Thaddeus
Rowlands delivered his morning updates as we walked the corridor—repairs progressing, supplies arriving late, the usual tedium. I offered the occasional nod, though my focus was elsewhere.
I always knew when she was close.
The headache began with a slow, needling throb behind my eyes, spreading with every step toward the library. My heart kicked harder in my chest, out of rhythm, as the thing living beneath my sternum stretched and pressed upward as though testing the boundaries of its cage.
Rowlands droned on.
I clenched my jaw against the rising pressure. “That will be all,” I cut in sharply.
He blinked at the abrupt dismissal, bowed, and retreated down the hall.
Only then did I step into the library, shut the door, and turn the key.
Peace—of a sort.
The room smelled of old paper and dust, a grounded, familiar scent that eased me more than the tea ever could.
My father’s great-uncle had amassed an impressive collection.
Shelves rose from floor to ceiling, crammed with volumes on continental mythology, Celtic folklore, and histories written by men too arrogant to doubt their own pens.
I traced a finger along the spines, reading titles as the throb behind my eyes settled into a resentful pulse.
A dark green volume without a title caught my attention.
I eased it from the shelf.
The leather binding creaked as I opened it.
Wulverson History
K. B. Wulverton — 1938
The handwriting was neat and deliberate.
Intrigued—and grateful for the distraction—I took the book and crossed to the armchair.
My journey began in 1909, the ink read, searching for my clan’s history after losing everyone. First my younger brother, then my parents, and finally my darling Iona. I still search the stars at night for a glimpse of you, my darling.
I blinked.
Melodramatic nonsense.
Eilidh Manor clearly had a talent for driving its occupants toward sentimental rambling. Or madness.
I scoffed under my breath and turned the page.
Only through visiting the Island did I discover the truth. Hidden away in the cracks of a broken home was where I found the parchment. Written in an ancient tongue, battered by centuries of storm and salt. Yet enough remained for me to understand that we were born from more than men.
I paused, thumb resting on the brittle edge of the page.
“Born from more than men,” I repeated dryly.
Superstitious drivel. Folklore at best, lunacy at worst.
And yet—
A faint, sharp press bloomed beneath my sternum.
A push.
As though something inside me approved.
I exhaled slowly, refusing to acknowledge the unease prickling up the back of my neck.
“Ramblings of an old man,” I muttered, turning the page again.
But my hand wasn’t as steady as I would’ve liked.
Is it truly possible that Fenrir has tainted our bloodline?
I stared at the line, finger tapping once—twice—against the page.
Fenrir.
The name tugged at a half-formed memory, something from the tales my governess used to read to me.
I read on.
Loki’s son.
The monstrous wolf.
Of all the ridiculous—
Every indication points in only one direction. A terrible truth. We are Vargr’s descendants, and a dreadful curse follows our blood.
I snapped the book shut so hard the sound cracked through the library.
“My God,” I hissed under my breath.
Fenrir. Curses. Bloodlines.
Superstitious balderdash.
The old man had been driven mad by this remote, windswept purgatory—and now his delusions had been bound into leather and ink, waiting to infect whoever read them.
I scrubbed a hand over my face.
No wonder the thing in my chest was acting up.
This land was getting to me.
This house was getting to me.
And that girl—
No.
No.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping across the rug.
I would not allow some dead lunatic’s scribbles to take root in my mind.
I was not cursed.
I was not a monster.
And I certainly was not—
My pulse kicked hard beneath my sternum, a sudden, violent thud that forced me to grip the edge of the table.
“…tainted,” I muttered, shaking my head.
Absurd.
Every word of it.
I slipped the key from my pocket, the metal cold against my fingers.
My time in hiding was over.
Cowardice didn’t suit a Wolverton.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I strode to the door.
The heavy click of the lock echoed through the room—far louder than it should have.
As if the very walls were listening.
She was only a girl.
A lowly peasant.
A nobody.
I told myself this firmly, as if repetition could drown out the pressure blooming beneath my sternum.
I yanked the door open.
Enough of this nonsense.
Enough of books and curses and phantom pains.
It was time to act like the man of the house.
To reassert control.
To behave as any rational gentleman would—
Even if her scent drove me to distraction.
Even if my pulse stuttered at the thought of her.
Even if something deep, dark, and ancient unfurled inside me the moment I stepped into the hall.
Euphemia.
The whispered growl burst through my skull—violent, intimate, unmistakably not mine.
“Stop it,” I hissed, teeth clenched.
No.
The word tore through me like a command.
I froze.
Every muscle locked, breath lodged in my throat.
A cold sweat prickled along my spine.
My heartbeat wasn’t my own anymore—too fast, too heavy, as if something enormous paced inside my ribcage, testing the bars.
“No,” I whispered, this time to myself—pleading, bargaining.
Find her.
The voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
It reverberated through bone and marrow, a vibration more than a sound.
My hand shot out to brace against the doorframe.
The hallway blurred at the edges.
My vision tunneled.
God help me—my feet wanted to move.
Toward her.
Toward the one thing I absolutely should not want.
“Get out of my head,” I snarled under my breath.
A low, rumbling amusement rolled through my chest.
She is ours.
The words branded themselves beneath my sternum, hot and electric.
I swallowed hard, forcing one foot to stay rooted where it was.
Shock held me still.
Fear anchored me.
This wasn’t attraction.
This wasn’t infatuation.
This wasn’t anything human.
Whatever lived inside me had just woken up.
The sinking feeling that followed was entirely my own.
Not the creature’s.
Not the echo in my bones.
Mine.
None of this should be possible.
And yet—
somewhere deep within me, in the marrow, in the places thought never reached—I knew the truth.
Euphemia was mine.
Ours.
The word shuddered through me like a second heartbeat.
Air.
Yes—air would help.
I needed to breathe, to think, to claw my way back into myself.
But his presence pressed against me—mocking, patient, hungry.
The voice didn’t need to speak again; I could feel his satisfaction curling through my chest like smoke. A command rested between us—unspoken, but heavy.
Claim her.
Her red strands. Those haunting eyes. They forged themselves into my mind like a disease, feverish and consuming. The sensation punched straight into my gut.
My head snapped up. Instinct moved before thought—I sniffed the air.
Yes.
She smells good, doesn’t she?
A tremor ran through me. My legs began to move before my mind caught up.
The best, I told the beast.
My chest vibrated—low, resonant, impossible. The sound wasn’t human.
The beast purred in satisfaction.