Page 46 of Chaos At Second Sight

He looked like some warrior who’d marched down from the Highlands to steal a bride. Ridiculously primitive. Ridiculously handsome.

Logan met, chatted with, and charmed everyone, being a perfect guest throughout the evening. Grandpa spent an hour discussing bee beds with him, while Uncle Clyde talked about the effective ways to interrogate captive rogues.

Because of that, we never had a moment alone. The MacKenzies had no intention of wasting the little time left before we returned to Montana. Stolen glances and the occasional small smile were all the contact we had managed since the wereball game.

Live folk music drifted through the clearing outside the packhouse, a five-story Victorian manor made of granite ashlar, lovingly restored over the years, with tall, arched windows blazing with warm amber light, as if hundreds of lives pulsed within the walls. A steep copper roof crowned the manor, bristling with gables and a forest of stout chimneys, breathing ribbons of pine smoke into the Highlands sky.

In the clearing, the MacKenzie banners fluttered above food stands, the air thick with the smell of homemade cooking and heather. Rows of small honey pots, all produced by my family, were lined up for the taking—a whole new level of honey worship. Laughter rolled from every direction as pack members danced, linked arms, and shared ciders.

“Get ready for the haggis hurling!” Uncle Knox bellowed with a self-chuckle.

The crowd cheered.

I spotted Grandpa in his MacKenzie kilt. He was competing! I grinned, strolling closer, my spoon dipping into my little pot of honey.

What had started out as a joke had become a popular game—contestants standing on a whisky barrel greased with fat and hurling haggis as far as they could.

Several werewolves, including Lachlan and Pamela, lost their footing and landed on their butts, with spectators dumping cider over them. Grandpa won, of course. He punched the air with a triumphant growl, and the whole pack answered back.

Next came axe throwing. The target—a straw dummy—jerked up, down, left, and right on a moving platform.

Lachlan wound his arm back, sprang forward in three agile strides, and launched the huge axe. I watched as the weapon flew through the air, spinning twice, before hitting its target. The dummy head dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

Logan observed with narrowed eyes. Then he picked up an axe, savoring it in his hands. Spoon hanging from my mouth, I watched as his axe split the dummy in half and then kept going, disappearing into the forest. There was a dull thud and a tall pine tree fell.

“Disqualified!” Lachlan yelled. “Damage to local flora!”

Other participants struck their own targets but didn’t succeed in beheading them, meaning Lachlan won. The crowd roared his name.

Logan returned from the forest carrying only half an axe and apologized to Grandpa, who handed him a cider and a new pot of honey. The fact that he was here, sharing honey with Grandpa, was doing all sorts of swoopy, warm things to my stomach. Or maybe I was high on heather honey.

“Golden arrow contestants! Line up!” Uncle Clyde boomed.

We had to shoot and hit a flying target, and whoever won would get a golden arrow.

“Come cheer for your bunny doc, Logan!” Pamela giggled, then blew a raspberry my way.

Handing her my empty honey pot, I grinned. Now this was my game. Mom had taught me archery, and apart from the year she’d shot Dad’s hand instead of the target for touching a girl’s shoulder—a scar he still bragged about—she never missed. I was her legacy.

As I wrapped my fingers around the bow, my large sleeve dropping down my arm, forgotten muscle memory settled into place.

I felt silver eyes on me. My hand trembled. I breathed low in my stomach as I let everyone else melt away, reaching for that strict focus I’d learned over the years. The flying straw wolf burst across the range and I drew.

My arrow missed.

Pursing my lips, I notched another arrow and released. The wolf’s head rolled on the grass, my arrow sticking out of its open mouth.

Pats and hugs descended from relatives and friends, and the golden arrow landed in my hand. My eighth.

I sat down between two aunts, enjoying the festivities. The sun turned its attention away, hundreds of lanterns flickered to life, and a bonfire roared. Lachlan was playing a game of wolf and sheep with a whole crew of kids high on too much candy; he was the sheep for once.

My eyes drifted past the chaos and landed on Logan. The mate pull was powerful. Logan was a magnet and I was an unfortunate coin. Every glance turned my brain into porridge, and his scent wasn’t helping. We’d spent weeks talking over the phone, without any face-to-face moments, apart from arguing or kissing. The thought of a normal conversation with him made me feel…timid?

That’s an understatement.

I slipped away for a breather and leaned against a pine tree—or what remained of it after Logan’s attempt at axe throwing.

Embarrassment consumed me. Every time our eyes met, I forgot how to swallow. It shouldn’t be like this, I knew. But the more I looked at him, the more there was to look at. Not only was he a powerful lycan, but he was also charismatic, handsome, friendly, and put everyone in a good mood—except for Lachlan.