The sunlight crept in a moving square across the floor, and every moment it passed was a moment she could mark her failures. It had taken some considerable reworking of the wards to allow her into the castle, and still keep the Wyrd Sisters out. The power of the de Moray Druids was nothing like the dark workings she’d seen from her captors. Their spells were lyrical chants and prayers and even songs. Their runes pulsed with light instead of darkness, and their Magick was fortified with love rather than hatred. But the wrath in Malcolm’s eyes had been dangerous and terrifying. More frightening than any of the atrocities she’d witnessed as a captive of the Wyrd Sisters. In fact, it was the dark-haired, black-eyed Berserker, Bael, who’d shackled her and whisked her to the dungeon. Because Malcolm couldn’t bear to look at her, didn’t trust himself to touch her without causing her harm. He’d said as much. And who could blame him? He’d offered to make her his queen, and she’d betrayed him.
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