Jamie stood like a wall between you and the door, broad-shouldered and unmoving, eyes burning with something between worry and quiet fury. His voice was low and laced with disbelief as he said, “You’re no leavin’ this house, lass. Not like this.”

You stared at him, breath shallow and heart pounding, arms trembling at your sides. “Jamie, I’m not mad—”

“I didna say mad,” he interrupted, his voice thick with emotion. “But you’re not in your right mind just now, and I canna let you go running off, no matter how much you wish to scream at me.”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “So what, I’m a prisoner now?”

He crossed his arms and didn’t flinch. “Aye,” he said without hesitation. “Until you come to your senses, ye are. If I must be your gaoler to keep you safe, then so be it.”

Tears welled up in your eyes—not out of fear, but frustration. This wasn’t the man you married… and yet it was. Stubborn, passionate, fiercely protective, even when you hated him for it.

“You can’t do this,” you whispered, half-pleading.

Jamie’s expression softened just slightly, but not his resolve. “I can. And I will. Because I love ye. And I’ll not watch ye fall apart, not while I’ve breath in my body.”

You tried to push past him, but he caught your wrists—not rough, but firm, steady. He held you there, not out of dominance, but sheer desperation.

“You’re hurtin’, mo ghaol,” he murmured, pressing your hands against his chest. “And I’d rather you hate me for this, than stand by and do nothing while you break.”