Kimber H. Kinkaid

FROST LICKED AT TRYSS MacCraith's bones, sharp and unforgiving—like the crown he'd never asked to bear.

He stood at the edge of the training yard, the wind tearing at his cloak like the blaze burning in his chest. His jaw was set, and a low growl vibrated from deep in his throat. Beside him, Fergus knelt, cleaning his claymore, the scrape of steel a dull backdrop to Tryss's storm.

"So, the bride comes the morra," Fergus said, glancing up with a cautious smile. "MacInnes blood. Whit d'ye reckon o' it?"

Tryss's jaw snapped shut with a sharp crack. He spat into the frost-hardened earth, disgust curling his lip. "Aye, a bride. Like a chain wound tight round ma throat. MacInnes blood. Her father's the verra man who pressed my da's hand tae the treaty that chained us years ago. An' now they press mine wi' his daughter. I'm nae a laird—I'm a pawn in their game. My name's been bartered twice o'er." His voice trembled with a dark fury. "I'm laird by name, but a prisoner tae this cursed marriage. Nae matter how many battles I fight, nae matter how many foes I break, I'm powerless tae halt it."

For a bare breath, his anger faltered, and another thought slid in—shameful, unwanted. Once, when he was a lad, he'd dreamed a wife might mean warmth. A fire in the hearth, bairns at his knee, laughter that belonged tae him. But that dream had withered long ago, buried beneath duty's weight. Now it mocked him, as cold and hollow as the frost at his feet.

He slammed a fist into the post, the wood groaning beneath the blow…