, but it was far too late for that now.

Letting you have a moment to yourself, John took a linen sheet from the bed and gently draped it over the boy’s lifeless body, offering him a small shred of dignity in his senseless death. He let out a quiet prayer, asking God to guide the boy’s soul safely home. Once finished, he turned away, swiftly searching the cabinets for anything useful for the journey ahead.

He had to be quick—time was not on your side.

Once he had gathered some food, water, and spare clothing, he turned back to you, offering a change of garments. Your wedding dress, once meant to symbolize a new beginning, was now a grim reminder of the massacre. Stained with blood and far too extravagant, it made you an easy target. You needed to disappear, to blend into the shadows. John couldn’t risk you standing out—not when danger lurked around every corner.

You were left alone as Ser John stood guard outside, granting you the dignity of changing in private.

It was a far more difficult task than you had expected—having been dressed by maids your entire life, you struggled with the intricate ties of your wedding gown. Frustration mounting, you finally tore them apart, the delicate fabric ripping under your fingers. You didn’t care. The dress was nothing more than a relic of a life that had been stolen from you. And time was not a luxury you could afford.

The clothes John had gathered felt foreign against your skin. Trousers—something you had never worn before—clung awkwardly to your legs, making you feel strange and exposed. The oversized shirt drowned your figure, erasing every trace of the woman you had once been. If not for your long hair cascading freely down your back, you might have passed for a boy—a poorly dressed, disheveled boy.

You hadn't even realized that the elegant hairstyle your maids had carefully crafted was gone, undone by the chaos of the night. Now, your hair flowed wild and untamed.

Making your way outside the room, you found Ser John tending to the last remaining horse. Despite your misery, fortune—or perhaps divine intervention—had granted you this small mercy, a sign that you were meant to survive.

You noticed that he had also attempted, albeit poorly, to tend to his wounds. He had wrapped them in cotton to stop the bleeding—at least that was one less thing for you to worry about.

One look at you, and John knew he had to do something you would hate him for. Moving slowly so as not to startle you, he acted swiftly.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," he murmured softly, just before you felt him seize your hair. A moment later, long strands lay scattered on the floor, severed by the dagger he had concealed as he approached.

Long hair—a symbol of refinement, a silent testament to your place among the fallen aristocracy. It marked you as someone who once belonged to a world of luxury and status, a world that no longer existed. Now, it was nothing more than a dangerous reminder of who you were—a reminder you could not afford.

As quickly as he had approached, John left your side to tend to the horse once more. You stood frozen, staring down at the strands of hair. It wasn’t the loss itself that saddened you, but what it represented. Your old life was gone. Ahead lay the unknown, and with it, the weight of trust—you were placing your fate in the hands of your loyal knight. 

As he helped you onto the horse and urged it into a sprint toward an uncertain future, you couldn't help but long for the familiar French countryside you knew so well. You wished you were back in your well-kept garden, lying in the soft grass, without a single care in the world.

That life was long gone, but God had a new path laid out for you.

After a long week on the road, you realized that Ser John had no intention of taking you back to the royal family. He had only explained himself when you asked—never before. At first, his secrecy had angered you, but in time, you understood his reasons. You were already reeling from the massacre that had taken place, he had simply wished to spare you further distress.

When he spoke of the clans high in the Scottish mountains, you grew wary. Trading one group of bloodthirsty savages for mountain men, so far removed from civilization that, though they were under the English crown, they answered to no one. You had no idea why they, of all people, would agree to help you. The knight had explained that the Highlanders were also enemies of the English crown, and in a common enemy, one could find an ally. Though you represented another throne, France was once again at war with England.

Those conversations had taken place months ago, yet you had still not reached the fabled Highlands. Months on the road had done nothing to ease your sorrow. Your sleep was plagued with nightmares, and you spent your days in constant paranoia, fearing that someone would recognize you. But there was no way—you were too far from the fallen city, too far from any Frenchmen who could identify you. 

A few weeks after your escape, Ser John had settled in a small town north of the English kingdom, staying long enough to earn some coin for the journey ahead. It was then that you learned you had been declared missing. Rumours said you were killed by the English forces who had taken the castle that day. Furthermore, you learned that the former king had made it safely across the border and had joined his cousin, your king, in France.

Upon learning that the English monarch had made it back to your homeland, a storm of anger and sorrow overtook you. Had your knight taken you to the royal family, you would be home by now—safe in your mother's arms, far from harm and death. But fate had decided otherwise, and you remained on the road, searching for a foreign land that might not even accept you.

By then, it was already too late to turn back. You had wept and screamed at Ser John that day. The moment he stepped into the small room he had rented for the two of you, you confronted him with everything you had learned from the villagers. Of course, he had known all along. One of his greatest regrets was taking the road north that day. But the damage was done, and there was no use longing for a path God had not chosen for you.

Something awaited you in the north—something that would lead you back home. You felt it deep within you, you were destined for something greater. And so, you forgave your knight. It was easy—he had been a constant presence in your life, a father figure in all but name. At the very least, you loved him as one.

Your own father had played little role in your life, too preoccupied with his sons, leaving his daughters to their mother’s care. In the space your father had neglected, Ser John had taken root, becoming the guiding hand you had always needed.  

Now, sitting by the fire he had prepared, you were pulled from your thoughts by the very knight himself. He was adding more wood to the flames, watching you expectantly. When he realized you hadn’t been listening, he let out a slow chuckle.

"I don’t think we’re far now," John repeated, nodding toward the mountains that loomed around you. "The terrain is getting rougher, the air colder, and the people…" He paused, searching for the right word. "Harsher?"

"Their accent is definitely harsher," you replied, pouting slightly as memories filled your mind.

A few days ago, you had stopped in a small village to buy food and warmer clothing, as the temperatures continued to drop the farther north you traveled. It had been a shock to see how little the villagers had—only a handful of shops remained open, and the markets were nearly empty of anything truly nourishing. The cost of war. When you asked the villagers about it, their thick accents had surprised you, making them difficult to understand. Some even spoke a language you had never heard before—those were the ones who eyed you with suspicion.

Even though you had practiced English for most of your life, your strong French accent easily gave you away as a foreigner. The same went for John, though it was even more noticeable—especially since you had been the one teaching him English. He did his best to make himself understood, and so far, it had worked.

You had always taken pride in your ability to learn English quickly, but as you crossed the borders between England and Scotland, you realized your English had been very much capital-based—suited for understanding royalty and the so-called 'enlightened' people, but not the villagers of the northern kingdom.

They had mocked you in their own tongue, speaking slowly in English as if you were a child. It had been humiliating—no one had ever treated you this way. If they had, your father would have had them imprisoned. But that time was long gone. You were no longer a princess, just a simple Frenchwoman lost on the roads of Scotland. That was how they saw you—nothing more.

Shaking off the embarrassment, you looked up at your companion. His small smile told you he knew exactly what was on your mind. That only made you press your lips together in annoyance. You might have lost your titles while being on the run, but you certainly hadn’t lost the attitude that came with them.

Being on the road, you had grown accustomed to sleeping outside—and, surprisingly, you had come to love it. You took pleasure in admiring the night sky, scattered with countless stars. It was a sight you had once taken for granted back home, but after everything you had endured, you had learned to appreciate the little things. The night skies, the sunrises, the small kindnesses of villagers, the softness of animal furs—every tiny detail that once seemed trivial now felt like a gift from God, a reminder that you were still alive.

And so, without saying a word back to John, you settled for the night. The air was cool, but it was still manageable. You dreaded the first day of winters that approached quickly, you prayed you'd find those clans rather quickly, not really wanting to freeze to death after escaping it all those months ago. 

Once again, your night was plagued by nightmares—dreadful echoes of that day, imprinted in your mind, twisting and distorting your dreams. And like most nights, you woke in the dead of night. 

It had become routine—rising from restless sleep, your heart pounding from lingering nightmares. Most of the time, you would get up, seeking solace in the quiet presence of your horse, Espoir. It meant hope, and you thought it suited her perfectly. Her steady breaths and the warmth of her soft fur soothed your frayed nerves, grounding you in the present. Only then would you settle back down beside her, hoping for a few more hours of peace.

Tonight, however, you were startled to hear a voice as your nightmare jolted you awake. A voice you didn’t recognize, speaking in a language unfamiliar to you.

"That’s a very pretty horse. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?" the stranger murmured.

How had this not woken Ser John? You knew him to be a light sleeper. In the early days of your escape, he had always stirred at your restless nights, waking to soothe you through your panic. After a few weeks, you had told him not to trouble himself—that you could handle it on your own. It wasn’t out of shame, but guilt, you couldn’t bear to deprive him of sleep.

He had listened, though you knew he still watched over you. Sometimes, you would catch him observing from a distance as you stood beside the horse in the moonlight. He still woke when you did, if only to make sure you were all right before allowing himself to drift back to sleep.

Had the man killed him? Was that why Ser John hadn’t woken to attack?

Fear settled deep in your bones, your breathing quickening as you fought to stay silent, not daring to make a sound that might reveal you were awake. If this man had wanted you dead, surely he would have done it already.

Unless… he was toying with you, waiting for you to awaken to the sight of your knight slaughtered. Your mind raced with the most dreadful possibilities, imagining the vile things the stranger might do to your defenseless body. A wave of nausea rolled over you, and you had to physically restrain yourself from emptying your stomach right then and there.

"Don't bother, Knight. I know you're awake," the stranger’s voice called out, louder this time. It was directed at you. You still didn’t understand the words, but you knew, without a doubt, that this time he was speaking with intent—waiting for you to respond.

As if a flash of lucidity passed over the stranger, he spoke again, this time in words you could understand. "I’ve taken yer sword, and I see ye've gone for yer dagger. But dinnae fool yerself, knight—ye’ll no’ be winnin’ this fight."

His thick accent made it difficult to decipher his words, but one thing was clear—Ser John was still alive. The stranger hadn’t been speaking to you all this time, but to your knight.

Slowly opening your eyes, you were met with the sight of a rough-looking man, crouched by the horse. His hair was oddly cut, with a longer tuft running down the middle while the rest was cropped short. His body was massive—broad like a soldier’s, yet hardened like a laborer’s. He was dressed strangely, his clothing covered in tartan, likely the symbol of his clan. 

John had once told you Highlanders were easy to spot, and he hadn’t been wrong. 

He was wearing a skirt. You were sure that wasn’t the proper name for it, but to you, it looked the same all the way. It exposed his muscular hairy thighs—you had never seen a man like him before. 

He was as fascinating as he was terrifying.

"We 'ave nothing to offer you, Highlander," Ser John said, his French accent thick as he broke the heavy silence surrounding your small camp. His heavy accent was a stark contrast to the stranger's fluent English.

You heard movement behind you—John had sat up. You could almost feel the tension crackling in the air as the two men sized each other up. Watching the Highlander, you couldn't deny the sheer strength he exuded. If he was even half the soldier Ser John was, his sheer size alone might give him the upper hand in a fight.

"Nothin' tae offer me, aye?" the stranger mocked. "Then how come ye’ve been skulkin’ aboot the villages, askin’ after the Highlands?" His tone was edged with caution. His sharp gaze flickered to you, and he raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. It was his way of letting you know he was well aware you were awake.

John had been asking around about the Highlands? He never told you that. So much for being careful and discreet. He had led one of them straight to you, and even though the stranger didn’t seem threatening for now, you wouldn’t put it past him to eliminate anything he perceived as a threat to his people.

Sitting up, you noticed the wary way your knight was watching the stranger. He had told the truth—John's  sword lay beside the horse, just a few centimeters from the intruder. Yet the man seemed unbothered, still gently stroking the sleeping horse as if he had all the time in the world. You had always believed animals sensed things humans could not, and Espoir's calm demeanor eased your nerves—if only slightly.

"We are… how you say… survivors of the Wedding Massacre," John said quietly, his gaze never leaving the stranger. He did not look at you, his focus locked onto the man before him. "We ‘ave come all this way for ‘elp. I was told the Highlanders, they bow to no crown."

Your breath hitched as panic surged through you. He had chosen to reveal the truth. You knew it was part of his code of honor—John saw the stranger as another warrior, a brother forged in battle, and to him, that meant lies had no place here. But why he had placed his trust so quickly, you didn’t know. All you could do was pray he hadn't been wrong.

"We've nae king, that much is true," the stranger said calmly. "But if she is who I think she is, then ye serve a crown we dinnae answer to either."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, no?" John said quickly. When the stranger only shrugged, he pushed on. "The French kingdom... they would owe you much, you and your clan, if you make safe passage for her."

At those words, the stranger let out a scoff. He turned his head toward you once more, his entire body so relaxed it was almost unsettling. The soft glow of the dying fire cast shadows across his rugged features, highlighting the harsh angles of his face—a perfect match for his powerful frame. His beard was well-trimmed, and though he appeared clean, there was something in his eyes, something raw and untamed. A primal edge that sent a shiver down your spine, like a predator watching its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

"I dinnae speak for me clan, Knight," he said, his gaze drifting back to the sleeping horse.

You had never been one for politics, but you were quite certain this was not how deals were supposed to be made. Not in the dead of night, and certainly not between a knight and a man who barely looked older than twenty-five.

The stranger's entire demeanor was unusual. Calm and cocky—two words that set your nerves on edge. His relaxed confidence felt almost deliberate, as if he were toying with you both. You stole a glance at your knight, searching for reassurance. Though outwardly composed, you could see the subtle signs of his discomfort—signs only someone who knew him well would notice. To the stranger, however, Ser John likely appeared as if he were merely weighing his next words.

Ser John was about to speak again, when he was interrupted by the stranger. 

