I remembered how different she had looked at the end.
“Màthair had the same colour hair as you,” I said softly,“wi’brown eyes like the baith o’us. She loved ye so much. And ye always used tae hide behind her skirts when ye were wee.”
He was quiet for so long I thought he’d fallen asleep.
“I used tae pretend that ye were Màthair,” he said at last.“And noo…” His voice thickened.“Ah’m just so angry.”
“We cannae change the past, Ranald,” I said gently.“But we owe it tae them tae live—for them. They sacrificed everythin’fur us.”
He sighed heavily, his weight shifting on the pallet.
“An Englishman?” he asked, disgust plain even in a whisper.“Ye couldnae have found anyone else? Anyone at all?”
I grinned into the darkness.
“He grows on ye,” I said.“A bit like a weed.”
Another sigh followed—then silence.
But this time, it was comfortable.
? ? ?
I didn’t know what woke me, only that Madadh was suddenly there—pressing, insistent.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
I sat up slowly, careful not to disturb Moire beside me.
Outside, Madadh hissed, sharp and urgent.
I pulled on my shawl and boots, then slipped from the room. At the door, I hesitated only long enough to grab my uncle’s coat from its hook. It drowned me, heavy and oversized, but the warmth wrapped close. I eased the iron bolt free and cracked the door open.
Madadh’s excitement spilled over the moment the cold air hit us.
I shut the door quietly behind me and ran, snow biting at my ankles as we cut across the yard. Madadh’s nose guided us unerringly, her certainty thrumming through my blood.
A low whine came from the trees.
I skidded to a stop, my breath catching.
He stepped out from the shadows—massive, black as pitch, his size made all the more striking against the blinding white of the snow. His shoulders rolled as he moved, powerful and sure, and when he lifted his head, his eyes caught the moonlight—burning gold.
Mate, Madadh purred, awed and breathless, unable to look away.
I didn’t remember crossing the distance. One moment I was standing there, the next I was on my knees in the snow, armswrapped around his thick neck. He gave a great huff of pleasure and flopped down with me, licking my face and snapping his teeth playfully in the air before pressing his heavy head into my chest.
His chuffs rumbled through him when I buried my hands in his fur, the sound vibrating straight through me.
“Hallo, Wulfric,” I whispered.
Through the bond, his joy flooded me—but it was threaded with a yearning so sharp it robbed me of breath. Beneath that lay something darker.
Pain. Loneliness. A vast, aching silence.
He lowered his head to my chest, and I held him there, offering what comfort I could. I stroked his jaw, kissed his fur, and whispered sweet words meant only for him.
Wulfric didn’t love us.
