"Someone was watching the house. Standing right here." I point to the footprints.
He walks over, examines them with the ease of someone accustomed to reading the land. "Recent. Size eleven or twelve, I'd say. Work boots, not hiking boots—see the tread pattern?" He straightens, frowning. "You're right. Someone was here."
"Any idea who?"
"Could be anyone from the village, curious about the new owner. Could be kids playing games." He pauses. "Could be someone making sure you know you're not alone up here."
"Could be what?"
"Could be someone making sure you know you're not alone up here," he repeats quietly. "Clifftop House has been empty for three months. The locals are... protective... of certain places. Making sure you're aware you're being observed is one way of saying you should be careful."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a fact. The island looks after its own." He meets my eyes, and there's something in his gaze I can't quite read—warning, maybe, or concern. "You're Maureen's niece. That means something here, whether you know it or not. The Gordon name carries weight. Not all of it welcome."
"Why?"
"That's a conversation for daylight and better circumstances. It's getting dark, Miss Warren, and you don't know these woods. I'd suggest going back inside, locking your doors, and staying there tonight."
"And if I don't?"
His expression darkens. "Then you might find out why your aunt wrote you that letter warning you about the island. And trust me—you're not ready for those answers yet."
How the hell would he know about the warning from the letter?
He turns and walks away before I can respond, disappearing into the darkening woods with the confidence of someone who knows every tree and root. I'm left standing there with my torch and my questions and the deep, unsettling certainty that Callum MacKenzie knows far more than he's saying.
I look down at the footprints one more time. They're already filling with water, the edges softening into mud. I suspect the storm will have erased them by morning.
I head back inside and lock every door, every window. The journals are still spread across the kitchen table, Maureen's handwriting stark against the yellowed pages. Somewhere in those words is the truth about what happened to her. About what's happening now.
The journals are full of warnings. Names I don't recognize yet. Places I haven't seen. And one phrase Maureen wrote over and over in the final entries:They know when you're close to the truth.
Whoever was watching me tonight—did they know I found these journals?
And if they did, does that mean I'm already closer than they'd like me to be?
CHAPTER 2
DECLAN
Ismell her before I see her.
Vanilla and old books, with an undertone of London rain and something uniquelyher—a scent that slams into me and makes my wolf surge forward with such force I have to grab the piling beside me to stay upright.
I'm at the harbor, watching the ferry unload its handful of passengers. It's part of my routine—alphas monitor who comes and goes from their territory. Usually it's returning locals with shopping bags, the occasional tourist who didn't get the memo that September on Skara means cold rain and closed attractions.
But this scent. Thiswoman.
Mine.
The word reverberates through every cell in my body, primal and absolute. My wolf doesn't suggest or request. Itcommands. Go to her. Claim her. Protect her. Mark her as ours so every other male on this island knows she's taken.
The intensity catches me completely off guard. I've heard about mate bonds my entire life—my father described meeting my mother as "being struck by lightning while simultaneously coming home." I thought I understood. I was wrong.
This isn't lightning. This is a tsunami. This is every instinct I possess aligning toward a single purpose, a single person. My vision sharpens until I can count individual strands of her auburn hair even from the shadows between the pilings. My hearing sharpens until I can pick out her heartbeat, steady and strong, somehow syncing with my own. Even the island itself seems to fade into background noise compared to the overwhelming presence ofher.
For a moment, I forget everything else—the blood oath I swore three hours ago, the secrets we're protecting, the careful balance we've maintained for generations. All of it disappears under the primal need to get to the woman pulling her suitcase across the dock, moving with determined efficiency despite her city boots slipping on damp wood.