"I can take ye to them, if that's truly what ye want," he offered, a faint smile playing on his lips. His eyes flickered to you once more before settling on the knight beside you.

"Will they hurt us?" your knight asked bluntly. He had realized the stranger was playing a game, but for what purpose, he did not yet know.

The stranger’s only response was a slow, knowing smirk and a casual shrug. He was toying with the knight, taunting him, daring him to take the risk of trusting a stranger. His entire demeanor oozed confidence, as if he held all the power in this exchange—like he was enjoying watching Ser John wrestle with the decision. 

Once again, his eyes landed on you, and that primal glint flickered back to life. There was something unsettling—almost intoxicating—about the way he watched you, sending a shiver down your spine. It made you want to press your thighs together, though you couldn’t quite understand why. It wasn’t just his gaze, it was the way he carried himself, the effortless confidence, the quiet danger in his smirk. He looked at you like a predator sizing up its prey—like he wanted to devour you whole.

No one had ever looked at you this way before—it was utterly improper. And judging by the way Ser John cleared his throat, he didn’t appreciate it either. When the stranger didn’t immediately turn his gaze, your knight had to clear his throat a second time, more forcefully, finally drawing the man’s attention back to him.

It was only then that you realized your palms were damp with sweat. Rubbing them discreetly against your trousers, you tried to steady yourself. He made you nervous—unsettlingly so. You told yourself it was fear, the instinctive wariness of a potential threat. But deep down, a part of you knew there was another reason.

When you looked back at your knight, he was watching you intently, a silent question in his eyes. What other choice did you have? You had spent months on the road searching for exactly what the stranger was now offering.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you gave a small, hesitant nod.

Nodding at the stranger, your knight extended his hand. "Ser John Price," he introduced himself before gesturing toward you and stating your name.

"Johnny Mactavish," the stranger replied, clasping John's hand firmly in his own. "Ye and the bana-phrionnsa best get some more rest—the night's still young for strangers tae be crossin' these lands."

With those words, he settled himself by the fire as if he had always been part of the journey. 

Crossing his legs, the only thing shielding his modesty was the plaid of his skirt. Despite yourself, your eyes were drawn to his thighs—thick, powerful, unlike anything you had ever seen before. Truth be told, you had never truly looked at a man’s thighs in the flesh. But even without comparison, you could say with confidence that Johnny Mactavish was strong—ungodly so. 

Forcing your gaze away, you turned to Ser John. Confusion clouded his face as he watched the stranger warily. There was something unsettling about Johnny’s ease—how he settled in as if he had always been there, as if he knew exactly how much power he held over you both. And in truth, he did. Neither you nor your knight had any idea how to find the clans that could help you. He had appeared like a mirage, not exactly offering help, but rather a passage to an uncertain future.

Nodding discreetly, your knight motioned for you to come closer. You attempted to move subtly, shifting as if merely trying to find a more comfortable position. But the Scot saw right through it, letting out a low chuckle at your feeble attempt. His eyes tracked your every movement, not with suspicion, but with something else entirely.

"What is wrong with him?" you whispered to your knight in French, ensuring the Highlander remained unaware of your words.

John let out a weary sigh, his grip gentle yet firm as he pulled you closer. "He is Scottish, your Highness. I have heard that is simply the way they are." His voice was laced with both exasperation and caution, making it clear he was just as unsettled by the stranger’s demeanor as you were.

"You'd both be lyin' in a pool o' yer own blood if I wanted ye dead, ye ken that?" Johnny said casually, a grin tugging at his lips as he laughed through his words.

You let out a small gasp at his gruesome remark, muttering under your breath, "Savages," as you finally settled down, though the tension in your body remained. Clearly amused, he let out another quiet laugh, the sound low and rough in the stillness of the night.

"Should we thank you, then?" John retorted, clearly growing tired of the Highlander's smug demeanor.

Johnny merely smirked. "Naw, just sayin’." His hands hovered over the fire, strangely close to the flames, as if the heat didn’t bother him in the slightest. 

The flickering light reflected off the rings adorning his fingers, casting glimmers against his rough skin as his fingers danced idly above the flames.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ next chapter.

As you stood there in the great hall, the tension was thick enough to choke on. No one had spoken since Johnny’s last words, and the three men were locked in silent assessment of one another, a battle of unspoken words and unreadable expressions.

Caught in the middle, your eyes never left Johnny’s face. You searched desperately for any sign of betrayal, any flicker of deceit hidden beneath the warmth he had shown before. But there was nothing. No malice, no trickery—just the same unwavering steadiness.

Yet, it all felt too familiar, too much like that night. A cruel déjà vu. The air grew heavy, pressing against your chest like a hand closing around your throat. Your fingers twisted together, trying to ground yourself, but your legs threatened to give out beneath you.

The fear you thought you had left behind in the chapel came rushing back, thick and suffocating.

Had it all been a trap from the very beginning?

"Fionn Mactavish, Chief of the Clan," the man finally introduced himself. His eyes were soft, yet his posture radiated authority. He stepped toward your knight, extending his hand.

When Ser John reached to shake it after stating his own name, Fionn grasped his forearm instead—a firm, deliberate gesture. It was a greeting between equals, warriors who had proven themselves in battle. A simple handshake wouldn’t do in these lands—here, strength recognized strength.

Ser John, though caught slightly off guard, returned the gesture firmly. You noticed how Fionn’s eyes flickered with approval. 

"We've been waiting for you," the chief said, his voice almost too gentle.

A sharp wave of anxiety coiled in your stomach at his words. So the small trust you'd placed in Johnny over the past day had been a mistake. He hadn’t just stumbled upon you because the villagers were talking—

he had been looking for you.

Your gaze flickered past the older man, landing on Johnny. For a brief moment, guilt flashed across his face, but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by a hardened expression. A silent message lingered in his eyes—he hadn’t betrayed you.

"The Sassenachs are back in our lands, and they've been askin' after the princess. War's been declared, and you, lass, are their wee pawn in makin' peace wi' the French." the chief explained, his tone measured as his sharp eyes flicked to your knight’s tightening grip on his sword.

The mere fact that Ser John had been allowed to keep his weapon should have reassured you—it was a sign of goodwill, of trust. But you were past seeing gestures of peace. Betrayal had found you before, lurking in familiar smiles and empty promises. You wouldn’t be fooled again. 

Before you could restrain yourself, the words escaped your lips.

"We are prisoners then? Waiting to be sold to whoever pays the most?" you barked, spite dripping from your tone as your gaze darted between the two Scots.

Johnny flinched, his jaw tightening, but it was the chief who responded. His expression remained calm, though something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable.

"Ye're guests," Fionn corrected, his voice steady. "But dinnae mistake hospitality for weakness, lass. The world beyond these walls would see ye dead or worse. Here, ye've got a chance."

"A chance for what?" Ser John cut in, his stance rigid, his hand still poised over his sword.

The chief tilted his head slightly. "To live."

You scoffed at that. As if you needed a bunch of savages to survive, you had managed to survive just great with just your knight for the last couple of months. 

You scoffed at that, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. As if you needed a bunch of savages to survive. You had made it this far with nothing but your wits and Ser John’s sword.

"You think we need you to survive?" you bit out, your voice sharp with defiance. "We have managed just fine on our own for months. We didn't need your protection then, and we certainly don’t need it now." 

Fionn let out a slow exhale, his expression unreadable. He studied you as one might a feral creature, wary but patient. Johnny, however, bristled at your words.

"Aye, and how much longer do ye think that luck would’ve lasted?" Johnny challenged, his voice steady despite the storm in his eyes. "How many more nights could ye run, starve, and pray the English wouldn’t catch ye? Ye were heading straight for one of their battalions—ye should be thanking me for finding ye first."

Your lips pressed into a thin line, unwilling to admit he had a point. You had felt the toll—the exhaustion in your bones, the constant gnawing hunger, the weight of fear pressing on your chest each night. But admitting that to them? Never.

Fionn hummed knowingly, his gaze shifting between you and Ser John. "We have a common enemy, it's always better to join forces."

John remained silent, his body tense, his jaw clenched as he weighed Fionn's words. You, however, weren’t so easily convinced. The surge of courage and anger felt almost liberating. After years of being overlooked, it was a rebirth to finally speak your mind without fear of consequence.

"Join forces?" you repeated, voice laced with skepticism. "And what would that entail, exactly? Swearing fealty to a clan we know nothing about? Fighting a war that isn’t ours?"

Fionn chuckled, the deep rumble of his amusement filling the hall. "Lass, whether ye like it or not, this war became yours the moment the English tried to kill ye on yer weddin’ day." His sharp eyes settled on you, unreadable yet knowing. "Ye can either face it alone and risk the noose, or stand with us and have a fighting chance."

Turning to his son, the chief smirked slightly. "A spitfire, this one. You sure you got the right princess?"

Johnny’s smirk only fueled your anger. You had heard what he called you that first night—Bana-phrionnsa. Princess. They were speaking about you, deliberately in Gaelic so you wouldn’t understand. Out of pure pettiness, you did the same.

“We should go.”

Turning to your knight, you raised your eyebrows expectantly, but he only shook his head.

“To go where, Your Highness?” he asked softly, his voice calm, almost as if trying to soothe your frustration. “You heard them—the English are looking for us, for you.”

“We don’t even know if they’re telling the truth,” you countered, desperation creeping into your voice. “They could be trapping us here—for some twisted reason.”

You begged him to see reason, to remember how well the two of you had survived on your own. You were safer away from the Highlands—away from anyone. You were a long way from home, and yet, you were still alive, you trusted your good star enough to believe you'd made it out alive once more. The only thing was that you didn't know where to go. 

France was a dead end. If you couldn’t find a way to board a ship from the Highlands—and pray the Brits weren’t controlling the waters ready to attack any enemies ship—then escaping by land was just as impossible. That would mean traveling through English-occupied territory, and you already knew how that story ended. A so-called peace offering for the French, as if you were foolish enough to believe such lies.

Before the wedding, you might have been.

You would have clung to Ser John’s arm, begged him to take you to the nearest English outpost, convinced they would escort you home. But you weren’t that naive girl anymore. The chapel had burned that innocence to ash. They had taken that away from you. 

The common enemy.

With a heavy sigh, you finally saw reason. Winter was creeping in faster here in the Highlands, its sharp bite already lacing the night air. You had spent too many sleepless hours shivering under the open sky, knowing that if your enemies didn’t find you first, the cold surely would.

Shaking your head, you told yourself this was only temporary—a means to survive the brutal Highland winter. By spring, you would have convinced Ser John to leave, to continue the journey. And who knew? Perhaps, by then, the war would be over.

Swallowing your already bruised pride, you turned to your knight, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you.

"We stay," you said simply, making it clear that the decision was not yours alone but a shared burden. You refused to acknowledge the Scots directly, still too stubborn—too proud—to accept the offer yourself.

Yet, if they noticed your pettiness, they did not seem to mind. It was strange, almost unsettling, how they treated you. In your homeland, men made the decisions, and women were expected to follow. Here, in the untamed Highlands, they spoke to you as if your voice mattered. As if you were not just a pawn to be moved across a board but a player in your own right.

It was a stark contrast, and you weren’t sure yet if it was liberating or dangerous.

"We are staying, then." Ser John settled, looking at the chief. 

 Staying.

What a strange, foreign concept. You had spent months running, surviving on borrowed time, never daring to plant roots. Now, the idea of remaining in one place—of relying on people who were neither kin nor countrymen—felt almost unnatural.

Nothing could have prepared you for what it truly meant.

Settling in hadn’t been difficult. The Highlanders were welcoming—almost overwhelmingly so.

On your first night, a group of women had gathered in your chambers, their arms full of gifts they thought you might need. Dresses of thick, warm fabric, wooden combs and hairbrushes, soft nightgowns, undergarments, cloth for your bleeding, even razors—small tokens meant to ease your transition into their world. Their generosity was almost unsettling, so unlike the guarded, transactional kindness you had known at court.

Back home, your body had never truly belonged to you. Maids tended to it with meticulous care, shaving you smooth at every opportunity. For your husband, they had always said, as if you existed only in preparation for a man’s desire. You had never questioned it. It was simply what was done. But somewhere along the way, you had learned to despise the sight of your own natural body, to see yourself as something that needed to be tamed, refined, controlled.

Here, no one seemed to care for such things. The Highland women carried themselves differently—strong, unbothered, untouched by the delicate insecurities of courtly life. And for the first time, you wondered if you had been taught to hate something that had never truly mattered.

Your bed had been layered with furs, and though you had initially despised them—so accustomed to the softness of cotton and silk—they had proven invaluable once the true northern cold settled in. The castle, though built to trap warmth within its thick stone walls, had not been immune to the passage of time. Cracks and weathered edges allowed icy drafts to creep through, making the furs a welcome comfort against the biting chill.

Ser John had settled in well—better than well, in fact. He had quickly been offered a position training the young warriors, as war seemed inevitable. His reputation had preceded him, and no one had questioned his skill. He was paid for his labor, treated with the same respect as if he had always been part of the clan.

You, however, were another matter entirely.

The first few weeks had been difficult. You refused to leave the sanctuary of your chambers, seeking solace in the flickering warmth of the fire. Seated in the armchair, you spent your days watching the flames dance—sometimes writing in your journal, other times simply lost in thought. Ser John was the one who brought you your meals, scolding you for your childish reluctance to engage with the people who had welcomed you so warmly.

