His sword slips from his hand and hits the ground with an echoing thud that sends chills down my spine. He’s among the fallen warriors now, just another casualty on this battlefield from hell. But he’s not just another casualty— he’s everything to me.
No!
This can’t be happening! The sight of him lying there, so still and helpless, wrenches my heart with an almost physical pain.
A tidal wave of memories crashes over me: the awkward but hilarious first encounter when I showed up in my nightie at his capsized sailboat; the tour around his rustic farm and the village’s medieval graveyard; those snug evenings by the fire, just us and the crackling logs. And those are our days in present-day Aven Valley.
I can still feel the warmth of his body curled around mine in our bed at the inn. I can almost hear his laughter echoing across our attic bedroom, filling it—and me—with a lightness that makes everything seem possible.
Cal isn’t just some guy I’ve fallen for. He’s become my teammate, always valuing my opinion and including me in every decision. His unwaveringloyalty and respect for me as an equal have slowly mended my shattered trust, showing me love doesn’t have to be a battlefield; it can be a harmonious dance.
Through Cal, I’ve uncovered parts of myself I didn’t even know were there, and I’m finally starting to believe that lasting love can be more than just a beautiful dream. It can be my reality.
“Cal!”
I scream his name into the chilly night air, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. The world goes fuzzy around the edges as raw grief sweeps over me like a storm.
My Cal—my strong, brave Cal—is lying broken on the ground while life carries on like nothing’s wrong.
The sight shatters what’s left of my heart into a million shards.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Cal!”
His name rips through the air again, my voice a desperate plea drowned out by the clashing swords around us. A symphony of nerves thrums wildly in the pit of my stomach as I sprint towards him, each beat echoing with the fear of losing him.
Just the thought of it feels like an icy dagger stabbing my soul—unthinkable after everything we’ve been through together.
As I close the gap between us, something catches my eye. A twitch of his arm?
Could he still be breathing? Is it possible?
In response to my silent prayer, Cal pops up like a jack-in-the-box on steroids.
Oh, that sneaky Scot! Seeing him sitting up sends my pulse skyrocketing into overdrive. He’s beenplaying dead the whole time, fooling our rivals into thinking they’ve got him beat.
He swivels to face me, and that’s when I see it: his shirt is torn apart across his heart, but the blade has only grazed his chest and instead lodged itself in his arm. Despite the fresh wound marring his muscular bicep, he clings to his sword with an unyielding grip. Blood leaks from the gash, seeping into his sleeve and turning it a horrifying shade of red against the pale backdrop of his skin.
His face is all stoic determination, but beneath this hardened facade, I catch a glimpse of pain flickering in his eyes.
“Cal! You’re hurt,” I gasp out as I reach him finally. “Stop fighting! I’ve got this.”
Our eyes meet for a split second before he shakes his head with determination. “No way, Mills. We’ve got this.”
A spark of resolve ignites in his eyes like a match hitting the striking pad. His words are more than just a denial; they’re a vow—one sculpted in affection and hardened on the battlefield.
Shoulders squared and hearts racing, we charge forward as one: Cal, Alistair, Fergus, Fi, me, and four other robust allies. We’re hot on the heels of Gregor and his last two goons through the labyrinthine lanes of the village, our footfalls echoing off the time-worn cobblestones like an insistent drumroll.
Finally, we trap them in a dead-end alley with noescape routes left for them to exploit. Gregor is standing at the helm of his pitifully shrinking forces, his face twisted into an ugly grimace of rage and desperation.
“It’s over, Gregor,” I call out, my voice ringing with conviction. “Surrender now, and we’ll show you mercy.”
Gregor lets out a harsh bark of laughter.
“Mercy? From a MacDowell witch? Aye! I’ve witnessed yer witchcraft out on the Loch! I’d rather die than accept pity from a sorceress.”
With the cat out of the bag about our strange magic, I’m on the verge of blurting out the truth about my lineage as well.
