By the time we adjourn, it's nearly dawn. The others head off to their own places, but I can't bring myself to go home. Instead, I walk the island's perimeter, following patrol routes that have been walked by generations of alphas before me.
The storm has passed, leaving everything washed clean and new. The air smells of rain and salt and growing things, normally a scent combination that centers me. Now it just reminds me that I can't smellheranymore, and that absence feels wrong in a way I can't explain.
My wolf paces restlessly inside me, unhappy with the distance I'm maintaining. It doesn't understand strategy or caution. It only understands that our mate is nearby, probably sleeping in that big house on the cliff, and we should be there. Guarding her. Making sure she's safe.
She doesn't know we exist,I tell it.She'd probably call the police if a strange man showed up at her door at dawn.
My wolf doesn't care about human social conventions. It never has.
The next morning, the sun rises over the water in shades of gold and pink that would be beautiful if I could focus on anything other than the pull in my chest, the compass that points unerringly toward Clifftop House. Toward her.
I force myself to keep walking, to complete the patrol route even though every step away from her feels like walking through deep water. The physical distance is manageable—the island isn't that large. But the psychic distance, the knowledge that she's so close and I can't go to her, sits in my chest like a stone.
My phone buzzes. A text from Eamon:
She'll come to Flynn's eventually. Everyone does. I'm doing the breakfast shift if you want to accidentally be there.
I stare at the message for a long moment. This is a terrible idea. I should stay away, let the others handle surveillance, maintain professional distance until we have a better plan.
But my wolf doesn't do professional distance. My wolf wants his mate, and the human side of me wants to see her again in the daylight, to confirm what I already know in my bones.
I text back:
Let me know when she shows up and I’ll be there.
The sun breaks fully over the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold. It should feel like a new beginning.
Instead, it feels like a countdown to something I can't stop and don't fully understand.
Not long ago, I swore a blood oath to protect my pack at any cost.
Now the greatest threat to those secrets is the one person I'm biologically incapable of seeing as a threat. The woman whose scent haunts me even in its absence. The woman my wolf is howling for me to return to.
The moment when I'll have to pretend I don't already belong to her completely.
CHAPTER 3
ELIZA
Iwake to pale morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and spend several disorienting seconds trying to remember where I am. Then it all comes rushing back: the island, the house, Aunt Maureen's letter with its ominous warning.
If you're reading this, then I'm dead, and you're in terrible danger.
I sit up, reaching automatically for my phone on the nightstand. Still no signal. The isolation of Clifftop House feels more pronounced in daylight than it did during last night's storm. Outside the window, the sea stretches gray and restless beneath a cloudy sky.
My camera sits on the dresser where I left it last night. I'm supposed to be writing an article about remote Scottish islands—atmospheric pieces about weather-beaten landscapes and tight-knit communities. That was the assignment I gave myself when I left London, needing distance from James and the career he stole out from under me.
But now I'm sitting on a bigger story. An aunt who died under suspicious circumstances, warnings about danger, and journals hidden throughout the house like breadcrumbsin a fairy tale. I'm already piecing together angles, potential narratives, ways to investigate without raising too many alarm bells.
First, though, I need coffee and information. And according to the village layout I studied on the ferry, Flynn's Inn is the heart of Stormhaven's social life.
I shower in the ancient bathroom, dress in jeans, boots, and a burgundy henley that's warm without being too heavy. As I'm grabbing my camera and leather satchel, I catch sight of Maureen's letter on the nightstand. The final warning echoes in my mind:Don't go near the tide pools at Raven's Point after dark.
Right. Because that's not cryptic and concerning at all.
The walk into the village takes about twenty minutes along a narrow road that hugs the coastline. The morning air is crisp and smells of salt and seaweed, and despite everything, I find myself appreciating the stark beauty of the landscape. Steep cliffs plunge into churning water below, and in the distance I can see the distinctive rock formations that probably gave Raven's Point its name.
I pause several times to photograph the scenery—the way the light catches on wet stone, an abandoned fishing boat listing in the harbor, the cluster of cottages that make up the village proper. Good atmospheric shots that will work for the article I'm supposed to be writing, even if my mind keeps circling back to bigger questions.
