Leith (Mountain Men 1)

Is she afraid? Is she cold?

Do I care?

I go back downstairs and march to my old room, the one I had as a wee lad growing up with my brothers. I bang the door open harder than I need to. I look around at the room I haven’t inhabited in a while. It’s spacious and rustic and impeccably clean. This home was built as a hunting lodge initially until my father bought it three decades ago, and had it built up and extended to accommodate the growing needs of our Clan.

I don’t go to bed, not at first. I find a bottle of whisky I keep in the cupboard and pour myself a second drink, then a third. I light a fire, then pace back and forth in front of the flames before I finally feel the effects of the alcohol. The events of the evening play like scenes from a movie.

The dark graveyard. Father MacGowen’s pleas, the worried look on his face. The man who tried to kill the woman tonight. The way his neck snapped in my hands, the sudden knowledge I’d decidedly taken a human life. It’s not a first for me, and I don’t regret it, but it’s a sort of numbing tragedy every time it happens, like a part of my soul is stripped away each time.

Then the woman… God, the way she looked at me when I defended her life. Her small hand in mine when I took her to the car, the way she looked at me with the utmost trust.

She shouldn’t trust me. My God, what is wrong with her that she’d trust the man who’d murdered right in front of her?

The way her eyes looked straight into mine as if she was reading my very soul before I threatened to punish her. The way she looked small and uncertain when I laid her in the bed.

Who is she?

There’s something about her that sets her apart from other people, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I strip out of my clothes and toss them into the hamper, then quickly get ready for bed.

Will she speak when I ask her tomorrow? Or will I have to punish her?

And why does the thought of punishing her not sound like a terrible thing at all?

I punch down the pillow and slam my head on it, as if I can suddenly will myself to sleep. Doesn’t work, of course. Naturally.

I close my eyes, but every time I do, I can see her looking at me, those wide, almost innocent eyes meeting mine in some sort of unencumbered honesty.

They aren’t quite innocent, though, are they? Something tells me she’s seen more than an innocent would, long before tonight.

I reach for my phone and type a few things in. Did anyone hear anything at the graveyard? Any tweets or posts or mentions online about the events of this evening? But I find nothing at all.

Our mission was covert, then.

I text one of our enforcers that didn’t join us tonight.

Meet me first thing in the morning. I want you at the library by eight o’clock sharp.

Yes, sir. Of course. Anything amiss?

Aye, but it will keep until the morning.

I scroll a little more but find nothing. No missing person reports. Nothing at all except the mass times Father MacGowen posted an hour ago. Does he want to keep up a sense of normalcy or the like?

I poke around online but find nothing of interest. Finally I type in Can you train an older dog to be a guard dog?

I find an article and read until my head droops and my eyes feel heavy. I slide it onto the table beside me and fall into a weird, dreamless sleep.

I wake the next morning before the sun rises. I typically like to get up before everyone else does. Puts me in a good mindset for the day.

I don’t go straight to the workout room this time. My mind is on the girl upstairs.

Did she sleep last night? Does she have anything to say to me today?

I quickly shower and change, toss on a pair of joggers and a tank so I can workout later, and instead of heading down to breakfast, go straight upstairs to her.

Is that someone walking in one of the rooms down the hall? I pause on the landing, listening, and hear the distinct sound of someone in another room. Instead of going to her room, I head in the direction of the noise I hear. I creep quietly so I can see whoever it is without them realizing I’m here.

I walk wordlessly down the hall and peer into a room. Ailsa, wearing her black and white staff uniform, busies herself dusting the room and humming to herself. She’s a young, attractive young woman, the niece of one of our staff members. Her light blonde hair’s pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s got headphones in as she softly sings to herself. She turns to dust a mirror and nearly screams when she sees me.