It had become easier as time went by. Once you finally began leaving your chambers, you met the chief's daughters—Johnny’s sisters, at the dinner table. They had taken a liking to you immediately, pulling you into their daily activities—walking through the snow-filled gardens, cooking for the poor and handing out warm soup, riding their horses across the frozen fields. Their kindness had warmed your heart in a way you hadn’t expected.

Never would you have imagined yourself doing the same back in France. Strangers were met with suspicion where you came from, their intentions always questioned, the lingering fear that they sought to exploit your wealth ever present. But here? Here, you were nothing. You had nothing but your name. And the Mactavishes? They welcomed you as if you had always belonged.

And then, there was Johnny. You had quickly learned that he was the only son out of eight children. So many siblings. When you had asked Isla, one of his sisters, about it, she had answered cheekily, "The nights tend to get cold here," wearing the same smirk as her brother.

You had definitely seen the family resemblance then—especially as your cheeks grew warm at her insinuation.

He always lingered somehow. No matter what you were doing, you'd catch him watching you. At first, it had put you on edge, irritated that he was always looming nearby. But over time, his presence became familiar—expected, even. Your eyes started searching for him in a room before you could stop yourself. 

Sometimes, he would approach you, lingering a little too close, teasing you with his endless jokes. You’d scoff, roll your eyes, push him away—but on the days when he was too busy to seek you out, a strange emptiness settled in your chest.

Like something was missing.

It didn’t help that his sisters spoke of him as if he were some kind of legend, weaving tales of his exploits on the battlefield alongside their father. They were proud of their brother, and it warmed your heart. It reminded you of your own brothers—wherever they were, surely fighting for your King. 

Your King, he wasn't yours anymore. 

But watching the Mactavishes, seeing how loving and unwaveringly loyal they were to one another, made something in your chest ache. A quiet, creeping sadness settled deep in your bones.

A nagging feeling told you that you would never see your family again. You had lost them the moment you stepped into that carriage, leaving your home behind.

Gone.

Only memories remained.

After a month, you had begun to trust them with your own life. Slowly, the walls you had built around yourself started to crack. You told them about France, about your family. You spoke of your mother, and they had begged for more stories about her. Their own mother had long been in the grave, and hearing tales of another’s warmth and kindness seemed to lighten something in them.

How could you deny them that? The youngest was only six years old. You were no monster.

So, you shared. You filled the empty space in their hearts with gentle memories of your own mother—of her laughter, her lullabies, the way she smelled of lavender and honey.

And in doing so, you filled the empty space in your own heart too.

As a trade-off, you asked to be taught Gaelic. You had grown tired of the old women at the market chuckling behind your back, their words just out of reach. Tired of Johnny’s hushed remarks in a language you couldn't understand. At first, it was difficult, the unfamiliar words twisting on your tongue, but with time, you improved. You understood more than you could speak, but you were getting there.

You still vividly remembered the first time you spoke Gaelic to Johnny. He had been so stunned that, for once, he was left speechless. His sisters had giggled, delighting in his rare moment of silence before dragging you away. Looking back at him as you had made your escape, something in his eyes had sent a shiver straight through you, settling deep in your core. It was almost animalistic—intense, unspoken, and undeniably raw. Even days later, nestled beneath the heavy furs of your bed, you still thought about that look. 

Something had shifted in Johnny that day—something deep and instinctual. Hearing you speak his language, seeing you wrapped in the warm wool of his people, his clan’s tartan draped over your shoulders like a cape... a primal urge had surfaced within him.

And it had yet to fade. Not that he wanted it to.

After that, Johnny was everywhere—more than ever before. Each morning, the moment you stepped into the hall, his eyes were already on you, tracking your every move. At the stables, as you prepared to ride out with his sisters, he was always lingering nearby, watching. When you knelt in the chapel, seeking solace in prayer, he just happened to be passing by. Even in the dead of night, when you slipped into the kitchens for a quiet moment alone, you caught a fleeting glimpse of him—always close, always watching.

As the gentle warmth of spring began to settle over the mountains, you found yourself longing to see more of their lands. The breathtaking Highlands, which you had only glimpsed upon your arrival, called to you with their untamed beauty. When you asked to be shown more, Fionn readily agreed—but, of course, you would need an escort.

And who better than his own son?

He knew the land, knew how to defend himself, and—most importantly—had earned your knight’s trust.

John and Johnny had grown closer over time. Both had been assigned to train the young warriors, and despite their differences, they complemented each other perfectly. Ser John, ever the disciplined tactician, had been taught by the best swordsmen in France. He was methodical and precise, drilling battle knowledge and strategy into his students with careful intent. 

Johnny, on the other hand, was raw power—instinctual, fierce. He taught the young ones how to use their size to their advantage, how to fight with the unpredictability of the wild.

At first, their styles had clashed, but soldiers recognized soldiers. In time, respect settled between them, and so did trust.

So when he learned you were going outside with Johnny, Ser John didn’t impose himself. It was his first day free of training in weeks, and he had no intention of spending it caught between the strange, unspoken energy that had formed between you two.

He trusted Johnny—enough, at least. And he had threatened him more than once to make sure the young Highlander wouldn’t try anything reckless.

Still, Ser John was your sworn sword, bound by duty above all else. Even as he became more ingrained in the clan, his oath remained unchanged.

To protect you. Always.

As an unfortunate turn of events, the only horse remaining in the stables was Espoir. Strange. How had all the other horses conveniently disappeared?

“Huntin’ party,” was Johnny’s only explanation, though you could tell he was lying. The glint in his eye, the way he avoided your gaze—it was obvious. But with no proof to call him out on it, you had grumbled under your breath and accepted his offered hand as he helped you onto your horse.

Wanting to let you roam freely, he mounted behind you, placing no hands on the reins. He had to restrain himself from placing them on your full hips, his body instinctively drawn to the closeness. You were in control, though he knew the land better than anyone. No matter where you wandered, he would always know the way home.

At first, that was exactly what you did. Spring was on the verge of arriving, the last remnants of winter melting into the earth. Flowers pushed through thawing ground, animals chased one another in playful pursuit, the air filled with the sounds of new life. The Highlands were thriving, and you had never seen anything so beautiful.

Wandering deeper into the forest, you stumbled upon a pond—a glistening body of water reflecting the sun, its surface rippling invitingly. The sight was too tempting to ignore. You told the Highlander you wanted to stop here for a moment, and who was he to refuse you?

The stubborn pout on your lips deepened when you refused his offered hand to help you dismount, determined to do it yourself. Johnny could already see you struggling, your dress far too heavy for proper riding. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed, watching the inevitable unfold.

With a less-than-graceful descent, you landed on your backside, the fabric of your dress stubbornly caught in the horse’s stirrup. A triumphant chuckle rumbled from Johnny’s chest, his amusement only growing when Espoir let out a soft whinny—sounding almost like laughter at your expense.

"Stubbornness will land ye nowhere but on yer arse, bana-phrionnsa." Johnny mocked, his voice dripping with amusement as he strode toward you.

Before you could protest, his strong hands gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly to your feet as if you weighed nothing at all. A small gasp escaped your lips, your breath catching in your throat.

The Scots were generous, and so was their food—you had softened a little since arriving, your body no longer as starved and frail as when you were on the roads.It had returned to its fullness, much like it had been back home—a body designed for nurturing, soft and strong in equal measure.

And yet, Johnny handled you as though you were light as a feather. The sheer ease with which he moved you sent a shiver through your body, something deep and primal stirring within you.

You swallowed hard, refusing to meet his knowing gaze. You weren’t sure if he had felt the tension crackling between you, but by the slow smirk curling on his lips, you feared he had.

Your hands landed on his shoulders, gripping tightly from the sudden movement. Beneath your fingers, hard muscle tensed, solid and warm. He felt good—too good—and the thought crept unbidden into your mind: was he this strong everywhere? The temptation to find out made your breath hitch.

Your eyes met his, and for the briefest moment—so quick you might have imagined it—his gaze flickered down to your lips. Like he was afraid you’d notice. Like he wanted something he shouldn't. Then, just as quickly, his sea-deep blue eyes were back on yours.

You had never truly noticed how blue they were before, never cared enough to look. Now, you couldn’t look away. His face was scattered with beauty spots and freckles, softened in some places, hardened in others. A few scars marred his skin, the largest running along the side of his skull, as if a blade had once tried to carve him apart. It hadn’t succeeded. If anything, it only made him more captivating.

You might have lost yourself in him completely if not for the impatient huff of the horse behind you, breaking the moment like a slap to the face.

Too quickly, you pulled your hands away, suddenly aware of the lingering heat on your waist—his hands had been there. Holding you steady. Holding you close. You hadn't even noticed. A slow flush crept up your neck, burning across your cheeks. Turning sharply, you faced the water, hoping the cool air might do something to calm the fire now raging beneath your skin.

Your embarrassment, combined with the warmth of the sunlight on your skin, made you feel hotter than ever. The pond before you shimmered invitingly, its surface dancing with the golden reflection of the midday sun. It beckoned you closer, a tempting escape from the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your chest.

You wanted nothing more than to slip into the cool embrace of the water, to wash away the lingering fluster Johnny had so effortlessly caused. But you knew better. No matter how inviting it looked, Highland waters were unforgiving—cold enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs.

Still, the thought lingered, teasing you. As you stepped closer to the pond’s edge, the idea of testing the water’s chill became too tempting to resist. What harm could come from dipping your feet, at least?

Making quick work of your shoes, you settled on a smooth rock near the shore, lifting your heavy skirts just enough to bare your ankles. Slowly, you slid your feet into the water, expecting an icy bite—but to your surprise, it wasn’t as freezing as you had feared. A shiver still ran up your spine, but the sensation was more refreshing than unbearable.

Winter still clung to the Highland air, but the water held a deceptive warmth, likely fed by an underground spring. It lapped at your skin gently, as if beckoning you further in. You sighed, allowing yourself a rare moment of peace, your fingers tracing patterns over the damp fabric of your dress.

Behind you, Johnny shifted, watching. You could feel his gaze, lingering yet unreadable. Whatever was running through his mind, he kept it to himself—for now.

You heard him chuckle behind you, a low, amused sound that sent a prickle of irritation down your spine. Turning to face him, you caught sight of the smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remained fixed on the water.

“What’s so funny?” you huffed, crossing your arms, already bracing for another one of his teasing remarks.

Johnny shook his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he were holding back a full grin. “Nothin’,” he drawled, clearly enjoying himself. “Just thinkin’ how we teach the wee one not to deep into water around here, you ken, the kelpies.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "Kelpies?" you repeated, skepticism lacing your tone. And yet, you had withdrawn your feet from the water. 

Johnny nodded, stepping closer, his smirk deepening as he crouched beside you, arms resting lazily on his knees. The movement pulled his kilt higher, offering you an unbidden glimpse of his powerful thighs—thick, corded with muscle, each ridge and dip a testament to his strength. Scars and faint beauty marks adorned his skin, a map of battles fought and won.

Your breath hitched despite yourself. He was too close, his presence overwhelming, his scent—a mix of leather, earth, and something distinctly him—curling around you like a trap. You tore your gaze away, only to find his eyes already on you, watching, knowing. His smirk shifted, turning lazy, teasing.

“Aye. Water spirits,” he drawled, his voice rich with amusement. “They lure folk in, appearin’ as fine horses or bonnie lasses, only to drag them under—drownin’ them in the depths.” His tone was casual, but the mischievous glint in his eye betrayed his enjoyment. Then, with a slow wink at bonnie lasses, he tilted his head slightly, as if hinting at something more—something entirely wicked.

You scoffed, kicking your foot lightly in the water. “I suppose you expect me to be scared now?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Nah,” he admitted. “But I do expect ye to be smarter than a bairn, sittin’ there like an invitation.” His gaze flickered to your bare feet in the water before meeting your eyes again. “Would be a shame if a kelpie got ye before I did.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cool air.

"Didn't take you for a fairytale believer," you teased, before slashing him with the cold water, laughing at his surprised face. 

Johnny wiped the water from his face, blinking in surprise before his lips curled into a mischievous grin. "Och, ye’ll regret that, bana-phrionnsa," he warned, his voice low with mock threat.

Before you could react, his hands shot forward, splashing you right back, the cold water hitting your arms and the front of your dress. You gasped at the sudden chill, eyes wide in outrage.

"Johnny!" you shrieked, half laughing, half scolding as you scrambled back from the water's edge.

He only chuckled, standing to his full height, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Ye started it," he said smugly. "Thought ye wanted a bit of fun?"

You glared at him, shivering slightly. "Fun doesn’t include freezing to death."

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Could always warm ye up," he murmured, his voice quieter now, rougher.

Your breath caught in your throat. The playful air between you shifted, something heavier settling in its place. The water dripped from your dress, soaking into the ground, but suddenly, the cold was the last thing on your mind.

That feeling was back, crawling over your skin like a slow-burning fire. Instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, trying to smother the heat pooling low in your belly. But the movement didn’t go unnoticed.

Johnny’s gaze flickered down, honing in on the slight shift of your legs like a predator catching the scent of prey. His expression darkened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced with something raw, something that sent a shiver down your spine—not from the cold, but from the way he was looking at you.

His full attention was on you now, unwavering, unrelenting. The world around you could have crumbled, the skies could have torn open, and he wouldn’t have spared it a glance.

You swallowed hard, feeling your pulse quicken. "Johnny," you murmured, not even sure what you were about to say, only that you needed to break the tension crackling between you like a struck flint.

But he took a slow step forward, closing the space between you. "Aye, bana-phrionnsa?" His voice was lower now, thick with something unspoken, something dangerous.

The moment shattered with a sharp, pained whinny.

Espoir.

