Page 23 of The Violet Raven

“Are you nervous, Triona?” he challenges, his voice dipping into a gentle murmur that carries more weight than his casual tone suggests. His piercing blue eyes search mine, and though his words are tender, they hold a challenge, as if daring me to deny it.

I can’t. He’s not wrong about my nerves, but they aren’t born of awe. Not entirely. He may look like something divine, but my unease goes deeper—twisted with apprehension, resistance, and the quiet thrum of something I can’t name.

While drawn to his outward appearance—the sharp line of his jaw, the effortless grace in the way he holds himself—those surface attractions do little to quiet the unease stirring inside me. I didn’t return home just to fall in line with society’s expectations, to be parceled off like a prize, handed to the man with the firmest grip or the most practiced smile.

Yet, his gaze pins me in place, fills with quiet certainty—as if he’s already decided I’m something worth having, worth pursuing. A shiver runs through me as the truth sinks deep into my bones. They set expectations for me. They made decisions in my absence. And the weight of it crushes against my chest, heavy and unrelenting.

I manage a shake of my head, my words tumbling out in a rush. “I haven’t stopped moving from the moment I arrived home. I’m overwhelmed, but if I’m being honest,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper, “after our last encounter, I’m surprised to see you so comfortable... so much in your element.”

My words trail off, the path forward uncertain. But Marcus, ever the trailblazer, has no qualms about pressing on, undaunted. “You mean when Callan caught us lip-locked behind the stable house?” he asks, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

Heat blooms across my skin, spreading to my ears, my cheeks, and down to my chest, as the memory crashes over me in vivid, unrelenting detail.

The feel of his hard body enveloped me, pinning me to the stable’s immoveable frame. His chest melded to mine, rising and falling with a hunger that matched my own. One hand tangled in the hair at my nape, his fingers threading through the strands as though they belonged there, while the other splayed possessively on my hip. The weight of his grip grounded me, even as it hinted at his struggle to contain his own baser impulses.

I’d never felt so uninhibited before; my hands roaming his body, tracing the rugged lines of his neck, the defined ridges of his waist, delighting in the sharp hitch of his breath my touch was eliciting. When mere lips no longer seemed to suffice, he’d taken control—his hand at my hip, pulling me until his front was flush against my own, leaving no space between our bodies. The unmistakable press of his arousal had been a heady thing; burning into me with a hunger that left me wanton.

His forehead dropped to mine, his breaths ragged, his voice a low rasp that ignited every nerve in my body. “You taste like heaven above. I am burning for you.”

Reason had fled in the face of such words, and I pressed closer into his thick length, seeking to rejoin our lips. The guttural groan that escaped from deep within him had driven my hunger forward. But before I could form a response, I was torn from his arms–or rather; he was torn from mine.

Callan.

I’d never seen such a rage in his eyes before that day. Without a word, he dragged Marcus back and landed a blow to his face, knocking him to the ground. Callan moved to strike again, but I’d stopped him with a firm grip on his arm. The pure hatred swimming in his eyes was still burning when his head whipped toward me.

“Callan, what is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me?” his voice so sharp I flinched. “What were ye thinkin’?”

I started, “Callan, it’s not —” but my words were interrupted. Marcus tried to speak over me, only to be silenced by Callan’s snarl. His body language conveyed he was seconds from pouncing on him once more. The grip I had on his arm tightened, nails digging into his flesh to keep him tethered, if only for a moment.

“Feckin’ save it, ye gods-damned wee shite!” Callan spat, yanking free from my hold. He glared at Marcus, his gaze venomous. “I ken what Sassenach scum like ye are capable of.” Then he turned on me. “I willnae tell Ma and Da ‘cause they may force yer hand in marriage, and I willnae have you locked to this one for the rest of yer life.”

“Ye’ll not say a word either,” he said, staring holes into Marcus, voice, low and menacing.

“Callan, you’re wrong!” I shouted, but even as the words left my mouth, a doubt stirred.

“Are ye prepared to wed?” he demanded, words cutting into me like a sharp blade. I went to speak, but the statement had caught me off guard, and I was unsure what to say.

“Are ye prepared for him to take what he wants and leave ye with a bairn?”

Marcus scoffed. “I would never do that to her.”

The tension in the air crackled, heavy with unspoken fears and unresolved emotions. I felt trapped between two worlds: Callan’s protective fury and the connection I’d just had with Marcus. My heart raced, torn between the loyalty to my brother and the fierce desire I was feeling in that moment.

“Ye think this is a game, Triona?” Callan’s voice was strained, his anger barely contained. “Ye cannae be so naïve! This isnae just about ye and him; it’s about everything that comes after!”

I had no argument after that, so I listened to what Callan had said. In the weeks leading up to me leaving for Edinburgh, I hadn’t spoken to Marcus, nor had he attempted to make contact.

It was the biggest fight we’d ever had, but had Callan been wrong? Had things progressed with Marcus, would I be where I am today?

Marcus’ voice tugs me from the haze of memory and intrusive questions. “It seems Callan has not yet seen fit to forgive my impudent act.”

To mask the sensual thoughts roaming freely in my mind, I respond with a dismissive roll of my eyes. “It takes two to partake in such an act, Mr Murray.” His name rolls playfully off my tongue, and a flash of pure desire ignites in his gaze before being swiftly smothered by his customary lightheartedness. The smile he offers now is practiced—a mask he hides behind.

“I would never alter a single moment of that day,” he declares, his body inclining ever closer to mine. “I would gladly endure another of Callan’s rebukes,” his tone softened, suffused with earnestness, “because I meant every word I said.”

The way his eyes are set upon me has me practically panting as I speak, my question barely audible. “And what was that?”