And Declan. The way he looked at me at the stone circle, touched me, like he was fighting every instinct he possessed. The storm that gathered when his emotions peaked, like the wolf I photographed two nights ago.
My aunt's journal called Declan the storm wolf. An alpha. Someone with power passed down through generations.
The pull I feel toward him—is that natural attraction, or part of whatever he is? Some predator's instinct to lure in prey?
No. My gut rejects the thought immediately. Whatever I feel when he's near, it isn't predation. It's recognition. Like some part of me has been waiting for him long before I ever arrived in Stormhaven.
I pull my aunt's journal from my bag with trembling hands, flipping through pages until I find the passage I'd half-remembered.
Declan is the storm wolf. Like his grandfather, like the line before him. Eliza—if you're reading this after I'm gone, be careful. Their world and ours don't mix easily. They are not our enemies, but they live by laws we barely understand. If he reveals himself to you, everything changes. You'll have to choose.
I close the journal and look back out the window at the empty pier, at the quiet bay, at the town full of impossible secrets.
Declan is one of them. A wolf. An alpha. Does he have some kind of power over storms?
And judging by the way my body still hums with awareness, by the pull that drew me to the standing stones, by the connection I felt the moment our eyes met—I'm in far deeper than I ever imagined possible.
I pull the blanket tighter and watch the moon track across the sky. Somewhere out there, Declan is probably pacing, probably fighting the same pull I feel.
Shape-shifters. Shifters. People who become animals. Aunt Maureen lived among them for more than forty years.
I press my fingers to my cheek where he touched me and wonder if I'm brave enough—or foolish enough—to do the same.
CHAPTER 6
DECLAN
The wind carries her scent and her emotions to me where I stand in the shadows below Clifftop House. Fear. Confusion. Adrenaline that hasn't faded even hours after—what? Something happened. Something that's left her shaken to her core.
The mate bond pulses with her distress, singing through my blood like lightning waiting to strike. I've been pacing below her house for an hour, unable to stay away, drawn by the pull and the wrongness radiating from her.
She's awake. Has been all night, judging by her scent. Her silhouette moves past the lit windows like a caged thing, and every instinct I have screams at me to get to her, to find out what's wrong, to fix it.
I should have more time. Should be able to plan this, control the narrative, present the truth on my terms in a way that doesn't send her running back to London on the first flight out. But the mate bond is screaming at me that she needs me, and I can't stay away any longer.
That damned note is still in my pocket.She’s found Maureen’s journals.What the hell does that mean? And why do I have the sinking feeling I'm about to find out?
I move up the path to her door, every step deliberate. My wolf prowls beneath my skin, desperate to get to our mate, to claim and protect and possess. I force him down, maintain control through sheer will. She's terrified enough without me losing it on her doorstep.
I knock. Three sharp raps that echo in the pre-dawn quiet.
The movement inside stops. Complete stillness, the kind that comes from prey freezing when a predator draws near. Then footsteps, hesitant, approaching the door.
"Who is it?" Her voice is hoarse, exhausted.
"You know who it is." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "Let me in, Eliza."
Silence. I can hear her breathing on the other side of the door, can smell the spike of fear that floods her system at my presence. But underneath it, something else. That same pull I feel, the bond responding to proximity, making her body hum with awareness even as her mind screams danger.
The lock clicks. The door opens.
She looks like hell. Beautiful, fierce, terrified hell. Her auburn hair is tangled, her eyes red-rimmed from crying or lack of sleep or both. She's wrapped in an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder, pajama pants, bare feet. No armor. No defenses. Just raw, exhausted honesty.
And brave. So fucking brave it makes my chest ache. She opens the door wider, steps back to let me in, even though every instinct she has must be screaming at her to run.
I step inside, close the door behind me. Give her space even though my wolf snarls at the distance. She backs up another step, wrapping her arms around herself, and I see her gathering courage for whatever she needs to say.
"Something happened," I say quietly. "I can feel it. You're terrified. What did you see?"
