Where Loyalty Ends
Isla stirred, limbs heavy as stone, head fuzzy like she’d slept underwater. The fireplace cast flickering orange shapes across the walls, but the room was otherwise dark. Outside, wind scratched the windows like fingernails against frost.
Her gaze caught Lachlan—slouched in a chair, arms crossed, head tipped forward in sleep. The glow from the fire kissed his features in soft amber. Strong jaw, ruffled hair, the faint crease between his brows even in rest.
He looked… peaceful.
Trustable.
Dangerous.
If she hadn’t read the ending, hadn’t known what was coming, she could’ve let herself believe in him.
She shifted, and pain sliced through her arm. A wince escaped her lips before she could catch it.
Lachlan stirred, voice low and groggy. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get comfortable,” she murmured.
He stood slowly, crossed the room, and eased the pillows behind her with startling gentleness. His hands were warm and precise—too soft for someone so used to force.
She felt his touch linger slightly too long on her wrist. Not possessive. But familiar.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He nodded and returned to his chair, though he didn’t sink back into rest.
The silence between them stretched, taut and breathing.
“I never got to thank you,” she said after a moment. “For the lake. And… I’m sorry. For slapping you.”
Lachlan’s jaw twitched, but his expression stayed unreadable. He stared into the fire as if searching for words inside its flicker.
Then: “What were you doing out there?”
Isla hesitated. The truth wasn’t hers to give. Not the real one.
“I was taking a walk. I needed air.”
“You could’ve died.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but she let it hang in the air like flint.
Lachlan’s eyes snapped to hers, his expression hardening. “Is that what you wanted?”
She blinked.
“You wanted to die?” he asked again, quieter now. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Isla looked down at her lap. Her fingers curled against the blanket, knuckles pale. She didn’t answer.
That silence held more weight than any words she could’ve given him.
Lachlan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Spit it out. You clearly have something to say.”
She met his gaze slowly, voice low but steady. “Maybe death would’ve been better than the life I have now.”
His breath caught in his throat.
The room seemed to shrink, the heat of the fire suddenly stifling.
“Is your life that bad?” he asked, softer than before.
Still, she hesitated.
She wanted to tell him everything—the confusion, the loneliness, the way her world no longer made sense. But there were no words for it. Not ones that would sound sane to someone from this realm.
“I don’t belong,” she whispered instead. “Not really.”
That, at least, was true.
Lachlan didn’t look away. “You belong more than you think.”
Isla’s throat tightened. “Is that truly how you feel?”
He hesitated. The pause wasn’t long—but it was just long enough to plant doubt.
“Because sometimes,” she continued, voice soft but firm, “I’m not sure.”
He stared into the fire, lips pressed into a line. “What do you want out of this marriage?” A beat. “From me?”
That question stopped her.
Not because she didn’t know the answer.
But because she did.
She thought of Isla—the version she read. The Isla who smiled like a politician and slept like a stranger beside him. She thought of herself, modern, fractured, craving warmth and craving distance all at once.
She spoke carefully.
“For one,” she said, “to be treated with respect. I'm your wife. Not some girl you can discard after you tire of her.”
Then, quieter: “And for you to trust me.”
Lachlan’s expression shifted—something behind his eyes pulled tight, like thread snagged on memory. Her words echoed in the space between them, threading through whatever unnamed thing was building beneath their surface.
It wasn’t just want.
It wasn’t just rebellion.
It was connection.
He looked down, thumb grazing his palm. The prophecy flickered through his thoughts like smoke—and the pulse between them like flame.
His heart whispered one thing.
His head warned another.
Still, he didn’t retreat.
Then: “Black magic,” she said, voice tighter. “You said it was on the arrow.”
He nodded once. “Traced through the fletching. Ancient. Dangerous.”
“What kind of dangerous?”
Lachlan moved to the mantle, fingers grazing the warm stone. “Black magic gives you anything you want. But at the cost of something worse. Some say it cracks the world. Others say it hollows you out and replaces you with… something else.”
His words echoed in the quiet like a dare.
Isla swallowed.
Could it send her home?
Would it rip her apart to do it?
She didn’t speak those thoughts aloud.
The silence between them stretched again.
Then Lachlan turned to her, his tone gentler. “Do you truly want to die?”
“No,” she whispered.
He exhaled—a long, slow breath like something loosening deep in his chest.
Their eyes met again, soft this time. Charged.
Lachlan stepped closer.
Then stopped.
“Do you hate me?” he murmured.
“No,” she said, voice barely rising. “I want to. But I don’t.”
He reached down and took her hand, squeezed once—brief, grounding.
But Isla held his hand tighter before he could pull away.
“Do you trust me?” she asked, voice barely audible.
She looked up at him, hopeful.
But there was something in her eyes too—something guarded. Something that already knew.
She knew his loyalty to crown and kingdom ran deeper than their shared glances or quiet bonds. That duty would always come first.
Lachlan hesitated.
He gave her hand one last, deliberate squeeze.
Then pulled away.
He saw the dim flicker in her gaze. The sheen of unshed tears she didn’t bother to blink away.
He turned toward the door.
Didn’t answer.
But the silence did.
“I reported the attack to the king,” he said, voice low. “They’ll tighten security. But that assassin wasn’t just hired. He was summoned.”
Isla flinched. “Summoned?”
“By something dark. Not by coin. Not by orders.”
He paused in the doorway, framed by firelight and shadow.
“Sleep, Isla.”
But sleep didn’t come.
Her mind spiraled through curses and warped possibilities.
Could black magic take her home?
Could she survive what it cost?
Would it be like signing her soul to the devil?
And the fire never quite dimmed.