Whipping around, your breath caught in your throat as you saw her, riddled with arrows, her white coat marred with dark streaks of blood. More arrows came whistling from the trees, slicing through the air like death itself.

A strangled gasp left your lips, instincts screaming at you to run to her, to do something—but before you could move, strong hands seized your hips, yanking you back.

“Stay down!” Johnny’s voice was a rough command, but you barely registered it over the deafening roar in your ears.

Your heart pounded as Espoir stumbled, her legs buckling beneath her. The world blurred as tears filled your eyes, horror and helplessness tangling in your chest.

And then, the screaming started, along with gunshots. The gunfire cracked through the air, drowning out the pained whimpers of your fallen horse.

Saxons. 

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut, but your body was too numb to react. Johnny didn’t hesitate. His grip on you was bruising as he dragged you away, away from the attack, away from Espoir’s lifeless body.

You struggled at first, every instinct screaming at you to fight—to stay. But the sharp whistle of another bullet snapping past your ear forced reality back into focus. Johnny wasn’t running out of fear. He was making a choice. A calculated one.

His sword was useless against rifles. He could do nothing alone. Still, you could feel the anger radiating off him, burning hotter with every step he forced you forward. He wasn’t a coward, and every fiber of his being rebelled against retreat. But he knew when to pick his battles.

He had sisters to protect. A clan to lead one day. And you—You couldn’t die. Not here. Not like this. And he would make damn sure of it.

The British hadn't dared come this close to Mactavish land in years. The clan had fought like demons, their reputation alone keeping invaders at bay. And yet, here they were, rifles in hand, cutting through the land like they owned it.

Johnny's gut twisted as he ran, dragging you along with him. This wasn’t a random attack. It felt calculated. Purposeful. Like they knew you were here. 

Like someone had told them.

The thought sent a surge of fury through his veins, his grip on you tightening instinctively. A traitor within the clan. A rat feeding information to the enemy. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. If he ever found out who it was, he’d slit their throat himself.

Pushing you down a small slope, you landed with a splash in the icy river that fed into the pond. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, but it was swiftly muffled by Johnny’s calloused hand. His other arm wrapped around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

In any other circumstance, you might have taken a moment to appreciate the way the firm muscles of his forearm tensed beneath your fingertips, how the soft muscles of his stomach felt on your lower back, how his strong thighs framed yours as he kept you steady. But not now.

Above you, footsteps pounded against the earth, voices barking orders in clipped English. They weren’t looking for him.

Just you. They knew. But how?

Tears kept falling, warm streaks trailing down your cheeks, only to be halted by Johnny’s firm hand still pressed over your mouth. Your breaths came in shaky, uneven bursts against his palm, your body trembling from both the cold and the sheer terror gripping you.

His other hand, rough but steady, rested on your stomach. Slowly, almost instinctively, his thumb began to rub gentle circles against the fabric of your dress—a quiet, grounding gesture. A silent promise.

Stay with me. Breathe.

Above, the voices grew louder, boots crunching against the frozen earth. The enemy was close. Too close. And yet, with Johnny holding you like this, shielding you with his own body, you felt something else beneath the fear. Safe.

Your fingers dug into his wrist and forearm, leaving deep impressions in his skin, but Johnny didn’t flinch. He barely even registered the pain. His focus was entirely on the land, on the quickest way to get you both out of here alive.

A two-hour ride on horseback meant four on foot—four hours of being hunted. His mind raced through every hidden path, every deer trail, every shadowed ravine the outlanders wouldn’t know existed. He had grown up in these valleys, lost himself in these forests more times than he could count, seeking solitude after his mother’s passing. This land was in his blood.

Today, he wouldn’t rely on brute strength. That wouldn’t save you. His brain would be his weapon. His knowledge, your only way out. 

It all reminded you of that dreadful night. The screams, the chaos, the helplessness clawing at your chest. You had thought you’d never have to endure something like this again—that the worst was behind you, buried in the past where it belonged.

But fate was cruel. The fear was just as suffocating, the uncertainty just as sharp. And as you clung to Johnny, half in the freezing water, his steady presence the only thing keeping you grounded, you realized the past was not done with you yet.

By the time the soldiers had finally left, you were freezing. Minutes or hours could have passed—you couldn’t tell—but the sun was sinking lower in the sky, painting the horizon in hues of orange and crimson. It would be dark soon. Too soon, considering you were being hunted.

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, creeping across the sky like a gathering storm of fate. The air grew heavy, thick with the promise of rain and something more—something ominous. The once-blue expanse was swallowed by shifting shades of gray, casting an eerie gloom over the land.

A low rumble echoed in the distance, a warning. The wind picked up, whispering through the trees, rustling your clothes as if urging you to seek shelter. But it wasn’t just the storm that made your skin prickle—it was the tension in the air, the sense that something was coming. Something inevitable. Something dangerous.

"Come on, lass." Johnny’s voice was steady as he helped you to your feet, his hand firm yet gentle on your waist, grounding you. "I ken a place where we’ll be safe for the night."

While you had been too numb with fear to think of anything beyond the threat of the enemy, Johnny’s mind had been working relentlessly—calculating the risks, mapping out the quickest escape routes. And no matter how many times he ran through the options, the answer was always the same: there was no way you’d make it back to the village tonight.

Even with all his knowledge of the land, he knew you wouldn’t be able to keep up. He remembered all too well the day he had first brought you here—how the long trek had worn you down, how often you’d paused to rest your aching feet. It wasn’t your fault. You had been raised with carriages and fine-bred horses, not endless miles of rugged terrain beneath your boots. But out here, none of that mattered.

With a quiet sigh, he tightened his grip on your waist for just a heartbeat, his warmth seeping through the chill that clung to your clothes. Then, without another word, he took your hand and led you deeper into the forest. 

Your life had passed from Ser John's hands to Johnny's. In this very moment, there was little you could do but trust the Highlander, placing your fate in his calloused hands and praying he wouldn’t let you die.

The thought unsettled you. You had spent your life under the careful watch of others—first your family, then your knight—but never had the weight of your survival felt so precarious. 

Yet, as Johnny moved with unwavering certainty through the dense forest, his grip steady and his pace unyielding, you couldn’t help but feel the smallest ember of reassurance. He knew these lands like the back of his hand. He had survived them before, and if you were lucky, he would make sure you survived them too.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ next chapter.

Isla.

Johnny’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as the truth settled like a poison in his veins. The betrayal cut deeper than any blade ever could. His sister—the girl he had once sworn to protect—had been feeding the enemy their secrets, selling them piece by piece. 

And for what? Love? Empty promises from a man who saw her as nothing more than a means to an end?

She had met an English soldier months ago, just before Johnny brought you back with him. He had charmed her, filled her head with empty promises, and disgraced her. He had made her love him. And in return, she had given him everything.

For months, she had been feeding him—whispering about the clan, their defenses, their people. About you. Mere pillow talk for her, but for her traitorous lover, it had been everything he needed.

When you hadn’t returned from the pond, whispers of a Sassenach attack had slithered through the castle like a sickness. The English had been pressing further into their lands ever since their new king had been crowned. And now, your disappearance? It had been the only logical explanation.

Then, deep into the night, Isla had come crawling, tears streaming down her face as she entered her father's chambers. She had confessed everything. All of it.

Her father had comforted her, though his heart ached with the weight of her betrayal. She was still his blood, his child. And she had been deceived. Played like a pawn in a game far beyond her understanding.

Through choked sobs, she had recounted the lies her lover had spun—how he had claimed to be a spy for the old king, how he had sworn to despise the English as much as she and her clan did. 

How he had promised to marry her, to give her the family she had always dreamed of. And she had believed him.

As a chief, he was furious—anger boiling in him at the realization that a traitor had been living within his walls. 

But as a father, all he felt was guilt and tenderness. Guilt for never seeing the signs, for missing the late-night disappearances, the way his daughter had been sneaking away to meet her lover. And tenderness, because despite it all, she was still his Isla. His little girl. The same dreamer she had always been, the hopeless romantic who once begged her mother to tell her every detail of her marriage, clinging to the idea of love like it was the very air she breathed.

Johnny had noticed his sister’s odd behavior, but he had assumed she was seeing one of the men from the village—not their enemy. It wasn’t hidden, Scotland, and especially the Highlands, had been at war with England for centuries. Didn't she know better? 

How could she have been so naïve?

Johnny was boiling. For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t treat Isla like just another traitor—she was his blood, his sister. But at the same time, he knew the damage had already been done. The English would be preparing their next move, ready to tear apart years of fragile peace just to get their hands on the princess. 

Everything was closing in on him—his thoughts, the walls, the weight of it all pressing down until he could barely breathe. His pulse pounded in his ears, his chest tightened, and his mind felt like it was spiraling out of control. He needed air. He needed space. He needed to think.

With a sudden rush, he pushed back from the table, the sharp crash of his chair hitting the floor echoing through the chamber. Without a word, he turned on his heel, his only thought to get away. Outside. Somewhere he could breathe. Somewhere he could be alone.

He knew he wouldn’t be allowed beyond the castle grounds, not with tensions this high. But that didn’t matter. He knew these walls better than anyone—better than any secrets Isla could have whispered to her lover.

Sighing, Fionn sank heavily into his seat, the weight of it all pressing down on him. His family was unraveling before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. There had been so many chances to prevent this, so many moments where he could have seen the truth—but now it was too late.

His little Isla was heartbroken, drowning in guilt. His Johnny was lost to rage, consumed by dark thoughts that Fionn feared he wouldn’t be able to pull him back from.

Left alone in the room with the French knight, Fionn felt the urge to explain. The weight of the truth was too much to carry alone, and he knew the man sitting across from him deserved to understand.

He knew you had been getting better at Gaelic, but your knight had yet to grasp it. So, in low, measured tones, Fionn told him everything.

When he was done, the same look of pity he had worn when Isla, tear-streaked and broken, had confessed everything now lingered in John's eyes. Though, the knight had no children of his own, not truly—he understood. The impossible choices, the war between duty and love, between justice and family.

Fionn exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "What would ye dae, John?" he asked, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Ser John didn’t answer right away. Perhaps because there was no good answer. He could only imagine the weight of such a betrayal—a betrayal in the name of love. Truth was, nothing could change what had already been done.

Nothing but prepare.

"Prepare for war, Fionn," Ser John said with a weary sigh, already exhausted by the battle that had yet to begin. "There is nothing else to do."

Looking at the knight, the old Scot hesitated. An attack didn’t necessarily mean the English would come storming into the village. Of course, this hadn’t been a random strike—they had been targeted—but would the enemy truly dare to challenge one of the most respected clans in the Highlands?

"If they’re after the princess to settle peace, they won’t stop at a… eh, how do you say… a random attack," Ser John muttered, his French accent thickening as he searched for the right words.

Fionn understood well enough. The enemy would not stop until they had what they came for. War was coming sooner than he had expected—a war that might have been avoided. But he had sworn to protect you and your knight, and so had his men. Your battles were now theirs as well. And Fionn MacTavish was not a man to run from duty.

It was strange how everything had come to this. They had all heard whispers of the gruesome wedding that had taken place in the royal chapel, deep in the capital. When Fionn learned of the princess’s age, he couldn't help but imagine one of his own daughters being thrown to the wolves like that—sacrificed in the name of the so-called greater good.

Rumors had spread like wildfire after her disappearance. Some claimed she had been taken as the new king’s whore, others that she had drowned trying to flee back to France. Some said she had succeeded in her escape, while others whispered that she was seeking refuge in the north.

That had stirred something deep within Fionn—a need to protect, not just as a chief, but as a father. An instinct nestled so deep inside him that when whispers of a foreigner asking questions about the Highlands reached his ears, he had sent Johnny.

Johnny was his best at everything—his finest soldier, his most trusted counselor, an unmatched tracker and hunter. Everything Fionn had taught him, he had mastered to perfection, making him the ideal heir. There was never a moment of doubt in his mind when it came to his son. Beyond skill, Johnny had been raised with compassion, humility, wisdom, and kindness. A true leader.

And he had found you.

Something in Fionn had felt like satisfaction—perhaps even pride—when he saw you bloom here. The wary, spoiled princess who had arrived in his lands had transformed into a strong, outspoken woman. It had taken time, of course. 

At first, you had clung to your old ways, to the rigid customs of the court, to the belief that you were fragile, untouchable, above the world that surrounded you. But the Highlands had a way of shaping people, of stripping away pretense and revealing one’s true self. And in time, you had embraced it.

He had watched the change unfold with quiet approval. He saw it in the way you moved now, no longer uncertain but with confidence. In the way you spoke, no longer hesitant but with conviction. You had found your place among his people—not as a helpless outsider, but as one of them.

And yet, that was not the only transformation he had witnessed.

Fionn had also seen the way his son watched you, the way Johnny’s gaze lingered when he thought no one was looking. It was not the fleeting glances of a man drawn by mere attraction—it was something deeper, something he had never seen in his son before. A quiet longing, an unspoken devotion. It was in the way Johnny listened to you, how he positioned himself instinctively at your side, how his entire body tensed when danger so much as brushed against your shadow.

Fionn knew what that kind of look meant. He had worn it himself, once.

You had been unresponsive to Johnny’s behavior, always shutting down when he teased, always retreating when he stepped too close. Fionn had watched it all with quiet amusement, the way his son’s expression would twist into a barely concealed pout whenever you pushed him away. It was a sight that made the old chief chuckle to himself—nothing he hadn’t lived through before.

His own wife had been hard work. Stubborn as the sea and just as unpredictable. She had resisted him at every turn, challenging him in ways no one else ever dared. But God, how he had loved her for it. How he had cherished every moment, even the difficult ones. Love built in struggle was the kind that endured.

