“It took you long enough,” I snorted.
“You know I can feel your smugness?” she grumbled.
Beyond her pique, I felt it—her happiness.
Their happiness.
“What is your wolf like?” I asked, kissing along her collarbone.
“Mischievous,” she said at once.
Wulfric chuffed happily.
“What is her name?” I asked, lifting my head to check her eyes.
They were still brown.
Hmm.
A shy wee wolf.
Euphemia frowned for a moment before answering.
“Wolf,” she said.
“Just… wolf?” I echoed, surprised.
Wulfric, unsurprisingly, did not care about names.
“Well, in Gaelic it’s pronounced Mah-dakh.”
Wulfric liked that version.
So did I.
“Madadh,” I repeated.“I love it—and so does Wulfric.”
Euphemia shot me a glare.
“We’d all still be speakin’Gaelic if it wasnae fur your lot,” she said, lips pursed.
“You know I’m part Scottish,” I drawled.
She didn’t reply at first—then her laughter tinkled in my ears, her body shaking beneath me.
“Madadh says she kens which part o’ye is the Scotsman.”
And just like that, I went from being her enemy to her mate again.
? ? ?
By the fifth day, her heat was waning, and I knew our time here was nearly over. The walk back to the tavern was short, and from there we could easily catch a coach home. Still, the thought of leaving this place—our small, sealed-off world—left an ache in my chest.
Wulfric and Madadh wanted to run, but I didn’t think it safe out here, and there was more than enough land around Eilidh Manor for that. The truth was simpler and far less noble: I didn’t want her out of my sight. The bond hummed between us, vibrant and alive, a constant presence. Our nights had been full of passion, but it was the quiet hours—holding her through the dark—that had become a necessity.
I could, in theory, drag her to the kirk and marry her outright.
But Euphemia deserved better than that.
