Page 64 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think.

Nay rash decisions. Nay wasted time.

“She ran,” he muttered, more to himself than the others. His gaze flicked toward the open door and the dark forest beyond. He turned to Brodie. “Find her trail. Now.”

They all stepped out of the cottage at the same time. The others spread out, surveying the ground, searching for any sign of the direction where Freya might have been headed.

Michael did the same. He moved with purpose, but it was difficult to see. Their torches helped, but it all felt too quiet. Wrong.

Show me where ye went, Freya…

Then, he noticed it. He could have missed it so easily, but his focus was sharp. It was a broken branch, its splintered end looking freshly snapped. A few feet away, there was another one. There were some leaves disturbed as well. And there, just underneath, barely noticeable, he could see a faint smear of blood on the bark of a tree where she might have leaned for support.

His gut twisted into a knot.

If someone hurt Freya, I’ll…

He couldn’t finish that thought. He refused to.

“This way!” he called out and the others momentarily rushed toward him as he brushed his fingers over the blood. It was fresh. Luckily, there was not much of it. Hopefully, not enough to be life-threatening.

She was injured, but she was moving.

Good lass.

Brodie came up beside him, his eyes focused on the same marks. “She’s runnin’,” he muttered, in confirmation of what Michael already knew.

Michael nodded. They had a direction now, but that wasn’t enough.

“Spread out,” he ordered. “Find more signs. We’re close.”

He refused to lose this trail. He refused to loseher.

“Ye really think ye can run from me, lass?” Leighton’s voice slithered through the darkness, which seemed to be conspiring with him against her.

The cold night burned Freya’s lungs as she ran. Her bare feet stumbled over the uneven ground. Every sharp stone and twisted root bit its sharp teeth into the soles of her feet, but she didn’t stop. Dawn was near. She could feel it pressing against the oppressive night, as the sky slowly lightened to a deep blue. But it wasn’t coming fast enough.

“Ye ken ye’ve nay place to go,” Leighton’s voice drawled, closer now. It was smooth and taunting. “Keep runnin’, if ye like, little lamb. It makes nay difference. Soon as I find ye, I’ll have me fun with ye and then, ye’ll be dead. That’ll be enough revenge for thelaird. An eye for an eye. He took from me, but I’ll take somethin’ from him too. Aye, I will.”

Freya clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. Her body trembled, not just from the cold, but from the terror curling deep in her gut.

She risked a glance from behind the tree, her breath catching when she spotted him just a few yards away. His dark figure moved slowly and deliberately, as though he had all the time in the world.

“Ye cannae hide forever,” he murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement. “Ye’re tired, aye? I hear it in yer breath, wee thing. I can smell the fear on ye. Best ye make it easy on yerself. Come out and face me. I promise to make it quick.”

Freya swallowed hard, forcing her breaths to quiet. She gripped the tree, her nails digging into the bark.

Think, Freya, think!

She didn’t escape only to be caught now.

Slowly, she shifted her weight, careful not to rustle the leaves. If she moved now, if she ran again, he might hear her. She had to be smarter. She had to survive.

Leighton took another step, then paused, as if listening to the sounds she might make. “Ye ken what I regret, lass?” he mused,his voice almost conversational. “That I dinnae kill ye back in the cottage. Would’ve been quicker. Easier. But I like it better this way. Makes it sweeter.”

Bile rose in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, steadying herself.

“Come out, Freya,” he coaxed, his voice soft as a lover’s whisper. “Come out and die.”