And so, Fionn knew—one day, Johnny would look back on these moments with a smile. One day, he would understand that the chase was never in vain, that every step, every rejection, every time you slipped just out of his grasp had only led him closer to something worth fighting for.

He knew because he could see it in your eyes—the flicker of attraction, the way your resolve wavered when Johnny was near. And every time you let yourself soften, even for just a moment, your hand would fly to the cross around your neck, clutching it like a lifeline. A silent plea, a reminder of the vows you had sworn, of the watchful eyes you believed never strayed from you.

Fionn had lost his faith long ago. Some would say he had never truly believed at all. He had seen too much, suffered too much to put his trust in an unseen God. When his wife passed, he had watched his own son teeter on the edge of madness, cursing the heavens with every breath. And now, seeing you—so young, so full of fire, yet shackled by devotion—saddened him.

You were clinging to something intangible, something that had given you rules but no freedom. There was so much of life still waiting for you, so much to feel, to experience. And yet, you held yourself back, afraid to reach for the very things that made life worth living.

Secretly, he had hoped the Highlands would change that. Making you understand there was more to life than a faithful devotion. So much freeing yourself from the shackles of religion could give you. 

Old habits died hard. 

It was deep into the night when Johnny made his way back to the castle, slipping through the hidden passages cloaked in darkness. He had done what needed to be done—scouted the enemy, seen with his own eyes the English battalions assembling just kilometers away, their weapons glinting under the moonlight. War was no longer a possibility, it was a certainty.

Upon his return, he had wasted no time in alerting the head of the army, ensuring the men were prepared, weapons sharpened, defenses reinforced. Every step had been calculated, every command given with precision.

Now, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, his body screaming for rest even as his mind refused to quiet. Sleep would not come easy—not until the enemy was defeated. Or until his own life was taken.

As he made his way toward his chambers, something caught his eye. The chapel gates, left slightly ajar. The faint glow of candlelight flickered within, casting long, trembling shadows against the stone walls.

He hesitated.

Who would be praying at this hour? It was late—too late. He had made certain of that, ensuring he would not have to face anyone tonight.

Yet, drawn by something he could not name, Johnny stepped closer, his movements careful, silent. And as he peered inside, his breath caught.

You.

Here you were, on your knees once again, in front of the small and modest altar.

"Jesus, I acknowledge my weakness and inability to change my wounded and sinful heart without full and complete surrender of my whole self to You. Jesus, I know my heart is weak, and so I ask that You fill me with the deep faith that each time I turn to You to repent of my sins, You will be there with Your loving hands to help me up and with Your strong arms to carry me when I cannot walk." You whispered into the quiet night.

The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows over your form. Your head was bowed, hands clasped tightly together, lips moving in whispered prayers. Johnny lingered at the threshold, watching.

You looked so small like this, so fragile. It stirred something deep in his chest—something he couldn’t quite name. Still in your nightdress, you must have been waiting for the castle to fall into silence. It would have, if it hadn't been for Johnny. 

He should have walked away. Should have left you to your prayers, to your whispered conversations with a God he wasn’t sure even listened. But he couldn’t.

As he approached quietly, Johnny saw the silent tears tracing down your cheeks. It pained him to witness, knowing you were in such despair, all because of your faith—an unknown God who demanded so much from you, even to the point of tormenting your spirit. The weight of it was visible, so much so that Johnny could make out specks of blood on your nightdress—silent traces of a self-inflicted act meant to hurt, to punish yourself.

Heathens, you'd called them, savages even, but here you were, bound by your own convictions, trapped in archaic rituals that only seemed to deepen your suffering. It angered Johnny, seeing you like this—imagining you in your chambers, alone, punishing yourself. It tore at him to think of you trying to carry this burden, unable to find peace even in the quiet of your own soul.

As he shook his head, turning around, the wooden floor creaked beneath his boots. You stiffened, your hands tightening around the cross at your neck. Slowly, you turned, eyes widening when you saw him.

Neither of you spoke at first.

“I dinnae mean to intrude,” Johnny finally said, voice quieter than usual, rough with exhaustion.

With tears still welling in your eyes, you offered him a weak smile. He looked utterly exhausted, but you figured you couldn’t look any better. The night before had been a restless one, and the few hours of sleep you managed to get in your chambers had been plagued by nightmares. So much so that you had pretended to be asleep, just so Johnny's sisters would leave you to your own thoughts.

Repentance, you had been taught, came through pain. You needed to be alone, just you and your God. Once the act was done, the need to seek solace in God's house had become overwhelming. And so here you were, in the dead of night, seeking comfort where you could find it.

Living with the clan, you had come to understand that they were not devout Catholics. Very few used the royal chapel, and even fewer attended the village church. They were Catholics only in name, not in practice. When you had asked around, most of them had told you they had seen too much suffering, too much horror, to put their lives in the hands of a God they felt had abandoned them. 

You figured Johnny must have been the same. The chains around his neck didn’t bear a cross, but a ring and a small hammer—an emblem of some ancient cult of the heathens, rather than a Christian symbol. You had seen it before, glinting in the firelight during your time in the cave, its unfamiliar design striking you as something old, something far removed from the faith you knew.

You felt as though God was playing tricks on you. The weight of all your sins, the very essence of your doubts, seemed to manifest before your eyes. It was cruel, you thought—unfair, even. You hadn’t done anything to deserve such temptation. Your heart ached with confusion, questioning why you, of all people, were being tested in this way.

"It's nothing, I was done anyway," you said, sniffling a little, trying to brush off the weight of the moment. But even as the words left your lips, you could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken truth that lingered between you. You weren't done, not really—not with the thoughts that haunted you, not with the emotions you couldn't quite shake off.

The strange, overwhelming feeling of shame settled over you the moment you saw Johnny, like a child caught in the act of doing something they shouldn't.

You tried to mask it, wishing him a merry night as you moved past him to head for the exit. But as your body brushed against his, Johnny's hand gently halted your progress. Trapped between the bench and his presence, the warmth of his body pressed into yours, pulling you back to that moment in the cave.

You hadn’t bothered putting on anything more than your white nightdress, assuming you’d encounter no one in the dead of night. Yet now, standing before Johnny in the soft light, you realized how thin the fabric was—almost sheer.

"Why, mo ghràdh?" Johnny's voice was soft but filled with a raw, unspoken question as his hand brushed lightly over your wrist, the one he had stopped.

Confusion clouded your face, your eyebrows furrowing as your eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of the moment.

With an almost hesitant tenderness, Johnny’s fingers gently tugged at the edge of your nightgown, lowering it just enough to expose the top of your back. The sight of the marks there, the cruel, jagged cuts, sent a chill through the air.

Shame washed over you again, more intense this time. You knew Johnny wouldn’t understand—how could he? You had had a hard time understanding it yourself, growing up. But somehow, you had found meaning in it. A twisted way of proving to God how much you believed, how faithful you were. 

Yet, in return, your faithfulness had led to nothing but suffering, shame and pain, a relentless cycle that seemed only to deepen with each passing day. You wanted to explain, to make him see, but the words stuck in your throat. How could you explain something so personal, so painfully wrong?

You had heard about this before—crisis of faith. You had denied it for months, telling yourself it was just a phase, a test, a trial that would pass. But now, standing next to Johnny, feeling his presence close in the dimly lit chapel, you couldn’t deny it anymore. Faith was slipping away from you, like sand through your fingers. You clung to it desperately, holding on to whatever remnants you could, afraid to let go, even though you weren’t sure what it meant to hold on to something that felt so distant.

With the words still caught in your throat, tears silently traced their way down your cheeks. No sound escaped your lips, only the weight of your own battles taking their toll. Slowly, gently, Johnny pulled you toward him, guiding your head to his chest. Comfort—that was what you needed, and he was good at giving it. His steady presence surrounded you, offering a quiet reprieve from the storm raging inside. In that moment, the chaos of your thoughts softened, if only for a brief second. 

Why would something so forbidden feel so warm? Why, despite it all, did you long for it day and night? Why would God send you battle after battle when all you had done was serve Him faithfully?

As the weight of your sorrow overwhelmed you, you crumbled into Johnny's embrace, your legs giving way as you both sank to the ground.

Johnny didn’t complain. He didn’t say anything at all. He simply held you, as you needed, his arms strong and unyielding. He became the protector you hadn’t known you needed. It was in his nature, ingrained in him just as deeply as his own blood—like a second instinct. He was there, unwavering, in the quiet silence of the night.

It was too much. Everything came crashing down at once—the glances, the smirks, the light touches, the pond, the running, the cave, the warmth, the pleasure.

All of it.

It had been forbidden. And yet, the moment you had tasted it, the moment you had felt something real, something that wasn’t whispered warnings and empty teachings, you realized how much you had been fed lies all these years.

You crumbled beneath the weight of it.

Tears wouldn’t stop falling, your body shaking with each quiet sob, each hiccup wracking through you. And Johnny—he held you through it, his own body moving with yours, absorbing your trembling grief as if he could shoulder some of it for you. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

But he was there. And for the first time, that felt like enough.  

Like your mother’s warm embrace. Like the soft smiles of your nieces and nephews. Like the smell of wet grass after a storm. Like home.

And yet, it wasn’t home—not in the way it should have been. Home was supposed to be safe, familiar, unquestionable. But this? This was dangerous, unknown, a line you weren’t supposed to cross.

Still, wrapped in Johnny’s arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

For the first time in so long, you weren’t drowning.

You were free. 

Pressed against him, you felt warmth—not just against your skin, but seeping into your very bones, melting something deep within you. It was unlike anything you'd ever known, a comfort so raw and real it almost hurt. Like two souls merging to form one. 

Johnny smelled of the earth—wet grass after a storm, firewood still smoldering, a trace of sweat, and something else, something wholly him. It was grounding, steadying. Your nose brushed the hollow of his neck, so close to his bare skin, and for a moment, you simply breathed him in.

Slowly, you pulled back from the warmth of his neck, your breath unsteady as you met his gaze. He hadn’t looked away—not once. His eyes, softer than you had ever seen them, held something unspoken, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

It wasn’t just desire. It wasn’t just the closeness of your bodies in the dim candlelight.

It was deeper than that—something raw, something real.

Like he felt it too. Like the warmth that had settled deep in your bones was not yours alone but echoed in him just the same.

Your gaze flickered to his lips, drawn by something beyond reason, beyond faith—something primal and undeniable.

For months, you had avoided him. Avoided his teasing smirks, his lingering glances, the way his presence seemed to take up too much space in your mind. You had feared divine wrath, feared punishment for even the thought of wanting him.

And yet, what had your devotion brought you? Pain. Doubt. Loneliness. Betrayals. 

If this was a sin, then so be it. You had suffered enough. And this—this felt right. Like it was always meant to be.

Hesitant, you inched closer. He stiffened slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening, and doubt gripped you. Did he not want this? Had you misread him?

Your breath hitched, ready to pull away—but then, his hand slid gently behind your head, fingers threading through your hair, guiding you forward.

A silent answer. A quiet agreement.

And then, he closed the distance.

This was your first kiss.

You had never felt a man’s lips on yours before. You had dreamed of it, of course—imagined what it might be like, in the dead of night, when your thoughts wandered where they shouldn’t. But this was nothing like you had pictured.

It was better. So much better.

His lips were soft against yours, moving with an unspoken tenderness, guiding rather than taking. There was no urgency, no hunger—only patience, only warmth. A silent promise that he would take only what you were willing to give.

And so, you let him.

Your lips followed his lead, uncertain at first, but learning, memorizing the way he moved. The way he breathed. The way he tasted—like firewood and something untamed, something wild and free. Something you wanted more of.

Just then, your body moved on its own, drawn to him like the tide to the shore.

The need to be closer, to feel more, overpowered any lingering thoughts of decency. Any fears. Any hesitation.

You shifted, climbing onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of him. His hands hesitated for the briefest moment—just long enough to make your heart pound harder—before finding purchase on your waist, steadying you against him.

Then, he let out a sound—low, deep, somewhere between a groan and a moan.

It was the best thing you had ever heard.

A shiver ran through you, heat pooling in places you had never acknowledged before. You had never felt anything like this—never been this close to someone, never known how intoxicating it could be to have someone react to your touch, to your presence.

Your movement had been instinctive, a flicker of insecurity creeping in, whispering doubts into your mind.

Were you too heavy? Were you crushing him? Hurting him?

Panic rose in your chest, and you shifted, pushing yourself up slightly, your knees pressing into the cold, unforgiving stone of the chapel floor. The rough surface scraped against your skin, but you barely registered the sting.

"Sorry," you whispered, the word barely escaping your lips before Johnny’s hands tightened around your waist, pulling you back down onto his lap with a force that stole your breath.

His touch was almost desperate, his grip firm yet reverent, like he couldn’t bear even a second of separation. Like letting you go was simply not an option.

The way he looked at you now—his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide, his expression caught between restraint and raw, unfiltered need—made the last of your doubts melt away.

You had spent so long resisting. So long convincing yourself that this was wrong. That this was forbidden. But how could something feel so right and still be a sin? You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you had never felt this wanted. Never felt this needed.

And, God help you, you wanted him just as much.

When he kissed you again, it was raw—desperate. Every ounce of restraint he had clung to was gone, cast away like autumn leaves in the wind. He finally had you in his arms, and he would savor it for as long as fate allowed.

He needed you to feel it—to understand that this wasn’t wrong, that it never had been. That it was something pure, something true, before pious thoughts slithered back into your mind and stole you away from him again.

