EVER BOUND

PROLOGUE

Dùn Briarach, Ireland — Circa 1125

Thea crouched beneath the blackthorn tree, her shawl soaked through from snowmelt and sorrow. The bark scraped her spine through the worn linen of her shift. Her breath curled into the winter air like spirit smoke, slow and quiet. She didn't dare move.

Down below, the stone courtyard of Marchand Keep blazed with firelight. Torches lined the path, gold against the snow, leading nobles and their glittering daughters into the belly of the Laird's hall. Their laughter echoed through the valley—clear, easy, full of wine and names she could never pronounce.

Thea's fingers curled into the frozen earth.

Even from her perch in the woods, she could see the sheen of their coats—fur-lined and dyed in foreign shades. Cloaks of sapphire blue and blood-red silk. Jewels hung from ears and necks, even in this bitter cold. They moved like they owned the land. Like they had never scraped bark for medicine or buried their dead in secret.

She pulled her shawl tighter. It was thin and patched and smelled of cedar and smoke. Her toes were numb inside her boots. She hadn't eaten in a day and had not slept since the banns were posted.

The wedding of Silas MacRae, Laird of Dùn Briarach, to Lady Ailsa of Glenmohr.

Posted in the chapel a week past, but the celebration below looked as though it had been planned for months.

There were candles in every window. Musicians with harps and bone whistles. The servants had scrubbed the stone of the outer wall till it gleamed like polished bone.

And there, stepping from the carriage—the bride.

A slip of a girl. No older than sixteen. Her hands trembled as she took her nursemaid's arm. Her dress was thick and beaded with pearls. Her veil hung heavy over a pale face gone paler in the cold.

Even from here, Thea could see the terror in her eyes.

But then the manor doors opened.

And Silas stepped out.

He wore the tartan of his clan pinned high across his chest, a ceremonial blade at his side. His dark hair, so often wild in the wind, had been pulled back and tied at the nape. A ring of silver crowned his brow.

And when the bride looked at him, she smiled. Not with joy, but with relief.

Thea knew that look.

Because Silas MacRae was beautiful in a way men shouldn't be. He walked like every step belonged to him. Spoke like thunder and poetry. He made women forget they were meant to be afraid.

Thea had forgotten.

She had forgotten the warnings. Forgotten the prayers. Forgotten her own damn sense.

All for him.

She remembered the first time he'd touched her.

Not in the way men touch to take. But with wonder, like he couldn't believe she was real.

It had been in her garden, behind the cottage that crouched near the woods where no one else dared live. He'd come asking for a cure for his mother's cough. She had refused. She didn't deal with nobles. But he came back. Three nights in a row. Until she caved.

And when she placed the charm in his palm, his fingers closed around hers and didn't let go.

"Ye're the first soul who's looked me in the eye and not flinched," he'd said.

"Ye're the first soul who's seen me."

And then he kissed her—against the tree beside her door, hands cradling her face, careful like he feared she might vanish if he was too rough.

They were fire after that. Reckless, hidden, aching.

And gods help her, she had loved him.

She had believed him when he said he would leave the name behind. That he'd build them a house down in the glen, where no one would come. That he'd make her his wife, curse or no.

But now...

Now she crouched in the trees like a feral thing, while he prepared to give his name and blood to a girl who still looked like she braided dolls.

The memory of his mouth on her skin burned like a wound. The nights she'd clung to him. The way he'd held her like a prayer.

All of it lies.

Worse, he had offered her a cottage—a home tucked behind the woods, far enough that no one would see.

He would visit, he'd said. Every night.

And she'd have his children in secret, tucked away like shame.

While he played the noble, the lord, the prince.

Her stomach turned.

Another horn blew from below, long and low. Guests began to gather at the steps of the stone chapel beside the keep.

Thea reached for the leather pouch at her hip. It was old. Hand-stitched by her mother. Inside it were the things she should not carry. A braid of her own hair. A river-stone soaked in blood. The shard of bone from a stag killed under the new moon.

She had brought it before. Never used it.

But tonight, she would.

Because Silas MacRae was about to vow himself to another.

And when he did—when the ceremony was over, and the guests feasted and the wine flowed—he would step out into the night.

And Thea would be waiting.

~*~

Silas slammed the door behind him, his boots echoing through the stone hall. The morning frost still clung to the windowpanes, and the fire hadn't yet been lit, but his blood was already burning hot.

"I told ye, I meant to call the bloody thing off!" he shouted.

