Page 38 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

The thought of losing her, of her walking out of his life, was unbearable. Yet the thought of her staying, of her seeing him as the man she and her sister had painted in that book, was equally tormenting.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Michael pushed open the door to his son’s chamber, the faint glow of a single candle lighting the room. Cody was tucked under a mound of blankets, his small wooden soldiers scattered across the bedside table. The boy’s wide, eager eyes lit up as soon as he saw his father.

“Da,” Cody said, sitting up slightly. “I cannae fall asleep. Will ye read to me?”

Michael’s tension eased at the sight of his son, though the weight of his thoughts remained. “Aye, lad. Which one tonight?”

Cody grinned, his small hands clutching the edge of the blanket. “The story of the healer and the dragon,” he said. “It’s me favorite.”

Michael’s lips twitched into a faint smile. Of course, it was. Cody had always loved that tale, with its themes of kindness and redemption. He reached for the worn leather-bound book on thetable, its pages soft with age and frequent use. Sitting beside the bed, he opened it to the familiar first lines.

“Once, in a land far away, there lived a mighty dragon,” Michael began, his deep voice steady as it filled the quiet room.

Cody leaned closer, his eyes wide with anticipation, even though he knew the story by heart.

Michael read on, the tale of the healer who discovered the wounded dragon in a cave. The beast, fearsome and scarred, had been shunned by the villagers, but the healer saw beyond its monstrous exterior. She tended to its wounds, her patience and care softening the dragon’s gruff demeanor.

As Michael’s voice filled the room, his mind wandered, intertwining the story with his own life. The healer reminded him of Freya, of her gentleness, her unwavering commitment to help, even when it required strength others might not see.

And the dragon… Michael paused for a moment as the words hit him differently tonight.

The dragon was a man cursed by a wicked witch, turned into a beast for his arrogance and unkindness. The healer’s kindness not only healed his wounds but also broke the curse, revealing the man he once was.

“And so,” Michael read, his voice softening as he glanced at Cody, who was beginning to blink sleepily, “the healer’s courageand compassion restored the dragon to his true self. A man, nay longer a monster, and forever grateful to the healer who saved him.”

Cody’s small voice interrupted, thick with drowsiness. “Da, do ye think... people can be dragons too? Cursed, I mean?”

Michael looked at his son, his throat tightening. “Aye, lad. I think sometimes folk carry burdens that make them seem... different from what they truly are. But the right person can help them see themselves again.”

Cody nodded, his head sinking back against the pillow. “Freya’s like the healer,” he mumbled, his words slurring as sleep overtook him. “She keeps us all safe.”

Michael’s chest ached at his son’s innocent words. He reached out, smoothing the boy’s hair back from his forehead. “Sleep well, Cody,” he whispered, closing the book quietly and setting it aside.

For a long moment, he sat there, watching his son’s chest rise and fall with the steady rhythm of sleep. Cody was his anchor, his reason for everything. And now, Freya had become a part of that world, weaving herself into their lives in a way that felt both natural and unsettling.

Leaving the room, Michael closed the door gently behind him and returned to his own chamber. The quiet of the castle pressed in on him, and his thoughts turned once again to Freya.

He lay down, staring at the darkened ceiling, the story still fresh in his mind. The dragon had been cursed, not born a monster. The healer had seen the man beneath, even when no one else did.

Michael’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t a dragon, but there were times when he felt like one—hardened, scarred, and alone. If Freya saw him as a beast, why did she come to him tonight? And if she didn’t, why couldn’t he shake the fear that she might leave, taking the light she’d brought into his world with her?

Instead of to his chamber, he went to his study, yearning for a drink. He poured himself a measure of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight as it swirled in the glass. The weight of the day pressed down upon him.

Michael sank into the worn leather armchair by the fire, cradling the glass in his hand. He stared into the flames, their restless dance mirroring the storm of his own thoughts. A faint knock at the door pulled him from his reverie.

“Enter,” he answered gruffly.

The door creaked open and Brodie stepped inside.

“I thought I’d check on ye, me laird,” Brodie said in his usually casual tone of voice that endeavored to hide concern, but rarely managed to do so.

Michael gestured at the sideboard where the whiskey decanter rested. “Pour yerself a drink if ye’re stayin’.”

Brodie obliged, fetching a second glass and filling it, before taking the chair opposite Michael. He raised his glass slightly in a silent toast before taking a sip.

“Tell me somethin’, Brodie… Have ye ever thought me a monster?”