The hall was silent as the weight of the agreement settled. The contract had been signed, the oaths spoken, but the air between you and Laird MacTavish crackled like a coming storm.

He stood before you, broad-shouldered and battle-worn, the flickering torchlight casting sharp angles over his face. A man of war, feared across the Highlands, and now—your husband. His dark tartan was draped over his shoulder, the heavy wool doing little to soften the powerful frame beneath. Leather and steel adorned his frame—bracers strapped to his forearms, a broad belt cinched at his waist, the hilt of his dirk glinting at his hip, a reminder that peace was never guaranteed. A scar cut across his strong chin, a remnant of a fight long past, only adding to the fierce reputation that preceded him.

"Ye look as if I’ve marched ye to the gallows, lass," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I may be a brute, but I’m no butcher."

You lifted your chin. "No, you’re something worse."

His mouth twitched, though his eyes darkened. He stepped closer, his heat tangible even through the thick air between you.

"Worse?" he mused, voice dipping lower. "Then ye best start prayin’ I prove ye wrong."