From the head of the table, Laird Fergus MacRae looked up slowly, his expression carved from centuries of war and stone. His hands were calloused, wrapped in rings, a goblet clenched between thick fingers.

He didn't shout back. He didn't need to.

"Ye'll no shame me in my own hall, boy," Fergus growled, voice low and dangerous. "Not today, not on the day ye're to be made a man."

Silas crossed the chamber in three long strides. "She's no but sixteen summers, Da."

"And you're near thirty," Fergus snapped, slamming the goblet down so hard the iron rim cracked. "The clans are expectin' a strong heir. They've waited long enough."

"I could give you an heir without bindin' myself to a child," Silas muttered darkly.

Fergus's eyes narrowed. "Ye mean the witch."

Silas said nothing.

Fergus leaned forward, sneering. "I let you rut with her in the woods, let you disgrace yourself for two years, lad. D'you ken how many folk turned their eyes just to protect your pride?"

Silas's fists clenched. "I love her."

"And love feeds no mouths," Fergus snapped. "Love doesn't end wars. Love doesn't keep the damned MacIntyres from stormin' our borders!"

Silas turned away, jaw clenched, staring at the frost-laced window.

Fergus stood, voice like a hammer on steel. "This union wins us the highlands, Silas. The whole of it. From the Black Loch to the sea. That girl's father owns the final keep we need. One signature, and the MacRaes become kings in all but name."

"Then find another son to sign it," Silas hissed.

Fergus strode to him, grabbed his shoulder, spun him around. His breath was sour with mead. His gaze, unrelenting.

"You think you're the first MacRae to lay down with a pretty thing and cry 'forever?' Ye're lucky there's no bairn from her, and gods help us if one ever comes. You're a Laird's son. Not a dreamin' fool."

Silas didn't flinch. "I'd rather live in the woods with her and no name at all than wed a girl I don't know."

"Ye won't live at all if this war comes."

That silenced him.

Fergus pressed a final blow. "You think she's safe now? D'you think a bastard-born hedge witch'll live through what's comin' if the clans fall? I let her live because you begged me once, and I've kept her safe these two winters. But I swear on my blood, Silas, if you ruin this treaty—I'll burn her cottage to ash myself."

Silas stared at his father for a long time, his breath tight in his chest.

Then he nodded once. Silent. The decision was made.

The rest of the day blurred around him. He was groomed, dressed, polished within an inch of his life. His tartan was pinned. His blade oiled. His speech rehearsed.

There was no time to go to her.

Every hour, a new guest arrived. A new servant needing orders. A new demand from the MacIntyres, who had insisted on a wedding upon arrival.

By the time the sun dipped low behind the hills, a scout announced the MacIntyres had reached the gates.

Silas stepped out into the courtyard, his boots crunching in fresh snow. He watched as the grand black carriage rolled to a stop.

The door opened.

And Ailsa MacIntyre stepped out.

She was small and pale, her braid stiff with frost, her hands trembling as she reached for balance. Her eyes darted toward the keep—toward him—with an expression he knew all too well.

She was frightened.

Her nursemaid helped her down, and her father followed—Lord Eoin MacIntyre, clad in rich fur and smug satisfaction. He extended a hand.

Silas took it. The grip was hard, political.

Then he turned to the girl. Took her hand gently. Bowed over it.

"My lady," he said, loud enough for all to hear.

She offered a small, hollow smile.

She was beautiful. But she was not Thea.

They went straight to the chapel.

There was no feast beforehand. No dancing, no blessing from the hills. Only formality.

The priest said the words in Latin. Eoin gave away his daughter with a smirk. Fergus stood behind Silas like a mountain of iron.

Silas barely heard the vows. His mouth spoke them. His mind did not.

When it was done, the guests cheered. The bells rang. Someone shouted about heirs.

And Silas felt nothing.

He walked through the great hall to a sea of congratulations, smiles, and lifted goblets.

Then someone clapped a hand on his shoulder.

He turned.

Ronan. His oldest friend. Loyal, sharp, and twice as wicked.

The man handed him a flask. "Ye'll need it, brother," Ronan said under his breath. "Lyin' with a lass ye don't love, when all ye can think of is her..." He whistled low. "That'll take stronger drink than what's on the tables."

Silas snatched the bottle, jaw clenched.

Ronan patted his shoulder once and moved on.

Silas stood still.

He unscrewed the cap.

Drank deep.

And all he could see was Thea—not here, not beside him, not his.

The heavy oak doors shut behind him with a hollow thud.