With a slow, deliberate shift of his hips, Johnny adjusted his position, lifting you slightly before settling you back down onto his lap. The feeling of your weight pressing against him was intoxicating. If he had still believed in God, he would have thanked Him for this miracle.

His lips moved against yours with practiced ease, but his tongue hesitated—tentative, testing. Seeking permission. And when you parted your lips just slightly, when you allowed him deeper, his hands moved on their own.

Fingers gripping your waist, he pulled you against him—closer, impossibly closer—until you rocked against him. The friction, the heat between you, sent a shudder through his body, and then—

A sound. Soft, breathless, unsure. A timid little moan that left your lips before you could stop it.

It was all he needed. He did it again. And again.

Pushing your boundaries.

He was deliberate, controlled—but beneath it, something wild lurked. Primal. Untamed. Like a beast that had been shackled for too long and had finally, finally been set free.

You had been bound by chains your entire life, and Johnny wanted you to know—wanted you to feel—that this was how it was supposed to be. This was life. This was living.

As gently as his primal nature would allow, he pushed your nightgown higher, uncovering your thighs. They were soft, full, and warm, and his hands began to caress them with increasing tenderness. His mouth never ceased its attention on you, and he could feel how you had surrendered, how you were no longer resisting.

He wasn’t going to take you in a chapel—not when he assumed it would be your first time—but he certainly could mock God a little. Show Him how he’d corrupted a little angel like you.

As his kisses grew lighter, allowing you to feel the shift of his touch, his fingers began to trace higher, soft caresses gliding over your inner thigh. Your breath hitched at the sensation, your fingers tightening on his shoulder.

A single word from you, and he would stop. 

But you said nothing. Instead, your hips continued to move, almost guiding his hand where he longed to be. With soft, teasing caresses, Johnny's fingers brushed over your womanhood before venturing higher, exploring with reverence rather than haste. His hands, broad and warm, slid up until they rested just beneath the swell of your breasts, palms spanning the softness of your stomach.

If he noticed the curves, the lingering flesh, he gave no sign. No hesitation, no pause. Just steady, deliberate touch—like he didn’t just accept you, but worshipped you.

As gently as his hands explored you, his lips left yours, capturing the soft whine that escaped at their departure. Lowering his head, he pressed slow, lingering kisses to your cheek, then your jaw, trailing down the curve of your neck to your collarbone.

Sensing nothing but surrender in you, his hands moved with purpose, cupping your breasts, his fingers tracing over your peaked nipples in slow, reverent circles. The quiet gasp that slipped from your lips was a victory—proof that you were lost in the feeling of him, allowing yourself, at last, to indulge.

After a few moments, one of his hands left your breast, only briefly. His eyes met yours, then flickered down to the laces keeping your nightgown closed—a silent question.

Eagerly, you nodded, not wanting this moment to slip away.

The fabric loosened easily under his touch, and as it fell away, your bare skin was laid before him, soft and inviting. Your breath hitched as his gaze darkened, hunger and reverence intertwining in his expression. He didn’t hesitate. His lips found your breast, warm and insistent, while his other hand continued its slow, careful worship of the other.

The moment his mouth closed over your sensitive skin, a moan spilled from your lips, your head falling back in surrender. What a sight you must have been—perched in his lap, bathed in candlelight, unraveling beneath his touch.

His eyes drifted upward, settling on the heavy cross hanging around your neck. It gleamed in the dim candlelight, a stark reminder of the faith that had bound you, of the beliefs that had kept you from him for so long.

How ironic.

Here you were, half-undone in his lap, breathless and trembling under his touch, and yet that damned cross still rested against your skin, as if to watch and judge.

Johnny let out a low chuckle, the sound rough and edged with something wicked. His lips left your breast just long enough for him to grasp the chain between his fingers, lifting the cross slightly. He turned it in his grasp, letting the firelight catch on its polished surface.

"Still watching over you, is He?" Johnny murmured, his voice dripping with amusement, with defiance. His thumb brushed over the worn metal before he let it drop, the weight of it settling back against your skin. 

His lips found yours again, as if to prove his point. If your God was watching, then let Him watch. Let Him see how easily devotion could crumble in the face of something real, something tangible. Because no prayer had ever made you sound like this. No penance had ever made you tremble the way you did now. 

No amount of self-inflicted pain had ever made you feel like this—never sent shivers down your spine, never made you melt into something so warm, so alive.

Johnny’s fingers lingered over the open wounds on your back, not to hurt, but to feel—to understand. His touch was careful, almost reverent, but even then, your body flinched instinctively. Seeking comfort, you pressed forward, and in doing so, you felt it—something firm, something undeniable, pressing against your core.

A sharp gasp left your lips.

Johnny stilled beneath you, his grip tightening just slightly on your waist. His breathing was heavy, his restraint evident, but instead of taking, instead of demanding, he softened.

"Sorry, mo luaidh," he whispered, voice thick with something unreadable. He kissed your trembling lips, then lower, trailing to the tear that had slipped free from your eye. He caught it with his tongue, stealing away the evidence of your turmoil like it had never existed.

You barely registered his words, barely even noticed the way he had mocked your faith.

If faith there was still in you.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you weren’t sure what had caused them. Was it the lingering pain of your wounds, the shame of Johnny seeing you like this, or the sheer, overwhelming sensation coursing through your body? Maybe it was all of it at once, tangling together into something unrecognizable, something beyond your control.

Johnny saw them, of course. He always saw more than you wanted him to. His thumb brushed the wet tracks from your skin, his touch warm, grounding. There was no pity in his gaze, no cruelty—just something steady, something certain.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. "And I will."

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Words failed you, so instead, you shook your head and kissed him again, desperate, needing. A shiver from the cold ran down your spine, making you press against him once more. And again, that firm pressure between your legs sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, a sensation unlike anything you had ever known.

A moan escaped your lips, swallowed by Johnny’s mouth. You felt him smirk against you, his ever-present smugness seeping back in. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. Knew that your body was responding to him in ways that terrified and thrilled you all at once.

But you didn’t care anymore.

The fire inside you had been smothered for too long, buried under duty, under guilt, under rules written by men who had never felt this kind of hunger. You didn’t want to stop. You couldn’t.

So you rocked against him again—harder this time. And you didn’t stop.

You were so lost in your own pleasure that you barely noticed Johnny’s hand slipping back under your dress. This time, there was no hesitation. His fingers brushed against the damp fabric of your undergarments, feeling just how wet you were—how much you had been unraveling beneath his touch.

His other hand found its way back to your breasts, kneading, caressing, teasing with slow, deliberate pinches. Every touch, every movement, sent a new wave of heat coursing through you, drowning out any lingering thoughts of guilt or restraint.

With fervent kisses, he pressed against your womanhood, putting more pressure through your clothes. The gasp you let out was magical, something he would fight day and night to listen again and again. He'll never get tired of it. 

Pursuing your lips that had left his, his fingers breached your underdress, now pressing on your pelvic hair, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your bundles of nerves. 

Breaking away from the animalistic kiss he had imposed on you, your forehead rested on his shoulder. Johnny kissed your temples softly, his hands never ceasing their gentle assaults on your body. You were his temple, and he was your devoted worshipper. You were his God, and he was your ever-faithful soldier.

"See, m’eudail, this is the truth," Johnny began, his voice thick with desperation, as if each word was a breath he could barely catch. 

Something primal had taken hold of him long ago, a force deep inside him that he had no intention of resisting. It wasn’t just a desire—it was his very essence, his need. 

"This... this is what life is," he murmured, his gaze darkening. "This is pleasure, raw. It's not just a feeling, it's everything." His grip tightened, his presence overwhelming. "Ye feel it too, don’t you? Ye can’t deny it."

He punctuated his words with adding pressure to your clit and nipping at your neck, right where your cross had to move with your movement.

"I’ll take care of her now," Johnny whispered, his voice low, almost growling, as his gaze fixed on the cross hanging behind the altar. The weight of his words lingered in the air. "You can go." There was a finality in his tone, a quiet command. "She doesn’t need you anymore."

Without stopping his movements, he felt your body begin to tense, your pleasure building with each passing second. He knew what was coming, and there was no hesitation in him—he wasn’t going to stop it.

The soft breaths and moans you released by his ears were the most sinful sounds he had ever heard—nothing could compare. Your hands gripped his shoulder, almost painfully, but it was a pain he would gladly accept, without a second thought. A pain he would revel in.

Just as you were both in heaven, hell descended upon you in an instant.

The bell. The village bell was ringing—echoing through the night.

The Mactavish were under attack.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ next chapter.

Flames flickered in the cavern, their light casting restless shadows along the rough stone walls. Through the narrow opening, you could see the storm raging outside, as if Mother Nature herself had turned against you. The wind howled through the trees, rain lashed violently against the earth, and each crack of thunder illuminated the forest in an eerie, fleeting glow.

The journey to the safe haven Johnny had promised had been grueling, slowed to a crawl by the relentless downpour and the unforgiving terrain. Now, as you stood at the mouth of the cave, drenched and shivering, you couldn't tell if the fire warming the space had been prepared by fate or sheer luck. Either way, it was salvation.

In a way, you were grateful for the storm. The Highlands terrain was challenging even on a clear day, and the late winter tempest would make it nearly impossible for the foreigners to track you. The relentless wind and rain had likely erased any traces of your passage, buying you precious time. It had been difficult enough for you to navigate, even with Johnny—someone who knew these lands like the back of his hand. The English didn’t have that advantage. For once, the unforgiving Highlands were on your side.

Turning around, seeking the warmth of the fire, your body shivered from the wetness, the cold, and the sheer exhaustion weighing down on you. But as you took a step forward, your breath caught in your throat.

Johnny stood before you, half-naked, his broad, muscled back facing you. Only his kilt remained, the rest of his soaked garments draped over the jagged rocks to dry. The flickering firelight cast shadows along the ridges of his strong shoulders, highlighting the sculpted definition of his arms as he moved with quiet precision. His muscles rippled beneath his skin, taut and powerful, each motion exuding the effortless strength of a man shaped by war and the unforgiving Highland terrain.

The cavern suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. You swallowed hard, unable to tear your gaze away from the way his back flexed as he adjusted the placement of his clothes, the firelight dancing across his damp skin.

It was the first time you had ever seen a man’s half-naked body this close. You had heard the tales—whispers among the women about how warriors were sculpted by war and labor, how their strength was carved into their very flesh. But no amount of stories could have prepared you for this.

He was beautiful. Strong. Tempting.

The firelight danced over his skin, illuminating the scars that mapped his back, the stretch marks along his shoulders, the faint beauty spots scattered across his arms. Every detail called to you, luring you closer, urging you to reach out—to trace the paths of his battles, to feel the proof of his existence beneath your fingertips.

And then, he turned.

Your breath hitched as your gaze fell upon his chest, dusted with dark hair. It was broad, solid—made for shielding, for fighting, for enduring. Yet something about it looked soft, warm. Your eyes drifted lower, tracing the ridges of his stomach, where strength met comfort, where power softened just enough to make you ache to touch him.

Never in your life had you thought you’d want to kiss something so badly. But as your gaze settled on the firm yet inviting plane of his stomach, the thought consumed you. A desperate, maddening hunger, pooling low in your belly.

"Ye should tak' yer dress aff, bonnie," he stated casually, folding his undershirt before draping it over a rock to dry. He had yet to look at you, and for that, you were grateful.

Your heart pounded at his words, an undeniable heat spreading from your chest to your neck, blooming across your cheeks. Only moments ago, you had been shivering, body wracked with cold, but now—now, you felt unbearably warm. Too hot in the small cavern, too aware of every inch of damp fabric clinging to your skin.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, hesitating. The logic in his words was undeniable—remaining in wet clothes would only worsen the chill in your bones. But stripping, here, in front of him? The very thought sent a shudder through you that had nothing to do with the cold.

Johnny still wasn’t looking at you, but you could feel him. Feel his presence, his body just meters away, his muscles shifting subtly as he adjusted his kilt. He was giving you space, giving you time, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just as aware of you as you were of him.

Slowly, you started untying the dress, though it proved to be much harder than you had anticipated. The ties were at the back, just out of reach, frustratingly stubborn beneath your trembling fingers. It was the first time you had worn a dress like this since arriving here—one of Johnny’s sisters had brought it to you that morning, gently fastening the ties as she helped you into it.

Now, standing in the dim glow of the fire, soaked to the bone, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs, you fought against the fabric with little success.

Frustration built in your chest, your breath quickening as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. It had been a long day. A cruel, unforgiving day. Your nerves were frayed, raw and exposed, and this—this simple, infuriating impossibility—felt like the final crack in your already fragile composure.

Sensitive. The word had followed you all your life, sometimes spoken with fondness, other times as a cutting remark. Now, it felt like a curse, tightening around your throat as you sniffed and blinked hard, willing the tears away.

"Come here, bonnie," the Highlander murmured, motioning you toward him with a gentle nod.

Of course, he had noticed your frustration—the way your fingers fumbled with the ties, the quiet huffs of breath as you struggled. He had also noticed the way your eyes lingered on him earlier, taking in every inch of his exposed skin. But the day had been too long, too harrowing, for teasing. His focus now was on easing your discomfort, ensuring you could rest, if only for a few precious hours. And for that, you needed to be out of your soaked dress.

Under any other circumstances, you might have bristled at the suggestion—spat in his face and called him improper. But right now, exhaustion weighed too heavily on your body to argue.

Johnny knelt behind you, the warmth of his presence at your back sending an unfamiliar shiver down your spine. With practiced ease, he made short work of the laces, his calloused fingers deft against the damp fabric. The ties had been fastened tightly—his sister’s handiwork, he reckoned, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

His family had taken you in as one of their own, ensuring your comfort, welcoming you as only true Highlanders would.

