The air on the Isle of Skye that afternoon wasn't merely cold; it was a blade, shearing through the lungs. Julian Caldwell stood atop the highest point of the Quiraing, swathed in a heavy wool cloak that felt as though he were carrying the weight of the world. Before the cameras, he had to embody the gallant Elyas, but behind his bloodshot eyes, his consciousness throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening ache.
Eighteen hours without sleep, two transatlantic flights in less than two days, and the emotional wreckage of his meeting with Scarlett had cannibalized his remaining strength.
"Action!" the director roared.
Julian lunged forward, his hand gripping a prop sword that now felt like solid lead. He was meant to bellow a command to the troops behind him, but the sound died in his throat. Dunvegan, New York, the scent of lavender at Green Garden, and Selena's glacial stare whirled in his mind like a sandstorm.
