Thaddeus
The door slammed into the brass stopper and swung half-shut behind her fleeing form.
I stared after her, stunned.
That was… not the usual reaction to my propositions. In London, women practically wept for my attention. With all my—well—carnal proficiency, she should have been fluttering, sighing, and begging for my attention.
Instead, she had run as if I’d set myself on fire.
I clenched my jaw.
“And you—” I hissed inwardly. “You stupid mutt. Why did you start whining? You made me look a fool.”
You did not require my help for that, the voice replied coolly.
My name is Wulfric.
And I am a wolf.
I froze.
His presence settled, calm and immovable as stone—far clearer than before.
Not a whisper.
A voice.
You angered our mate.
“Why,” I demanded through gritted teeth, “are you inside me?”
I am part of you.
“For how long?” I whispered.
Always, he said. A pause. Then, he spoke, quietly.
I lay dormant. Not for decades. For far longer. I am… uncertain.
Then his certainty snapped back into place like a spine realigning.
You will not upset her again.
I tipped my head back toward the ceiling, exhaling hard.
Wonderful. A sentient beast had taken up residence in my chest.
A beast with opinions.
Demands.
Rules.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
“I simply need a tumble with her,” I muttered. “Then this nonsense will pass and you will quiet yourself.”
Wulfric bristled, a ripple of cold anger through my ribs.
You do not “tumble” with a mate.
You cherish her.
You claim her.
You keep her.
I groaned.
“I should be far more concerned,” I muttered, pressing my palms to my eyes, “about a wolf dwelling inside my skull.”
I supposed it was back to the library.
Back to scheming, back to concocting a new plan to ensnare Euphemia MacDonald without driving her into the hills screaming.
You will leave that to me, Wulfric grumbled.
“Absolutely not,” I hissed. “If anyone is doing the ensnaring, it is me. I am the human. The gentleman. The—”
The fool, he supplied.
I clenched my fists at my sides.
“Don’t be insufferable. You sound like my father.”
Your sire sent you to your fate, Wulfric murmured, his tone maddeningly steady.
Our mate’s proximity woke me from an eternal slumber. We are bound—
He stopped.
A strange flicker of disorientation rippled through my chest—like someone stumbling in the dark and brushing past my bones.
“I am not bound to anyone,” I snapped, shoving to my feet as though posture alone might reassert control. “Not a maid, not a Highland superstition, and certainly not—”
You will understand who we are the day we run together, he said.
Then he vanished.
Silence hollowed out the space beneath my sternum, leaving it abruptly… empty.
I let out a slow breath.
Wonderful.
Now I had upset the beauty and the beast.
? ? ?
The wolf remained present but silent—an observer lurking just beneath my skin. He only stirred when Euphemia was close, or when her scent drifted into my space—uninvited, maddening, intoxicating.
Days turned into weeks.
The roof was finally secured for the inevitable snow and ice.
Callum shifted his efforts indoors, hammering and patching the places most neglected.
Flora and Euphemia transformed the manor room by room; nearly every hall now smelled of fresh lemon or sharp lye, as though they were purging centuries of decay from its bones.
Euphemia snubbed me at every turn.
Each daily update was curt, clipped, barely professional.
The rest of the time she looked through me.
Walked past me.
Spoke to Arthur, never to me unless absolutely necessary.
Wulfric, infuriatingly, approved.
He wanted me to suffer.
After reading Lord Wulverton’s journal—his ramblings on Vargr blood, on a lineage that should not exist—then dissecting every accompanying volume on the supposed wolf phenomenon, I was left with more questions than answers.
And Wulfric refused to answer any of them.
Was part of my heritage truly tied to Vargr and Lucy?
Who was Skoll? Ulfr?
How many of these names were ancestors—and how many were monsters?
The parchment K.B. Wulverton found on the Island was too damaged to decipher fully; centuries of salt and storm had eaten through what mattered most. Were it not for the sentient creature coiled deep in the hollow of my chest—whispering her name into the back of my mind—I would have dismissed the entire thing as the scribbles of an unstable man.
I turned another brittle page, irritation tightening the space behind my breastbone.
“How long are you going to punish me for, Wulfric?” I muttered. “I can feel you sulking.”
Silence.
No rumble.
No growl.
Just the smug weight of him—settled low and patient.
? ? ?
It was just before dinner when someone knocked on the library door.
“Come in,” I sighed, shutting yet another book on animal mythos. My eyes burned from hours of reading, yet not a single page had offered clarity—only more questions.
Callum’s large frame filled the doorway. I waved him in.
“I’m finished for the day,” he said, voice a touch hesitant. “But I was wonderin’, since it’s so close tae Christmas… if we can have our family join us?”
Family.
The word snapped my attention from the page to him fully.
I had never once considered Euphemia’s family. Never thought beyond her face… her hair… her scent—
“Which family members,” I asked, keeping my tone light, “if you don’t mind me asking?”
Casual on the outside.
Calculating beneath.
Her family could be leverage.
A pressure point.
A tether to pull her closer.
“Ma wife, three bairns, and ma nephew,” he said with a grin.
Only a nephew?
“What about Euphemia’s parents?” I asked.
His grin fell.
The warmth drained from his eyes in an instant.
“Ma brother an’ his wife are dead,” he said quietly.
But grief wasn’t what struck me.
It was the look he gave me—sharp, pointed, unmistakable.
Accusation.
Directed straight at me.
The Englishman.
It hit me all at once.
It wasn’t my charm she rejected.
It wasn’t propriety.
It wasn’t shyness.
Euphemia hated me because I was English-born.
A hollow ache carved itself under my sternum. It was Wulfric’s sorrow.
“I’m sorry to hear this,” I said stiffly. “Yes. Invite your family. Speak to Graham about arranging a larger croft.”
Callum blinked, surprised by how quickly I’d agreed. Then his grin returned—broad and genuine.
“Aye. Thank ye,” he said, backing out of the room with surprising lightness for a man of his size.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence pooled around me. Thick, heavy and unkind.
She hates me, I told Wulfric.
He said nothing.
And somehow, his deliberate muteness stung most of all.
It was time—past time—to write to my father and give him a thorough update on the progress I had made.
For weeks I had avoided corresponding with my parents out of sheer, childish stubbornness. Pride, distance, resentment… I’d used every excuse not to put pen to paper.
But after learning Euphemia was an orphan—and that my own people might have played a part in her family’s suffering—the weight in my chest shifted.
Heavier.
Sharper.
Uncomfortable in a way even Wulfric’s silence couldn’t eclipse.