Once the ties were undone, Johnny pushed his luck.

Rising to his feet behind you, he let his hands slide beneath the heavy fabric of your dress, his fingers grazing over the linen of your underdress as he slowly eased the gown down your arms. His touch was firm yet careful, as if he were handling something fragile, something precious.

The dress pooled at your elbows before slipping lower, his hands guiding it past your waist, pushing it down inch by inch. The sensation sent a shiver through you, though whether from the cold or the unexpected intimacy, you couldn’t tell.

Once your arms were free, Johnny lowered himself again, kneeling behind you. His rough hands trailed down your sides as he gathered the fabric, gently tugging it over your hips, then down your legs. The damp material clung stubbornly to your skin, forcing his fingers to brush against your bare thighs as he worked.

A slow, deliberate motion. Neither of you spoke.

The only sound was the crackling fire and the soft rustle of fabric as Johnny undressed you with a patience that sent heat curling low in your belly.

Johnny made quick work of your boots, pulling them off with ease before placing them near the fire to dry. His fingers lingered on your ankles for a brief moment, a gentle touch, before he returned his attention to the rest of your clothing.

Once the heavy dress had been removed, his hands skimmed over the thin fabric of your underdress, testing for dampness. The linen was cool, a little humid, but not enough to be dangerous. Sitting close to the fire would warm you soon enough.

His own kilt, however, was a different story. The wool clung to his skin, soaked through from the storm. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the chill of it pressing against his thighs. Normally, he took pride in wearing the garment of his people, but for the first time, he cursed his decision not to wear undergarments beneath it.

The thought of stripping it off entirely crossed his mind—he’d done it countless times before, unbothered by nudity. But now? With you here, flushed and vulnerable in the firelight, he wasn’t sure if he had the self-control to test that boundary.

Looking down at the man before you, you had never seen a more breathtaking sight. As fierce and brutal as Johnny could be, with his enemies and on the battlefield, he had shown you nothing but gentleness and patience. Yet, the image of him now—half-naked, kneeling before you, his strong hands carefully peeling away your soaked dress—sent a primal heat through your body.

It was a feeling you had never experienced before, something raw and overwhelming. A need so strong it nearly stole your breath, a warmth pooling deep in your belly. You barely managed to swallow the small whimper threatening to escape your lips.

Your thoughts were unholy, wicked, entirely unfit for an unwed woman. And yet, as Johnny’s rough fingertips brushed against your skin, as the firelight flickered over his broad chest and powerful arms, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

The moment shattered as another rumble of thunder roared through the cavern, making you jump. You had been too lost in him—his presence, his touch—to notice the worsening storm outside. The wind howled through the trees, and with it came a biting chill, seeping into your already trembling body.

Snapping out of your daze, you hurried to the fire, settling as close as you could without burning yourself. The heat licked at your skin, chasing away the dampness that clung to you like a second layer. As if seeking comfort, your fingers instinctively grazed the cool metal at your throat, softly grasping the small cross hanging from your necklace.

A reminder. Of home. Of who you were. Of what you should be thinking about, instead of the half-naked Highlander behind you.

A few moments passed in silence, the crackling of the fire filling the space between you. Johnny had settled across from you, putting distance where he longed to close it. Every instinct in him screamed to pull you into his arms, to feel your weight against him, your warmth seeping into his skin as his hands traced the soft curves of your body. But his self-restraint was the only thing keeping him in place.

Still, he could see it in your eyes—the same longing, the same hunger that burned in him. It was there, flickering like the firelight dancing across your face. But as his gaze drifted lower, catching the way your fingers clung to the cross at your throat, he understood.

It wasn’t hesitation. It was conviction. And yet, the way you looked at him… it made him wonder how much longer that conviction would hold.

If faith and convention were the only things holding you back, Johnny could make quick work of it.

The wedding ring he carried—a simple, unadorned band of gold—rested against his chest, tucked away on the chain around his neck. It had been his mother’s, a final gift from her deathbed. A promise. A reminder. A vow to be a good man, a good husband, and one day, a good father. He had cherished that ring, holding onto it as if it carried the weight of her spirit, imagining the day he would slip it onto his wife’s hand, fulfilling the silent pledge he had made to her memory.

But faith had never come easily to Johnny. Not after what had been taken from him.

If God existed, why had He taken someone as kind, as pure, as his mother? She had been the sun in his life, warming everything she touched, and yet, she had been stolen away, leaving only cold shadows in her wake.

Eight pregnancies. Three miscarriages. And in the end, it was illness that had taken her, not the dangers of childbirth. Not the hardships of life in the Highlands. It had been a cruel, senseless thing, an unfair twist of fate.

He had been twenty then—old enough to understand the world, too young to accept it. He had seen war, had watched men commit unspeakable acts, and yet they still walked the earth while his mother lay six feet under.

He had cursed the world. Cursed the doctors. Cursed his father.

Cursed God.

Even though Johnny and God were still at odds, he could still take you under his care, bound under the watch of the Holy Father.

The truth was, no matter how much his clan respected you, they didn’t have the means to send you back to France. The Mactavishes were not seafarers. They had no ships, no ties to merchants who could smuggle you across the channel. They were farmers and warriors—one of the strongest clans in the Highlands—but strength meant little on the open sea.

Even if they had the coin to pay for passage, who would take you? The British controlled the waters. Every port, every harbor, every ship that left these lands was watched. You weren’t just any woman lost in the Highlands—you were a prize, and Johnny had no doubt the English wanted you back more than anything.

No. There was no going back.

You were here now. And whether it was under God or under his own oath, Johnny would see to it that you were protected.

Protection also meant keeping you safe from illness—he’d be damned if he let sickness take someone else from him.

You might not have admitted your feelings, but Johnny had embraced his the moment he first saw you sleeping by the fire that night. Oblivious to the danger your name carried, wrapped in the soft glow of the flames, breathing so peacefully while the world hunted you.

And God, how he adored you. You were stubborn, sharp-tongued, and utterly unafraid to challenge him. He had never met a woman so unyielding, so unwilling to be tamed. The French court could never have held you—not a woman like you, not with your fire. Here, you were free. Unknown to him, you had discovered this side of yourself on the journey here, far from the rigid rules of your homeland. It had been liberating—an unfamiliar yet intoxicating freedom, something you had come to cherish. 

It wasn’t just chance that had brought you to him.

It was fate.

As his gentle gaze settled on your sleeping form on the cavern floor, he took it upon himself to act when he noticed your body trembling from the cold. Something he had learned quickly from years of sleeping beneath the open sky was that body heat was essential for survival.

Sighing, he rose to his feet and moved closer, the flickering firelight casting golden hues across your skin, making you look almost ethereal. He knew you well enough to predict the earful you’d give him for what he was about to do, but he’d rather endure your wrath than let you freeze. The thin underdress you wore did little to keep you warm, offering almost no protection against the biting chill.

Johnny tried not to linger on the way the cold had affected you, but his gaze betrayed him, drawn to the way your nipples pebbled beneath the damp fabric. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. He didn’t want to reduce you to something base, like the women who warmed beds at the brothels, but you were—without a doubt—the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. Soft, full, and utterly ripe for the taking.

Quietly, careful not to startle you, Johnny lay down beside you. At first, he thought his mere presence would be enough to chase away the cold, that just having him close would steady the shivers wracking your body. But after several long minutes, he realized it wasn’t working.

With a small sigh, he inched closer, feeling the soft curve of your backside brush against his thigh, his arm barely grazing your back. Still, you trembled.

Muttering a curse under his breath, he turned onto his side and did what needed to be done. 

Gently, he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against him, his body a solid wall of warmth. The sudden movement stirred you, your head lifting slightly in confusion. Johnny took advantage of it, slipping his arm beneath you so his bicep could serve as your pillow.

"What are you doing?" you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

"Keeping you warm," he whispered, testing his luck as he let his other hand rest on your stomach. The softness there contrasted sharply with the roughness of his calloused palm, a sensation he could easily grow addicted to.

"I was warm already," you mumbled, sleep dragging you back under.

Johnny huffed out a quiet laugh. "Aye, right, lass. People usually shake when they’re warm." His voice was laced with amusement, a teasing lilt warming the words.

As sleep enveloped you, your body melted further against Johnny’s, instinctively seeking his warmth, molding into him as if you belonged there. He felt the way your breath evened out, the tension in your muscles fading as you surrendered to the safety of his arms.

And in that moment, there was nothing Johnny wished for more than to feel this every night for the rest of his life.

Warm. That was all you could feel—warm, comfortable, and undeniably aroused.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you had slept without nightmares clawing at the edges of your mind. It was strange, considering you had just escaped another attack. Usually, the slightest bit of stress was enough to conjure haunting visions in your sleep.

As you slowly drifted back to awareness, you became conscious of a weight pressing between your legs, sending a shiver through your body—something unfamiliar yet thrilling. The mere shift of your hips sent a spark of pleasure coursing through you, the warmth only intensifying the sensation. Another slight movement, and the pressure hit just right, pulling a soft, unbidden moan from your lips.

A deep, satisfied sigh left your lips before you even fully realized what was happening. The warmth, the firm pressure—it all felt too good, too intoxicating. Your body responded instinctively, hips shifting slightly, chasing that unfamiliar but thrilling sensation.

It wasn’t until you heard a slow groan against your neck that reality began to seep back in. The weight between your legs, the solid heat pressed against your back—it was Johnny.

And then it hit you.

The hardness nestled against you, the way his grip had tightened slightly in sleep, his body unconsciously seeking yours even as he dreamed. A wave of heat rushed to your cheeks, mortification battling with something much darker, much more sinful.

Your breath hitched, and as if sensing your awareness, Johnny stirred behind you.

"Don't mind me, bonnie. Keep going," Johnny mumbled against your neck, his voice thick with sleep, barely conscious. The words slipped past his lips unfiltered, a mere reflection of his thoughts. Had he been more awake, he would have never dared to say them.

Given the circumstances, this was one of the best nights of his life. He was warm, comfortable, and had a moaning lass unknowingly using his thigh for her own pleasure. What else was he supposed to feel but utterly content? So blissful, he could die right there and have no complaints. 

He should have known it would be too much for you. The way your entire body tensed, your breath hitching as if the air had been stolen from your lungs—it was obvious. But the feel of you, warm and soft against him, had clouded his judgment. Even more so when he had just barely left the land of dreams, where restraint did not exist. 

You were mortified. For a fleeting moment, your body had betrayed you, surrendering to instinct rather than reason. And in that moment, you had sinned.

Shame clawed at your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a vice as your mind spiralled. The weight of your actions settled heavily on you, each passing second only worsening the guilt. What would God think? What would He do to punish you for such impurity?

Your breaths came quicker, uneven, as panic threatened to consume you whole. As fast as you could, you left his embrace, immediately hit with a cold shiver, his warmth no longer shielding you. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, shame tightening around your chest as you hurriedly pulled your dress back on. Modesty was your only comfort now. 

The events of yesterday crashed down on you all at once—the peaceful moment at the pond, Espoir, the attack, the thunderstorm, the cave… Johnny undressing you. You had been too distraught to stop him, too desperate for warmth to protest. You had let him touch you, hold you, care for you in ways only a husband should.

But Johnny wasn’t your husband. He was just a man. Nothing more. 

He could never be your husband. You were never meant to stay here. Spring was blooming, and soon, you would be gone. This was not your land, they were not your family. They were nothing more than hosts, helping you survive a cold and cruel winter.

The realization sent another wave of shame crashing over you, your hands trembling as you fumbled with the ties of your dress. Your fingers felt clumsy, useless against the fabric, and frustration only made the tears burn hotter behind your eyes.

How had you let it come to this?

You had been in distress, vulnerable, but that was no excuse. You should have resisted, should have found another way. Instead, you had let him touch you, hold you, comfort you in ways no man ever should before marriage. And worse—you had wanted it.

God would understand, you tried to reassure yourself. You would pray, you would confess, you would repent. He would understand. He had to. You had endure too much to be abandoned by God. 

As you spiralled, Johnny was slowly coming back to his senses. He had long forbidden God from his life—he was not subject to the same guilt that consumed you. But he did feel guilt. Guilt toward you. It clawed at his chest, making him feel as if he had taken advantage of you, used a moment of weakness for his own comfort.

That wasn’t what had happened, of course. You would have frozen to death if he hadn’t undressed you, if he hadn’t pulled you into his warmth during the night. But logic did little to soothe the ache of seeing you like this.

The mere sight of your panic was a stab to the heart—your eyes brimming with tears, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. There was nothing to be ashamed of. Your body had simply responded, drawn to warmth and comfort in an innocent moment of unconscious surrender. It was nature at its finest, nothing to condemn yourself for.

Sighing, he got up himself. Quickly, he made his way to the mouth of the cave, checking the damage Mother Nature had brought with her. Some trees had fallen, their roots torn from the earth, and the soil had turned to thick mud—but that was good. He knew these lands better than anyone, and the treacherous terrain would slow the Sassenachs in their pursuit.

It would take longer to get back home, but that didn’t matter.

Turning back inside, Johnny was met with a sight he never wished to see—you, on your knees, praying. No, begging. The words tumbled from your lips in French, a language he didn’t understand, yet he understood perfectly. It was in the way your hands were pressed together so tightly, your eyes clenched shut, as if you could will away the shame burning inside you.

"Dear Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner, and I ask for Your forgiveness. I believe You died for my sins and rose from the dead. I turn from my sins and invite You to come into my heart and life. I want to trust and follow You as my Lord and Savior."