Silas exhaled into the cold night air, pressing a hand against the stone arch as if the chill might bleed the guilt from his skin. He needed the silence. He needed to breathe without the sound of her—his wife—whimpering beneath him echoing in his ears.

The snow fell slow and soft now. The sky above was starless, pale and heavy like parchment. Below, the keep lay still, as if the earth itself held its breath.

He pulled the collar of his cloak higher and stepped away from the wall, dragging tired fingers through his hair.

It was done.

The girl—Ailsa—lay in his bed now. Quiet. Sated.

He hadn't meant for it to happen like that. He'd thought he'd do his duty, cold and mechanical, just enough to ensure an heir. She had trembled like a leaf the moment he closed the chamber door. Her hands had clutched the hem of her shift like she was bracing for war.

But something in her expression—a kind of brokenness he recognized too well—had stopped him.

So he had softened. Slowed. Touched her like a man trying to soothe a wounded animal. Spoke low, kissed her carefully. And in doing so, he found himself aching—not for her, but for the piece of himself he'd just bartered away.

He hoped it was enough.

He prayed a child would come from it.

So he would never have to do it again.

The thought hollowed him.

He tilted his head to the sky, snow catching in his lashes, and muttered, "Gods forgive me."

He turned toward the outer courtyard, hoping for the distraction of wind or solitude—

And then he saw her.

Standing just beyond the gate.

Still as a tombstone.

Thea.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

She wore her black cloak, the same one she used to throw around both of them on cold nights by the fire. Her hands were bare. Her curls, heavy with frost.

She had never looked more alive.

Or more like death.

"Thea..." His voice broke as he stepped toward her. "I—I meant to come to you before."

"Aye," she said, her voice calm and cruel, "but ye were too busy bedding your bride."

He winced, as if the words had struck. "It wasn't—it wasn't meant to be like this."

"No," she agreed. "It was meant to be me."

He took another step. "Please. You don't understand what—"

"I understand everything." Her eyes glistened. "You did what needed doing. Like a good Laird."

"You think I wanted her?" he snapped, voice cracking. "You think I touched her and thought of her?"

Thea flinched.

"I had no choice." His voice dropped to a whisper. "He'd have had you burned, Thea. Your name struck from the stone. The only way to protect you was to marry her. To give him what he wanted."

"So you gave her everything instead."

"I gave her a moment," he hissed. "Not my name. Not my heart."

"Yet she lies in your bed."

Silas said nothing. He couldn't.

Thea's breath came in fog. "And what of me, Silas? What do I get?"

"I built the cottage," he murmured. "By the river. Like I said I would. It's yours. I'll come to you when I can—"

Her laugh was sharp and hollow. "So I'll be your secret now. Your w***e in the woods."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

Her hand moved to her hip. His gut clenched.

"Thea," he whispered, stepping forward. "Please don't—"

But her hand was already wrapped around the pouch.

"I gave you every part of me," she said. "And you offered me a house I couldn't be seen in. A life lived in silence. Children who'd never bear your name."

He saw her hand move to her belt, and dread spiked through him.

"Thea..."

He knew what that pouch meant.

He'd seen her use it once—on a dying bird, to call back its breath. Her fingers had blackened then. Her nose had bled. She hadn't walked for three days.

Her magic wasn't tricks and potions. It was soul work. Every spell carved a price into her body. Every curse pulled from a well she might never refill.

And this—this was no simple charm.

Her hands trembled as she opened the pouch. The snow thickened. The wind quieted.

Her fingers darkened instantly, as if the blood beneath her nails turned to ink.

"I curse you, Silas MacRae."

He staggered backward. "Please, Thea—don't—"

Her lips moved like prophecy. Her words were older than the stones beneath them.

"You'll live long after time forgets your name. You'll carry my rage in your blood. You'll see me in every life, and in each one, I will destroy you."

The wind howled as power tore from her chest like smoke.

Silas dropped to his knees. His vision blurred.

Thea's face twisted in pain. Her fingertips cracked. Blood ran down her palms.

Her voice faltered. Her knees buckled.

And then—

She collapsed.

Straight into his arms.

Her body was ice. Her lips parted, breath gone.

"Thea—!" He cradled her, his voice breaking. "No, no—don't—"

She didn't move.

She didn't speak.

Her skin had gone gray-blue, as if drained of life itself.

He pressed her to his chest, rocking her, whispering her name. "Come back to me. Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

But the curse was done.

And Thea MacRae, the woman he loved beyond all reason, lay still in his arms.

As far as Silas knew—she was dead.

And that night, he lost not only his love... but his soul.