Page 69 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Michael’ssword.

Freya could only watch, frozen, as Leighton staggered, choking on his own breath. He tried to turn, but his body betrayed him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward into the dirt.

For a long, terrible moment, the world seemed to hold still. Then, Michael took a slow, painful breath.

“Ye… daenae deserve… a death from the front…” His voice was hoarse, his words clipped, but they carried through the clearing like a death knell.

Freya’s knees nearly gave out in relief. Leighton was dead. But it was not over.

Michael’s guards were now standing over the dead bodies of the men who decided to take Leighton’s side. Without thinking, she dropped to her knees beside Michael, her hands already reaching for him before she could think.

“Michael…” Her voice trembled as she pressed a hand to his shoulder, her fingers grazing the deep wound on his arm. His skin was clammy beneath her touch and his breathing shallow.

It was poison… but which one?

Panic clawed at her chest as she scanned his face. His jaw was clenched tight, his lips were pale, and his body was swaying even as he fought to stay upright.

“Tell me what ye feel,” she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady.

Michael exhaled sharply, his eyes unfocused. “Like fire in me veins… slowin’ me down.” His fingers curled weakly around his sword, as if sheer will alone would keep him conscious.

Freya’s heart pounded.

Think, Freya. Think.

She reached for the wound on his bicep, peeling back the torn fabric of his sleeve. The cut wasn’t deep, but the edges were already darkening. It was spreading.

A slow poison. Not meant to kill instantly, but to weaken.

She swallowed hard.

Leighton wanted him to suffer.

Her mind raced through everything she had learned from the healer’s books, from treating the wounded men back at the keep.

What kind of poison?

There were too many possibilities.

Her fingers trembled as she brought them to the wound, carefully dabbing at the darkened edges. It wasn’t clotting properly. That meant?—

“Belladonna?” she whispered aloud, shaking her head.

Nay, nay… somethin’ else…

She glanced around desperately. There had to be something to slow the spread, to give them more time. But they were in the middle of a battlefield. No herbs, no tinctures.

Onlyher.

“Freya.”

Michael’s voice was strained, but still steady. He was watching her, his gaze sharp despite the way his body fought against him. “Can ye fix it?”

A lump formed in her throat. “Aye,” she said without hesitation. She had to make him believe it. More importantly, she had to makeherselfbelieve it, too.

She forced herself to breathe, to think, to banish the panic clawing at her chest and heart.

Her hands hovered over Michael’s wound, her fingers ghosting over the darkened edges. The spreading blackness beneath his skin, which was slow but relentless, told her it was not a simple poison. If Leighton had used something common, Michael would already be dead.