Page 19 of The Best of Brenna Grant

“I do not care, Clyde. I’ve had enough. We have naught to do with the jewels. We’ve been hired by another to follow you both.”

Loki squeezed again.

“Nay! I’ll talk…”

Loki gave him a moment to catch his breath before squeezing again.

“Are you not Loki Grant of the Highlands?”

“Who wants to know?” Loki ground out.

“Your father,” Egan spit out. “The Earl of Cliffnock is your sire.”

Chapter Sixteen

Loki finally remembers…

Loki jerked up in his pallet, panting. His gaze searched the room, but there was nothing amiss. The rest of the guards were sleeping. Finally, the memories settled in. He had been dreaming…again…another horrific dream of his childhood. He rubbed his face to try to erase the awful sensations coursing through his body, but they did not fade so easily.

After grabbing his plaid, his sword, and his boots, he headed outside. He paced in circles under the starless night and then made his way over to the loch. Standing there, he stared down at the glassy surface as if something could rise out of the cold water and tell him he had imagined every bit of it.

But it didn’t happen. This was the third night in a row that memories of his life as a wee one had kept him awake. One night he had dreamed of his mother, another night about his father. But this night’s dream had been the worst…

Hamish. He’d dreamed of Hamish. He sat down on a cold rock and relived all that he’d just experienced. There was no choice but to suffer through it again, for he believed it was all true.

This dream had been different from the others. While the dreams of his mother had been fleeting images and thoughts, sometimes just a smell, the nightmare of Hamish had been as detailed as if he had lived it.

He was quite sure he had. He’d just discovered why he could not recall how he had made it to Ayr.

The nightmare began in a small hut. The cottage had two rooms in it, and he was alone in one with Hamish. He could hear his father yelling at his fair-haired mother, but the only thing he recalled about his mother was that she was sobbing and saying “Please, Edward” over and over again.

He had no idea what she wanted, and he could not recall anything his father said, but what he did remember was that he ran through the door and told his father to stay away from his mother.

His father punched him in the face, his mother cried out, “Nay, Edward!”, and the next memory he had was riding in a cart. He woke up under a large blanket, the wheels of the cart hitting rocks and stones, bouncing him up and down. He peeked out from beneath the blanket to see where he was going. Hamish was riding the horse that pulled the cart, and he could see the moon overhead, the stars twinkling in the dead of night. When the cart finally stopped, he sat up and uncovered himself, only realizing his eye was swollen after he tried to brush the sleep from them. Poking his face in other spots, he realized his father’s fist had bruised him this time.

This time. Loki put his face in his hands trying to grapple with his thoughts. Had his father beaten him frequently at a young age? Never had Brodie Grant once raised a hand to him, and his uncles had never beaten their bairns either.

Loki forced himself to recall the details from the rest of the dream.

Hamish had pulled the horse into a clearing in the woods. After dismounting, he stalked to the back of the cart, grabbed Loki by the neck, and hoisted him out of the cart.

“Finally, I’ll do what I’ve always wanted to do with you, you wee wise arse.”

Loki didn’t say a word, but just stared at this man he hated.

“Your sire has finally had enough of your wise remarks and told me to do as I please with you.” He grinned at him. “You opened your mouth a few too many times, and you think you’re smarter that everyone else, do you not?”

Loki couldn’t help himself. He knew he shouldn’t say aught, but for some reason, he wanted the last word with this cruel man.

“‘Tis not hard being smarter than you, you piece of shite.”

It felt good to curse this man—so good that he smiled. He saw a familiar look in Hamish’s eyes—the blind fury that usually preceded his fist. The big man lifted Loki out of the cart and pummeled him, throwing him a good distance through the air. When he landed, Hamish stalked to his side, leaned over him, and whispered, “Your sire never wants to see you again, so I thought I’d enjoy taking your last breath, lad, but instead I’d rather have the animals feed on you.”

Then he strode away and left him there to die.

Aye, this dream was real—he knew it without a doubt. Tears streamed down his face. The memories were brutal, but it explained why Hamish and the earl had treated him so horribly. They’d always hated him, apparently threatened by the acuity of his mind. His own father had sent him off with a brute, and the brute had left him to die. For some unknown reason, his mind had protected itself from the painful memory for years.

After he brushed the tears from his face, he did the only thing he could do. He raced to the keep and made his way to his parents’ chamber. He sneaked inside, not wanting to wake his brother and sisters, for he had to see his Bella.