Kissed by the Past

Lachlan’s boots struck the stone floor like war drums as he stormed through the corridor, rage pulsing in his veins. He found Alastair in the west wing, leaning casually against a pillar as if he’d been waiting.

Lachlan didn’t hesitate.

“Were you trying to seduce my wife?”

Alastair's brows lifted. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Lachlan growled. “I saw you. Alone. In the garden. With my wife.”

Alastair stood up straighter. “I found her there, Lachlan. She was by herself, reading near the old fountain. We talked. That’s all.”

“Why were you alone with her in the first place?” Lachlan snapped.

“Because she was alone,” Alastair replied, irritation flickering in his eyes. “And she asked questions about magic. Said her father never taught her, and she wanted to learn.”

Lachlan’s chest tightened. Isla had mentioned magic? His thoughts drifted instantly to the prophecy—Elspeth’s haunting vision of Isla shrouded in black, destruction at her feet. He kept that fear buried, locked behind his jaw.

“Why does she want to learn magic?” he asked, tone razor-sharp.

Alastair shrugged. “I don’t know. She didn’t say. Just that she was curious. I told her I’d help if you were alright with it.”

Lachlan’s fists curled. His instincts screamed no. No, he didn’t want his brother anywhere near her. But the logical part of him—the one shaped by years of strategy and cold reasoning—saw the advantage. If Alastair taught her, Lachlan could watch. Learn what she was after. What she was hiding.

Before he could answer, Alastair added, “I don’t mind helping her. Seems that’s all I’ve been doing since I met her.”

Lachlan’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean by that?”

Alastair gave a half-smile, more nostalgic than mocking. “At the introduction ball. She was a disaster on the dance floor. Stepping on toes, spinning the wrong way—it was painful to watch. So, I stepped in for one dance. Just enough to help her calm down. She was overwhelmed. But when we danced, she laughed. Relaxed. For a moment, she looked like she belonged.”

Lachlan’s jaw tensed. He remembered that moment now. He had been pacing through the hall, furious that he was being forced into marriage. He’d heard laughter—mocking, feminine—and never stopped to look. Never realized the girl they were ridiculing was Isla.

He should have.

He should have looked.

Alastair continued, unaware of the storm building in Lachlan’s chest. “After that dance, we parted. I didn’t know who she was until she was introduced as your betrothed.”

Lachlan turned away, pacing. The image of Isla laughing with his brother stung more than it should. She never looked like that with him. Never carefree. Never warm. He’d seen her tremble in his presence more often than smile. And that angered him. Not at her. At himself.

He had pushed her. Intimidated her. Tried to possess her before truly knowing her.

And now… she laughed for someone else.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Alastair said softly. “I know we’ve grown apart, Lachlan, but I do believe she’s your fated mate. I would never overstep. But someone else might—especially if you keep pushing her away.”

Lachlan said nothing.

He watched Alastair walk down the corridor, back straight, head unbowed. The same gait he’d had since they were boys sneaking through the orchard after midnight raids. Once, they’d been inseparable. He used to know what Alastair was thinking with just a glance.

Now, there was distance—a silence that hadn’t always been there. It made him wonder if this rift began with the crown... or something far more human: jealousy. Regret. Fear.

The space between them felt more like a chasm than a corridor.

He knew Alastair was right—about everything except one thing.

Alastair didn’t know about the prophecy.

Didn’t know that Lachlan might be forced to kill the woman he was fated to love.

That he might lose the only person who had ever made him question who he was becoming.

He leaned against the stone wall, eyes closing.

The blood will choose, but the stone must break.

What if that wasn’t about Isla?

What if he was the stone?

What if the breaking had already begun?

He thought of Isla’s face—tear-streaked, defiant. Of her voice shaking when she said his name, not with fear, but something heavier. Of the way she looked at him in the moments before he left her room. Not with hatred.

With hurt.

She had struck him not as an enemy.

But as someone who expected better.

And gods, didn't that wound him worse than any blade?

The corridor felt colder now, the stone leeching warmth from his skin as he moved. Every echo of his footsteps came back sharper, like the castle itself held its breath. Elspeth’s words threaded through his thoughts like a curse: “The blood will choose…”

But it wasn’t just blood at stake anymore.

It was Isla. Her laughter. Her sorrow. The fragile thread of trust stretched between them.

He had failed before—too many times to count.

As a brother, he’d let Alastair take the fall for his mistakes. As a prince, he had ruled with calculation instead of compassion. As a man… he had armored himself in silence, letting duty replace connection.

But Isla…

She made him feel something terrifying.

Human.

And wasn’t that the danger of it all? That tenderness could crack him open where war never could? That love might strip him bare in ways the sword never dared?

He needed to find her.

Not to accuse. Not even to confess.

To understand—before it was too late.

Because the next time he saw Isla… he needed to be a man worthy of the truth.

Or brave enough to face it.

With renewed purpose, Lachlan turned from the corridor and strode back toward the guest wing. The fire inside him still burned, but now it was tempered by something deeper.

Hope.

Hope that she would let him in again.

Hope that he hadn’t already destroyed what fragile bond remained.

And if she did?

Then maybe—just maybe—the stone could be remade.

Not by magic.

But by love.