The cellar beneath Eryn MacLean's croft was a damp cocoon, its stone walls glistening with condensation and the air heavy with the musty scent of wool and preserved berries. Eryn crouched beside Callum Reid, her shoulder pressed against his as they hid behind a stack of burlap sacks, the leather-bound tome resting between them. Its faint warmth pulsed like a heartbeat, casting a soft, golden glow that danced across the jars lining the shelves. Above, the trapdoor creaked under the weight of footsteps, each thud a hammer against her nerves. The storm outside had settled into a steady drizzle, but the real tempest brewed within these walls.
"Stay still," Callum whispered, his breath warm against her ear. His hand rested lightly on hers, steadying her trembling fingers. The contact sent a shiver through her, not from the cold, but from the unexpected intimacy of it. She nodded, her practical mind warring with the chaos of the night. This man, with his gray eyes and cryptic secrets, had turned her quiet life upside down in mere hours.
The footsteps paused, and a voice filtered through the floorboards—low, measured, and chillingly calm. "Callum, we know you're down there. The tome's energy is a beacon. Surrender it, and we might let the crofter live." The words hung like a guillotine, and Eryn's grip tightened on the fire poker she'd brought down with her. The Order of the Knot, Callum had called them—a cult obsessed with ancient power. She didn't understand it fully, but the threat was real enough.
"They won't," Callum muttered, his voice a rough edge. "They'll bind her too, if they can." His eyes met hers, a storm of guilt and resolve swirling within them. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this."
Eryn shook her head, her auburn hair sticking to her damp forehead. "You didn't drag me. I chose to help. Now, tell me more—how do we get out of this?" The tome pulsed again, and she felt that strange jolt, a thread tugging at her soul. It wasn't just fear; it was a connection, fragile but growing.
Callum hesitated, then opened the satchel, revealing the book's worn cover. The spiraling knot etched into it seemed to shift under the light, alive with intent. "This is a grimoire," he said, his voice low. "It holds rituals—spells, if you will—that the Order uses to control people. I stole it from their stronghold in Edinburgh to expose them. But it's linked to me through blood. They can track it, and me, unless we break the bond."
"Blood?" Eryn's whisper was sharp, her mind flashing to the sheep she'd slaughtered for wool, the life draining into the earth. "How?"
"A counter-ritual," he said. "It needs a specific herb—rowan ash—and a willing participant. The ash disrupts the binding. I was heading to the Highlands to find it when they ambushed me."
Rowan ash. Eryn knew the tree—its red berries dotted the glen in autumn, its wood said to ward off evil. She'd gathered it before, for teas and charms her grandmother swore by. "I can get it," she said, her resolve hardening. "But we need to lose them first."
The trapdoor rattled, a splintering crack echoing through the cellar. They were breaking in. Eryn's heart pounded as she scanned the space. A narrow tunnel, half-collapsed, ran along the back wall—her father's escape route during a feud decades ago. "This way," she whispered, pulling Callum toward it. The tunnel was tight, forcing them to crawl, the tome's light guiding them through the dirt and roots. His shoulder brushed hers, his warmth a lifeline in the cold.
They emerged in a hollow beneath a hawthorn bush, the rain soaking them anew. The croft's silhouette loomed ahead, but shadows moved around it—two cloaked figures, their movements deliberate. Callum cursed under his breath, clutching the tome. "They're persistent."
Eryn's mind raced. The glen was vast, but she knew its secrets—caves, streams, hidden paths. "Follow me," she said, leading him toward a rocky outcrop a half-mile off. The wind whipped at them, carrying the heather's scent and the distant bleat of her sheep. As they ran, a figure detached from the croft, gaining on them. Eryn glanced back—tall, cloaked, with a glint of steel in hand. Her pulse surged.
"Keep going!" she urged, ducking behind a boulder. Callum stumbled, and she caught him, their bodies colliding. For a moment, they were pressed together, his chest heaving against hers, his gray eyes locking with her green. The world narrowed to that space, the danger forgotten in a heartbeat of connection. Then a shout broke the spell, and they scrambled up the outcrop.
At the top, a cave mouth gaped, its interior dark and echoing. Eryn pushed Callum inside, following as the cloaked figure reached the base. The cave was shallow, its walls lined with quartz that caught the tome's light. They pressed against the back, breaths ragged. The figure paused, then retreated, his voice calling to another. Eryn exhaled, her body trembling with adrenaline.
"We can't stay long," Callum said, sliding down to sit. "They'll return with more."
Eryn nodded, her gaze on the tome. "The rowan ash—there's a grove near here. But it's exposed. We'll need help." Her mind turned to Mairi, her childhood friend who now ran the village inn. Mairi was sharp, resourceful, and owed her a favor after Eryn nursed her through a fever last winter.
"I know someone," she said. "Mairi Fraser. She can get us supplies and a safe route. But we need to reach the village."
Callum frowned. "The Order will watch the roads. It's risky."
"Riskier to stay," she countered. "Trust me."
He studied her, then nodded. "I do. More than I should."
The words hung between them, a thread of trust weaving through the danger. Eryn's heart fluttered, but she pushed it down. Survival first. They waited until the figures retreated, then crept out, the storm masking their movements. The village was three miles off, a trek through bog and bracken, but Eryn knew the way.
Hours later, soaked and exhausted, they reached the inn—a squat building with warm light spilling from its windows. Eryn knocked, and the door opened to reveal Mairi—petite, with a cascade of blonde hair and a no-nonsense stare. Her eyes widened at Eryn's state, then narrowed at Callum.
"Eryn MacLean, what have you dragged in?" Mairi demanded, stepping aside to let them in. The inn's interior smelled of ale and bread, a stark contrast to the wild outside. A few locals glanced up, then returned to their drinks.
"Trouble," Eryn said, guiding Callum to a chair by the fire. "This is Callum. He needs help—and rowan ash."
Mairi's gaze sharpened, landing on the tome peeking from Callum's satchel. "That's no ordinary book. What's this about?"
Callum leaned forward, his voice low. "A cult—the Order of the Knot—is after me. This tome binds me to them. We need the ash to break it."
Mairi whistled, crossing her arms. "Sounds like a tale from the old songs. But I owe you, Eryn. I've got ash from last season's harvest. And I know a back path to the grove—safer than the road. But you'll owe me a story."
Eryn managed a tired smile. "Deal. But we move at dawn."
As Mairi fetched the ash, Callum turned to Eryn, his hand brushing hers. "You've got loyal friends," he said softly. "And courage I didn't expect."
She met his gaze, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "And you've got secrets I didn't expect. We're even." The words were light, but the pull between them was undeniable—a spark kindled in the storm.
The night deepened as they planned, the inn a temporary haven. Outside, the wind carried whispers, and the Order's shadow loomed closer. Eryn felt the weight of what lay ahead—the grove, the ritual, the bond with Callum. She didn't know if love would bloom, but she knew this journey would test them both.