A Highlander's Curse

Chapter One

The winds of the Highlands roared with the fury of ancient gods, sweeping over the craggy peaks and through the dense forests. Finlay MacLeod stood at the edge of a cliff, the storm's cold bite slicing through his skin, though he hardly felt it. His mind was consumed by thoughts darker than the night sky above.

The peace he was meant to secure with the MacDonnell clan through his upcoming marriage to Ailsa weighed heavily on his chest. A union forged in blood and necessity, one that would stop the centuries-old feud between their clans. It was meant to be a new dawn, but Fin’s soul was tangled in the shadows of something far older, far more dangerous.

Her.

Moira MacEacharn.

Her name thrummed through his veins like a forbidden hymn. A dark priestess who had haunted his life since he was a bairn. At first, she was an enigma—a shadowy figure who appeared with gentle words and small offerings, her presence more comforting than frightening. But as he grew older, so did the complexity of her visits. Sweetness turned to seduction. Comfort became temptation. She was the keeper of his darkest desires and the tether binding him to a destiny he could not escape.

He was supposed to be preparing for Ailsa, a woman whose gentleness and strength could soothe any Highland storm. But Ailsa MacDonnell couldn’t call to him like Moira did. She couldn’t make his blood ignite with a single look or bend his will with a whispered word.

“Laird MacLeod!”

The call from behind jolted him back to the present. Fin turned, his piercing blue eyes locking onto the young clansman approaching with hurried steps. Callum’s expression was anxious as the rain soaked his face and cloak.

“Yer father’s waitin’ on ye,” Callum urged. “The MacDonnells will no’ take kindly to any further delays. Yer betrothal depends on it!”

Fin’s jaw clenched. “Tell my da I’ll return when I’m ready,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the rain like the crack of a whip.

“But, Laird—”

“I said I’ll return,” Fin growled, his tone brooking no argument.

Callum hesitated, then bowed his head and disappeared back into the trees.

Fin turned his gaze to the forest ahead, the shadows seeming to twist and shift as if alive. He could feel her calling him. She was waiting, as she always was.

He walked into the dense woods, the storm above him growing fiercer with each step. Rain slid down his face, and his boots sank into the muddy ground, but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was her.

The clearing appeared like a dream—silent and still, a stark contrast to the storm raging above. And there she stood.

Moira.

Her black cloak billowed around her, and her raven hair gleamed in the faint light of the storm. Her golden eyes locked onto his with a predatory gleam, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile.

“Ye’ve kept me waitin’, Finlay MacLeod,” she purred, her voice smooth and sultry, wrapping around him like smoke.

His chest tightened. He should turn back. He should fight this. But his feet moved of their own accord, carrying him closer to her. “Moira,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with something he couldn’t name.

She tilted her head, studying him like he was the answer to a question only she knew. “Yer heart is heavy tonight,” she said softly, her hand lifting to rest lightly on his chest. Her touch was warm, despite the chill in the air. “Tell me what troubles ye.”

Fin hesitated, his brows furrowing. He didn’t know why he told her things he couldn’t tell anyone else, but with Moira, the words always spilled out. “The MacDonnells demand more than peace,” he admitted. “They demand I give up who I am. They’ll shape me into a man I cannae be.”

Moira’s gaze softened, and for a moment, her expression wasn’t one of power but of tenderness. She stepped closer, her other hand resting against his cheek. “Ye dinnae need to be anyone but yerself, Finlay. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

Her words hit him harder than any blade, and he leaned into her touch. “And what about ye?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. “What do ye demand of me?”

Moira’s smile faltered for the briefest of moments, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing her face. “I demand nothing,” she said quietly. “But I’ll always take what ye give me.”

Her lips brushed his then, soft and slow, a kiss that was less about possession and more about something deeper. Fin groaned, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her against him. Her body was a perfect fit against his, her curves pressing into him in a way that made him ache.

The kiss deepened, and Fin lost himself in her. Her hands tangled in his hair, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp, sending shivers down his spine. She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her golden gaze piercing.

“Ye’re mine, Finlay,” she murmured. “Ye always have been. But ye ken that, don’t ye?”

“Aye,” he admitted, his voice rough. “And I’ll never stop wantin’ ye.”

Her smile returned, but it was softer this time, almost sad. “Good. Because I’ll never stop needin’ ye.”

Her hands moved to the laces of his kilt, and Fin’s breath hitched as her fingers brushed against him. Her touch was deliberate, teasing, driving him mad with need. He didn’t resist when she pushed him back against the tree, her lips trailing down his neck to his collarbone.

But then she paused, her hands stilling. “Are ye sure this is what ye want?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

Fin reached for her, his hands cradling her face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said, his voice steady.

She smiled then, a genuine smile that lit up her face, and Fin felt his chest tighten. In that moment, she wasn’t just a dark priestess. She was the woman who knew him better than anyone, who saw every part of him—the good, the bad, the broken—and still wanted him.

Their lips met again, and this time, it wasn’t just passion. It was a connection, a bond that went beyond the physical. Fin knew he was lost to her, but in her arms, he didn’t care.