Page 19 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

The guard saluted sharply, stepping forward to seize the man by the arm.

Freya released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her hand brushing against her chest as she tried to steady herself. “Ye dinnae have to do that,” she murmured, looking at Michael.

“Ye.”

That was the only thing he said, as his strong hand clamped around her wrist. The firmness of his grip startled her, thrilled her,burnedher, and yet, she never wanted him to let go.

Before she could object, he was leading her away, his strides long and determined.

“What are ye doin’?” she hissed, trying to keep up as he navigated through the bustling market, trying to forget what his touch did to her. His guards lingered at a respectful distance, but their presence only added to her growing unease.

He didn’t stop until they reached a narrow alley between two stone buildings, shielded from prying eyes and ears. Releasing her hand, he turned to face her, his expression thunderous.

“What were ye thinkin’?” he demanded, his voice low but seething with anger.

Freya took a step back, lifting her chin defiantly. “I was thinkin’ someone needed to stand up for that girl,” she replied, her voice steady despite the rapid thrum of her heart.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, his frustration palpable. “Ye could’ve been hurt, Freya! That man could’ve—” He broke off, his hand tightening into a fist. “Ye daenae just step into a situation like that without thinkin’.”

Freya crossed her arms, matching his intensity with her own. “And what would ye have had me do? Stand by and watch as he berated a child he’d injured?”

“I had it under control,” Michael snapped, his eyes flashing, the eyes that she suddenly wanted to drown in and never come up for air.

“Ye dinnae even see him goin’ for me until it was too late!” Freya shot back, her voice rising. “I’m nae some helpless damsel, me laird. I can handle meself.”

His lips pressed into a thin line as he took a step closer, the proximity crackling with tension. He was close… dangerously close, and yet, she knew that she was safe there, with him.

“Ye’re inmetown,mehome, undermeprotection. I will nae let anyone lay a hand on ye,” he growled, his voice rough but tinged with something else—something that sent a shiver down her spine, like a titillating finger trailing an invisible line, aching to touch her more.

Freya’s breath caught. She wanted to argue, to push back against his overbearing demeanor, but the intensity in his gaze rooted her to the spot. The narrow alley seemed to shrink around them, and for a moment, the air between them felt too charged, too heavy to bear.

“Ye’re impossible,” she finally muttered, looking away in an attempt to gather her thoughts.

Michael stepped even closer, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. “And ye’re reckless.”

Freya’s head snapped back to meet his eyes, her frustration boiling over. “Reckless? Ye think carin’ about people is reckless?”

“Nae,” he said, his tone suddenly quieter, almost resigned. “But puttin’ yerself in harm’s way is.”

They stared at each other, the silence between them thick with unspoken words. His presence was overwhelming, magnetic, and she hated how easily it unsettled her.

“I’m nae afraid,” she said softly, though the words felt like a challenge.

“Ye should be,” he replied, his voice a low rumble.

Before she could respond, before she could push him away with words or fists, his hand shot out to grip her wrist, pulling her toward him. His touch was like fire, searing her skin through the fabric of her sleeve, and without any more warning, his lips were on hers.

It was raw, desperate—an explosion of heat that took her by complete surprise. His mouth moved against hers with such urgency, such intensity, that it left no room for resistance. She was angry, so angry, and yet her body betrayed her. Every nerve in her body seemed to respond to the force of him, to the way his kiss deepened as if he’d been waiting for this moment, too.

For a split second, all of her thoughts—her anger, her frustration, her resolve—vanished. There was nothing but the press of his lips, the taste of him, and the sudden, overwhelming rush of attraction that left her breathless.

Her hands, initially stiff at her sides, found their way to his chest, pushing back for a moment, as if trying to break free from the kiss that seemed to consume her. But she couldn’t pull away. His grip on her wrist tightened, pulling her in even closer, and shefelt herself melting into him. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the steady beat of his heart under her palm, and her mind screamed at her to stop, to push him away, but her body wouldn’t listen. It was as if everything else faded away, leaving only the fire that burned between them.

“Laird McEwan!” The sound of the guards calling out to him broke the spell.

Michael pulled away abruptly, breaking the moment as if it had never happened. She could feel the heat of him still lingering on her lips, her body still tingling from the intensity of his touch. Her heart raced in her chest, and for a moment, she just stood there, caught in the remnants of the kiss, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

His eyes were dark, devouring her with a gaze that left her breathless, and she had to look away. The heat from his touch, the fire that had ignited between them, seemed to cling to her skin like a second layer. She could still feel the weight of his hand on her wrist, the grip that had been so possessive, so intense.