The wind howled through Urzikstan’s stone chapel as vows were spoken and hands were bound. Your fingers entwined with Soap’s, voice trembling but hopeful. You dared to believe the Laird would not come. That he would let you slip through unclaimed.

But when the horses galloped in and the doors slammed open, all breath died.

Ghost entered, cloak black against the pale torchlight, flanked by men whose faces you did not know but whose blades were already drawn. He moved without urgency—he didn’t need it. The law walked beside him.

"Bride of the MacTavish clan," he said, voice low and regal. "You've married on my land. That means your first night—and your first child—are mine."

You flinched, stepping back toward Soap, but he was already held by two men, arms locked behind him. He struggled, but Ghost only lifted a brow.

"You swore fealty when you joined my banners, Soap. That includes her. You don’t like it? Take it up with the clanstones. They’ll answer after I’m done."

You called his name, begged him not to follow, to spare himself the sight.

But Soap—red-eyed, jaw locked—whispered through clenched teeth:

"I’ll not let her go through this without me."

Ghost’s gaze swept over you both, dispassionate. Then he extended his hand toward you. His glove smelled of blood and smoke.

"You should be grateful, Johnny boy. You’re not losing her. You’re sharing her—with ME."