I nod, watching the figure until they disappear from view.
"Who was that?"
"I don't know yet." Declan's voice is tight. "But I will. And when I find them, they're going to answer for what they did to your aunt."
I settle back in my seat, my hand still in his. The figure is gone, but the threat remains. And now I have a pack at my back and a mate who won't let me face this alone.
Let them watch. Let them wonder what I know. Because I'm going to find my aunt's research, and I'm going to finish what she started.
CHAPTER 8
DECLAN
The moment we cross the threshold of the Wolfstone Abbey, the pack’s ancestral home, the protective wards snap into place behind us with an almost audible hum. She feels it too—I can tell by the way her breath catches, the way her eyes widen as she looks around the space that serves as the heart of pack territory. The isolation here is absolute. No one can reach us, no one can sense us, and for the first time since I laid eyes on her at the ferry, I feel like I can breathe.
Except I can't breathe at all.
Because she's here. In pack territory. Her scent is everywhere now, vanilla and something uniquely her, mixing with the cedar and smoke that clings to everything in these walls. The mate bond, which has been a constant pull in my chest since I first saw her step off the ferry, intensifies to the point of pain. My wolf is clawing at my control, demanding I claim what's ours, what's been ours since before either of us knew the other existed.
"This is amazing," she says, walking further into the main room. Her fingers trail along the back of my leather couch, and I have to suppress a growl at seeing her touch my things. The wolfsnarls its approval. Ours. "I can sense the wards. They're like... layers of energy? How many did you set?"
"Seven." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "Overlapping. Different purposes. Privacy, protection, concealment."
She turns to face me, and the sight of her here at Wolfstone does something primal to my chest. She belongs here. She's always belonged here. Her sharp mind is already working—I can feel her curiosity through the incomplete bond, sense it radiating off her like heat.
"Seven is significant in magic, isn't it?" she muses, walking to the wall of windows that overlooks the forest. "But you're not using conventional magic, are you? This is something else. Something older."
"Pack magic," I confirm, forcing myself to stay where I am rather than closing the distance between us. "It's tied to the land, to bloodlines. My family has held this territory for more than two hundred years."
"Two hundred...” She spins to face me again, and I watch her mind race. "That would put your pack's establishment here in the early 1800s at the latest. During the Highland Clearances?"
I move then, unable to help myself, crossing to the kitchen island that separates us. I need the barrier. I need something between us or I'm going to lose what little control I have left. "My great-great-grandfather established this territory after his pack was driven from the mainland by hunters. The Clearances gave them cover—while humans were being displaced, shifters moved in the chaos. We've held Skara ever since."
She leans against the window, completely unaware of how the fading sunlight creates a halo around her, how it makes her look like something ethereal and untouchable. Except she's not untouchable. She's my mate, and every instinct I have isscreaming at me to touch her, claim her, make sure she can never leave.
"Hunters," she repeats. Through the bond, I feel her shift from curiosity to something sharper—investigative instinct kicking in. "There were organized hunter groups in the 1800s? Are there records? Documentation?"
“No.” The word comes out harsher than I mean it to. "Most of the packs they killed didn't survive to keep records."
Her expression softens with understanding, with empathy that makes my chest ache. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive."
She pushes off from the window, taking a step toward me, and her determination flows through the bond between us. "But there's so much I don't know. So much I need to understand. The mate bond—how does it work?"
My knuckles go white against the granite counter. Through our connection, I feel her building to something, that reporter's instinct to dig deeper, ask harder questions.
"When did you know I was your mate?"
Another step closer. My wolf tracks every movement.
"The moment you stepped off the ferry," I force out. "The second I caught your scent. My wolf knew instantly."
Her breath catches at the admission, and I feel her processing that. That having known that, I have refrained from saying anything.
"So what happens now?" Her voice is quiet, careful.
"If you agree, there's a claiming bite." I force the words out, watching her face. "It's how shifters mark their mates permanently, creating an unbreakable bond."
She's silent for a moment, and I can see her thinking through the implications. "A bite."
