Page 62 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

“I’ve waited long enough,” she suddenly heard voices. “The bastard deserves it.”

A second voice, rougher, older was also heard. “Ye sure this is the way? Stealin’ his woman? He’ll tear the world apart to get her back.”

Freya’s heart pounded.

“Aye,” Leighton replied. “And that’s exactly what I want. Let him come. Let him rage. By the time he finds her, it’ll be too late.He’ll ken he cannae protect what’s his. He’ll ken what it is to lose.”

The other man grunted. “And what if she doesnae break? What if she fights ye?”

A dark chuckle exploded right in front of the door, almost as if he wanted her to hear him. “Let her. It’ll be all the sweeter for me.”

Freya’s blood ran cold, but she clenched her fists. He wanted her afraid. He wanted her broken. He would get neither.

Then they moved away again.

A shaky exhale left her lips. She kept going.

The rope was fraying. She could feel it weakening, the tension beginning to give. Almost. Just a little more.

Then, snap. The binding gave way.

Freya sucked in a sharp breath, her arms trembling as she wrenched them free, pain flaring through her stiff limbs. She had no time to recover. No time to rest.

She scrambled upright, her legs still tied, but her mind was already racing. She needed a weapon. She needed a plan.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she yanked the last of the rope from her ankles, ignoring the sting where it had rubbed her skin raw. She had no time for pain either.

She slid off the bed carefully, her legs stiff from being bound for so long. The room was small. The walls pressed in on her, the air thick and stale grabbing her by the throat like a talon of fear. There was little furniture beyond the rickety wooden table, a single chair, and a worn-out trunk near the far wall.

Her gaze darted around, searching. She needed something that could be used as a weapon.

The candle flickered weakly on the table, its melted wax dripping down the side. Useless. Too fragile. Her eyes landed on the chair. Too big, too cumbersome. The trunk? She rushed to it, lifting the lid with shaky fingers. Inside, nothing but tattered blankets and an old bottle of whisky.

Damn it.

She wasn’t prone to cursing, but these were extraordinary circumstances.Veryextraordinary. Her frustration nearly swallowed her whole, but she forced herself to focus. Therehadto be something.

Then she saw it.

A rusty fire poker leaned against the stone hearth in the corner. Its iron tip was obviously dulled with age but still sharp enough to do damage.

Freya wasted no time. She lunged for it, her fingers curling around the cold metal, her grip tightening despite the way her hands trembled. It was heavier than she expected, also unbalanced, but she adjusted her hold, testing the weight.

Good enough.

She couldn’t resist smiling to herself.

She turned toward the door, heart hammering. Leighton thought she was weak. Thought she’d be lying there, helpless, waiting for him to decide her fate.

He was wrong.

She gritted her teeth, tightening her grip on the poker. If he came through that door, she’d make damn sure he regretted it.

Freya pressed herself against the wall, gripping the fire poker so tightly her knuckles ached. The only sound in the cottage was the unsteady rhythm of her own breathing. She strained to listen, but the silence outside was endless, stretching into what felt like an eternity.

Then, she heard the sound of oncoming footsteps.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. The sound was steady, unhurried. Confident. It could only behim.