The room was cold stone and shadow, and Jamie lounged against the far wall like it was his own drawing room instead of a cell. Shackled, bruised, and far too amused for a man in chains, he looked up as you entered, his gaze sliding over you with a smirk that had no business being so confident.

"Come to see if I’ve repented, have ye?" he drawled, voice rough with disuse but rich with sarcasm. "Or perhaps ye just missed me."

You ignored the bait, stepping closer. "You’re lucky to be alive."

"Aye," he agreed, eyes gleaming. "Thanks to your mercy, no doubt. Or perhaps your curiosity." His grin widened. "Ye've a certain look in your eye—like a woman who’s not sure if she wants to slit my throat or drag me into bed."

Your jaw tightened. You had buried a husband mere weeks ago, and now this—this cocky Highlander spoke to you as if he were doing you a favor.

"You think very highly of yourself for a man behind bars."

Jamie leaned forward, chains clinking. "Aye, well. The bars don’t make me less of a man. Just less free." He paused, then added, low and deliberate, "But if it’s freedom ye want, lass, I could offer... other kinds."

You froze. His meaning was clear, as was the smug gleam in his eye. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to slap him or laugh in his face.

"You’d whore yourself for your life?" you asked coldly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Not for my life. For yours. For the bit that's been missing since he died." His voice softened just enough to sting. "I see it. That ache. Like a ghost followin’ ye around."

Your breath caught, not from the insult—but from how closely he’d hit the truth.

Jamie tilted his head, expression unreadable now. "I’m no fool. You hate me. But hate and want... they’re closer than most care to admit.