You whispered it over and over, your voice shaking, a desperate plea for absolution—a testimony of a faith Johnny had long since abandoned.

Anger rushed through him like wildfire. God couldn’t care less about your actions. It didn’t matter if you were a saint or a sinner—God reaped without looking back, without mercy, without reason. Johnny had learned that the hard way.

Pray all you want, beg until your knees bled—it wouldn’t save your soul. Not from guilt, not from fate, and certainly not from him.

Dressing in silence, the echoes of your prayers still whispering through the cave, Johnny made quick work of his clothing. The less time you spent in the wilderness, the less time you were a target. He needed to get you back to the castle—fast. A place where you would be protected. Your knight by your side and the Mactavish Clan behind you.

You were still on your knees when he told you it was time to move. It would be a four to five-hour journey given the storm’s damage.

And those hours were spent in utter silence.

Johnny was never comfortable with silence, but this one felt like torture. You wouldn’t look at him. You lingered close enough not to get lost, but still too far, as if the mere idea of touching him was unbearable. The distance gnawed at him, bitter and unwanted.

He had thought that moment at the pond was the start of something—the start of you seeing him as more than an annoying lurker.

He diverted his mind from the hurt he felt to the more pressing issue—the traitor. Someone had talked. Someone, surely, had sold your information to the Brits. It was near impossible for them to know you were the protégée of the Mactavish clan. He had made sure the villagers around didn’t know he was tracking you. He had trusted them, had faith in them.

He shouldn’t have.

Money was scarce now that their kingdom was once again at war. Even though they didn’t answer to any king, they still bore the consequences of it. Famine was already creeping through some of the clans, a looming threat everyone was afraid of. The tension in the air was palpable, like a storm waiting to break. The survival of so many depended on the decisions made now. And someone had betrayed them. Someone had put you, and the whole clan, at risk.

Ever the optimist, the thought of betrayal had never crossed your mind. Before the guilt set in, you had imagined it to be a horrible coincidence. Perhaps they had simply stumbled upon a Scot soldier, and, being enemies, they had wanted him gone. Not once had you considered it might be related to you. The tartan you wore on your shoulder surely made you pass as just another Highlander.

While Johnny was lost in thought, devising a plan to uncover the traitor, you were caught in a different kind of planning. You couldn't stay here anymore. The temptation was too strong, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out. You knew yourself better than anyone, and you feared that you would eventually surrender to it. You needed to talk to Ser John, to beg him to finally leave this place before it became impossible to escape the pull of everything that was slowly threatening to undo you.

It was heartbreaking, really. You had come to love life here. It was simple, unburdened by the strict laws and rigid rules of the French court. You loved the independence, the way your voice mattered here, and the warmth of the lovely people you had met along the way. The breathtaking landscapes, with their raw beauty, had become a part of you. In another life, you could have imagined yourself being born here, living a life so different from the one fate had dictated for you.

But that was not your reality.

God had chosen another path for you, a path that, despite how far you had strayed from it, you needed to return to before you lost it all—before you lost yourself completely.

Once you reached the castle, it felt as though war had been declared. The courtyard was a sea of men, all gathered and armed for battle, the air thick with tension. At the sight of you, all eyes turned toward you, as if you were the sudden center of their universe.

Ser John was the first to reach you, his eyes scanning your face, immediately knowing something had happened. The weight of his concern was undeniable, and in a moment that would have been forbidden back home, he did something his manners would never normally allow—he embraced you.

His arms enveloped you, a shield of warmth and safety. The moment you sank into his embrace, the tension in your body began to fade, replaced by the steady beat of his heart. It was a comfort that reached deep inside you, a comfort that felt like the love of a mother, gentle and unyielding.

Ser John didn't want to let you go. He had feared the worst when you hadn't returned the night before. You weren’t just a ward to him, you were his princess, his protégée, his family. His life as a protector had never given him the opportunity to build a family of his own, but God put you in his path. You had become his daughter in every sense that mattered.

He had watched over you since you were young, knowing you better than anyone. He could read you in an instant, could see what troubled you, and what comfort you needed. No matter what happened, he would always protect you. Always.

Hell, he had crossed the sea to ensure your safety. Never trusting anyone else with the responsibility of watching over you.

The only time he had ever given his trust to someone else, you disappeared.

The memory of that moment still haunted him. Four men had to restrain him from charging into the unknown land himself. The raging storm outside not stopping his will to find you. The fact that he didn’t know the land, that it was a world unfamiliar to him, hardly mattered. He had never been a man of hesitation. The only thing that mattered was you. And he needed you safe.

You were his to protect, and he would never let go again.

He had to, though. Despite every instinct telling him to stay by your side, a counsel was called at Johnny's demands, and he was asked to assist. You, as the subject of the counsel.

Your knight wasn’t the traitor, it would have been easy to blame him, a stranger to the clan. Yet he had seen it in every action, every gesture. If all his previous actions hadn't proven his loyalty to you, the intimate moment you shared—under the watchful eyes of the clan—was all the proof Johnny needed. There was no doubt left in him. The bond between you and your knight ran deeper than any mere betrayal. It was something more sacred, more unspoken, and it was clear to Johnny that you were both fiercely protective of each other.

Johnny’s loyalty was not easily given, but it was steadfast. And he had seen enough to trust your knight without question. The traitor was still out there, but Johnny was certain it wasn’t the one who had been by your side through it all.

As soon as your knight let go of you, Johnny's sisters were there, ushering you inside, guiding you like you were one of their own. They moved around you with practiced ease, their actions a blend of care and urgency. The world still felt distant, your mind numb from the whirlwind of emotions that had overtaken you.

They were used to tending to each other, and in that moment, they made it clear that you were no different. You were part of their family now, another sister to be cared for, another soul to protect. They brushed your hair, their hands gentle and sure as they worked to smooth out the tangles, a quiet comfort in their touch. The familiar smell of lavender and herbs filled the air as they bathed you, their kindness a soft balm for the storm of thoughts in your mind.

As they worked, their eyes never strayed from you, always checking, always ensuring that you felt safe. They wrapped you in warmth—furs, blankets, soft cloths that were a stark contrast to the chill you had just endured. The fire crackled nearby, the flickering light casting a soothing glow across the room. They took your filthy dress, replacing it with something fresh, and soon the weight of your worries felt a little lighter.

When they finally urged you into bed, they stayed close, watching over you like sentinels. Their presence, unwavering and full of love, made you feel small but safe—like a child surrounded by a protective circle. The warmth they provided wasn’t just physical, but emotional as well, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to close your eyes, surrendering to the comfort they offered.

Here, in this moment, you could almost forget the world outside. Almost.

As you drifted into a dreamless sleep, the events of the past days slowly began to blur, but one constant remained. Johnny. His face, his presence, and the feeling of his arms around you lingered in your mind like a gentle echo.

On the other side of the castle, Johnny sat at the head of the war table, opposite to his father, his hands folded tightly in front of him, as the discussions raged around him. His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts consumed by the betrayal he felt deep in his gut. He could hear the anger in the voices of his people—his warriors, his kin—raging against the idea that the English were so close to their land, so bold in their attack. But none of them knew what he suspected. None of them knew the truth he couldn't yet voice aloud.

His mind wandered back to the events that led to this point, the confusion, the unexpected attack, the way things had unraveled so quickly. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had been set in motion long before they had even realized. A traitor, one of their own, had whispered information to the enemy. Johnny's gut clenched at the thought, the sting of betrayal burning in his soul. He had trusted everyone, treated them like family, like his own blood, and yet someone had turned on them.

His eyes flickered over the faces around the table, studying each one. They were all loyal—at least, they had been. But the question gnawed at him: who among them could be the betrayer? He couldn't ignore the signs, the subtle shifts in behavior, the way some of them avoided his gaze, or the way others seemed to be too quick to offer solutions that sounded too good to be true. But Johnny knew better than to rush to conclusions without evidence. It was too dangerous.

Sir John's gaze rarely left Johnny as the discussion swirled around the room. He had known the young Highlander long enough—and had always been adept at reading people—to sense when something was wrong. Right now, Johnny was on edge: every muscle taut, every breath shallow. His leg bounced restlessly beneath the table, a clear signal of the frustration and anxiety gnawing at him.

While the counsel raged on, a mix of voices rising in Gaelic and English, Ser John tried to piece together what little he could. He didn’t understand everything being said, the language barrier was a constant obstacle, but one thing was clear: something didn’t sit right with the entire situation. The attack had seemed too well-coordinated, too precise, and it felt personal. The knight felt Johnny knew it too. It must had been the reason the Scot had been so angry, so deeply disturbed by what had happened.

As the counsel unfolded, Johnny couldn’t help but feel a gnawing sense of frustration. Time was slipping away, and there was still so much to uncover. But the most important thing for him was clear: your safety. And he would not rest until he ensured you were no longer in danger.

As his gaze swept across the room, Johnny's eyes finally locked onto his father. He had never seen him like this before—vulnerable, as though a sword were hanging over his head. When their eyes met, Johnny subtly tilted his head, narrowing his gaze. The chief of the clan was hiding something. Something dark. Something he was ashamed of.

He couldn't be…

Without breaking the tension of their stare, Johnny's voice cut through the chaos, steady and unwavering.

"We have a traitor among us." His words rang out, slicing through the heated debate as his eyes remained locked on his father's, never wavering.

The room fell unnervingly silent at his declaration, the tension crackling in the air like the stillness before a storm. Every eye turned toward him, but none more so than the chief’s. His father’s face hardened, his posture stiffened, and his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as if instinctively preparing for a threat.

Johnny’s eyes never wavered from his father’s gaze, his suspicion burning bright. It wasn’t just the attack on you that unsettled him—it was the sense of something deeper, something more sinister festering within the clan. He had trusted his father above all else, but now, with his gaze fixed on the elder Mactavish, Johnny felt an icy chill run through him.

As Johnny's mind churned with the realization, it became clearer. His father had the most to gain from betraying the clan to the Brits. As Chief, it was his duty to protect them, and if things were looking bleak, aligning with the enemy could seem like the only way to ensure survival. But one thing Johnny couldn’t reconcile was why, if his father truly intended to betray them, he would have sent Johnny to protect you.

Johnny was his son—his flesh and blood. Could his father really want him dead? The thought twisted in his gut. Why would he not have sent someone else in his place, someone expendable? Why trust his son with such a critical task if he was planning on throwing everything away?

There had to be more to this. Something didn’t add up.

The chief's gaze darkened as he straightened, his brow furrowing. The whispers that followed Johnny’s words were muted, unsure of how to react. Even his closest men seemed uneasy.

Johnny’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of his own words heavy in the room. It was a dangerous thing to accuse someone, especially the head of the clan. But he could feel it deep in his gut—his instincts never lied. His father was hiding something, and whatever it was, it was the key to the attack on you.

"You dare accuse me?" The chief’s voice was low, rumbling like thunder, his gaze flicking from Johnny to the men in the room, daring them to speak out.

Johnny’s jaw clenched. "I don’t dare do anything," he shot back, his voice unwavering. "I know what I feel. We’ve been betrayed, and I can sense it’s coming from within our own walls."

A single glance from the Chief was all it took. The councilmen, seasoned warriors and loyal clansmen, understood the unspoken command immediately. Without hesitation, they rose, their heavy boots echoing against the stone floor as they made their way toward the exit. The doors groaned as they shut behind them, sealing the room in tense, suffocating silence.

Ser John, however, remained unmoving in his seat. As your sworn protector, he had every right to stay—more than that, he had a duty to. His sharp eyes flickered between father and son, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. Something about the way they stared at each other—unblinking, unreadable, as if an invisible battlefield stretched between them—made his instincts scream at him to be ready.

Any wrong move could turn this into a war of its own.

His father jaw tightened, his weathered face shadowed with something unspoken. Pain. Resignation. Maybe even guilt. But not fear.

"It is not me you’re looking for, son," he said, slower this time, voice rough with hurt. How could his own flesh and blood believe him capable of such treachery? He had already lost his wife, he would not—could not—lose his only son.

Johnny didn’t waver. If anything, his anger burned hotter. "If it’s not you, then you know who." His words were sharp as a blade, slicing through the heavy air. In one swift motion, he stood, chair scraping against the stone.

Ser John was up just as fast, his body tensed like a coiled spring. His hand hovered near his sword, his soldier’s instincts screaming at him to prepare for the worst. He couldn’t understand their Gaelic exchange, but he understood tension—understood the way men moved before steel was drawn.

The room reeked of conflict, of something festering beneath the surface.

And then Johnny’s voice boomed again, rattling the very walls.

"Why are you protecting a traitor?" His voice carried, loud enough to be heard beyond the heavy doors. His hands were fists at his sides, barely containing the storm inside him. "What do you have to gain, if you're not the traitor yourself?"

Fionn expression darkened, but he didn’t flinch. And that, more than anything, sent ice crawling down Johnny’s spine. 

His father exhaled a long, weary sigh, his shoulders heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. His gaze, filled with something distant—something sorrowful—met Johnny’s, and for the first time, the young warrior saw not just his father, but a man burdened by impossible choices.

His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, yet it struck like a hammer against the silence.

"She loves him." Fionn closed his eyes briefly, as if the truth pained him. When he spoke again, his voice was even softer. "She didn't know."

The words settled over the room like a final toll of a bell.

Johnny felt his breath hitch, the pieces shifting, rearranging, falling into place. And with them came a realization so profound, so devastating, it left him standing there—frozen—while the world seemed to tilt beneath him.

Outside, the storm had passed, but inside, another had just begun.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ next chapter.