Was there a part that bored or that you didn't really like in the book?

Even a character, a scene, or anything. You could say no if nothing bothered you.

Which was the part you liked most in the book?

Even a character, a scene, or anything that you enjoyed.

Which beginning sounds more intriguing? *

• The FMC tries to run away from an arranged marriage but is captured by her father’s men. The MMC saves her and offers protection — but only if she agrees to marry him.
• The FMC attends a ball in secret and shares a kiss with the MMC, only to later realize he is her fiancé’s brother.
• The FMC stages her own death to escape her cruel father and makes a deal with the MMC: she will pretend to be his bride, and he will hide her in his castle.

How much steam do you enjoy in your romances? *

• 🔥 1–2 scenes — just a taste is enough
• 🔥🔥 2–3 scenes — the perfect balance
• 🔥🔥🔥 3+ scenes — give me all the passion and intimacy

Anything else you'd like to share?

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One year later

The Campbell stronghold lay quiet under the pale sun, the mountains rising sharp and blue around it. Snow clung to the pine branches like silver lace, and the crisp air carried the smell of woodsmoke from the great hall.

Michael stood near the edge of the courtyard, watching the frost sparkle along the stone walls. Life had finally begun to feel steady—almost peaceful again. He had grown into his new role as the laird of Clan Campbell. His men trained in the yard. Isabeau was somewhere indoors, likely fussing over their newborn son, the heir who had now secured their positions as Laird and Lady of the Clan, and who would one day inherit all of it.

No one could challenge their claim to the clan now. No one could try to take everything he and Isabeau had built together away from them.

Warmth had returned to that place—warmth Michael never thought he would have again.

Yet his heart still carried a weight he didn’t often speak aloud.

Footsteps approached behind him, light and hesitant. He knew them well. When he turned, Alyson stood there wrapped in a thick cloak, her hair pulled into a simple braid. Her face was thinner than before all this had begun, her eyes older, older than her years. A little over a year had passed since they had rescued her from the dungeons, and it was only now that she had found the courage to visit Castle Inveraray again.

A little over a year since she had asked even those she trusted not to touch her, not to approach too quickly.

“Michael,” she said softly.

He offered a small, gentle smile. “Aye, lass? Are ye warm enough?”

She nodded but didn’t move closer. Her hands tightened in the folds of her cloak, her knuckles white.

“I’ve somethin’ tae tell ye,” she said. “Both ye an’ Isabeau, if she’s about.”

Michael’s stomach tightened. “She is. Shall I fetch her?”

Alyson shook her head quickly. “Nay. Nae yet. Let me say it once first.”

He nodded, stepping back to give her space, and she looked grateful for it.

Michael still remembered her as a child, running up to him, to Tòrr, to Daemon, slamming into them, asking to be picked up, running them in circles. He remembered the times when she was carefree, lively, happy.

Now, it seemed those times would never return.

Her breath fogged the air as she searched for the words. “I dinnae want tae trouble ye with this. Ye’ve only just found peace, an’ Isabeau, she’s already suffered so much. But I… I wish tae go tae a nunnery.”

Her words were certain, unwavering, as though she had given it much thought and had made up her mind. Michael let out a long sigh, his hand coming up to run through his dark hair.

“Alyson… these things take time, but—”

She shook her head, tears brightening her eyes. “Dinnae tell me I must stay. I feel yer love, I see all the care ye all give me. But I wake every night rememberin’ everythin’. I kneel by me bed an’ I pray an’ I pray, but it never stops. It never stops. Every night, if I manage tae fall asleep, I wake in that cell again. I wake in the dungeons. An’ I ask the Lord tae help me, fer he is the only thing that brings me a little peace.”

Michael stepped forward instinctively, wishing to give her comfort but Alyson flinched, and he stopped at once.

Her tears fell freely now as she spoke, and Michael’s throat closed up, the breath choked out of him. “I cannae bear touch, even from those I love. I need tae be alone or at least among people who willnae expect me tae be as I was. I hope… I wish things will return tae how they were, but if it’s even possible, if I can dae it, it cannae be here, Michael.”

She lifted her eyes to his, their gazes meeting. They held pain, deep and raw, but also determination—more than Michael had ever seen in her eyes.

“At the nunnery,” she said, “they take in those who carry heavy hurts. It’s quiet there, away from people. An’ it’s nae too far. I hope ye can visit me.”

Michael felt something inside him break—and mend at the same time. She was the one who had gone through endless days of imprisonment, of fear, of pain. She was the one who had endured, despite all odds, and if this was what she needed, then he couldn’t refuse.

All he could do was pray for her.

He nodded. “Then that’s where ye shall go, sister.”

Alyson choked on a sob. “Ye’ll let me?”

“Aye,” he said, his voice thick, “fer as long as ye need. An’ if ever ye’re ready tae return, yer home will be waitin’. Have ye told Tòrr?”

“Nay,” said Alyson, shaking her head. “I dinnae ken if he’ll understand…”

“He will,” Michael assured her, no doubt in his mind. “We can speak tae him taegether.”

Alyson wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “Thank ye, Michael, truly. An’ Isabeau… she’ll understand, aye?”

Michael’s lips lifted. “Aye. More than ye ken.”

A soft voice came from behind them. “Understand what?”

Isabeau approached across the frosted stones, her cheeks pink from the cold, her hair wrapped in a wool shawl. She looked between the siblings, reading the tension instantly.

Alyson explained everything—halting at first, then with growing steadiness. When she finished, tears clung to her lashes.

Isabeau didn’t touch her; she knew better than that. But she stepped close enough that Alyson could feel the warmth of someone who cared. “I think it will be good fer ye,” she said softly. “I’ll miss ye terribly, Alyson. But I’ll write tae ye every week. I promise.”

Alyson’s breath shuddered, and for a brief, halting moment, she reached for Isabeau’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before she let go again. It was more physical contact than she had had in weeks, but Michael’s heart warmed at the sight of it. “Thank ye. An’ I’ll write back. I promise.”

Michael watched them both—two women bound by shared hurt and unexpected strength, and something in his chest eased.

She’ll be alright. With time, she’ll be alright.

Alyson slipped away, leaving Michael and Isabeau alone under the quiet snowfall.

Isabeau stepped closer, her gloved hand brushing lightly against his coat sleeve. “Ye did well with her,” she murmured. “Ye always dae.”

“I fear losin’ her,” he admitted, voice low. “I ken she needs this, but—”

“She’s nae lost,” Isabeau assured him. “She’s choosin’ her path. That takes bravery.”

Michael breathed out, the cold air carrying the weight of his worry away with it. He turned toward his wife—his wife of a year, though it felt both brand new and ancient, as though their bond had always existed. Her smile was soft, warm enough to melt every icy fear inside him.

He pulled her gently into his arms, careful and tender, letting her warmth seep into him. She lifted her face, her breath fanning his chin.

“She’ll heal,” Isabeau said.

“Aye,” he mumbled. “An’ so will we.”

He kissed her then—slow, lingering, full of gratitude for the woman who had risked everything to stand beside him. Her arms wound around his neck, and for a moment the world shrank to the two of them, cocooned in quiet snowfall and new love.

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the keep. And though Michael couldn’t help but feel like he had lost something, he had also gained—Alyson was healing in her own way, and so was Isabeau. He had found love and peace, and whatever awaited them, he knew he and Isabeau would face it together.

“What are ye thinkin’?” Isabeau asked him, nudging him with her shoulder.

“Naethin’,” said Michael with a small shrug. “Only how bonnie ye are.”

Isabeau’s laughter, bright as a ringing bell, was warm enough to melt the snow.

The End

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