I never belonged in these fog-choked Highlands. But vengeance dragged me here, deed clutched like a dagger, my family's blood screaming for justice amid enemy stones. Reckless? Damn right. Haunted by the massacre that stole everything. I'd steal it back or die clawing.

He found me first. This vicious Scot, a wall of brutal muscle and storm-dark glare, the kind of man who breaks oaths with his bare hands. I spat defiance. He laughed low, like thunder promising ruin. Pinning me against crumbling walls, his breath hot on my throat, he didn't ask. He took. Rough fingers digging into my hips, mouth crashing like war, turning my curses to gasps I couldn't swallow.

Every clash feeds the madness. Sweat-glistened skin sliding in a shadowed alcove, where stone dust from a vault's collapse chokes the air and binds us closer. Up sheer, wind-lashed rock in blinding fog, his grip saves my life even as it owns me, hauling me into forbidden heights. I hate how he sees it. The isolation cracking under his relentless siege. The surrender I crave but deny, body arching into his savage rhythm, soul fracturing with every thrust that defies our blood hatred.

One more yield, and it's over. My clan's legacy dust. My hard-won pride in tatters. This enemy who ravishes me body and spirit holds the power to unmake us both. Yet pulling away feels like ripping out my own heart. How does hatred twist into this? The need that could doom us forever?