Page 52 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

She stilled suddenly. Alphas were also known to wield compulsion over their Pack. “I’m not going to have to obey him, am I?” she asked, frantically enough that Catherine patted her leg and Gretel snorted.

“Mates don’t have compulsion over each other,” Agnes assured her. “That mark on your neck makes him yours more than it makes you his.”

“And Aidan doesn’t have a Pack,” Gretel said.

Sorcha frowned. “I thought Tavish was part of his Pack.”

“Not technically. Which is a shame,” Agnes added. “As no one needs it more. Your mate is…unique.”

“Hush,” Catherine said. “Don’t scare the girl.”

Sorcha found she wasn’t scared. Not of Aidan.

But she was intensely curious.

Agnes noticed. Sorcha had a feeling not much got past her. “Where did you two meet? Was it in London? Mayfair?”

Sorcha grinned. “Right here on the island. I made it my mission to aggravate him.” To distract him from Briar’s involvement with the stolen moon talisman.

That she had found it so enjoyable was a surprise. Something about his mixture of bewildered patience and stern exasperation. Not to mention the jaw, the amber eyes not quite hidden by the lenses of his spectacles. The scar through his eyebrow. The furrow on his brow, suggesting complicated thought. His innate kindness, coupled with that primal authority, which she now understood might be attributed to his wolf. But it might just as easily not be. There was something so Aidan about it all.

Agnes chuckled. “You’ll do just fine, then. He needs a bit of needling. All Alphas do, no matter what they might try to tell you.”

“You need needling, do you?” her sister asked drily. “I’ll remember that the next time you complain about it.

“Shut it, you,” Agnes replied, but there was no rancor to it, only sisterly affection.

“You’re an Alpha as well?” Sorcha asked.

Agnes inclined her head. “Most Packs are ruled by mated partners, but not all.”

This alternate life unfolding so clearly in front of Sorcha was a revelation. It was a wish she hadn’t even known she had. It was underscored by the way Aidan leaned against a tree, drinking tea. Gone were the spectacles, the cravat, the way he often tried to make himself smaller. His thick arms strained at his shirt, tattoos dark as rivers beneath. He had not taken his golden gaze off her. She felt the warmth of it kindling in her chest, tingling in the mark on her throat. His eyes flared, dropping to glance at it.

Sorcha had the sneaking suspicion she might never fully recover from this betrothal.