Thaddeus
Our mate is hungry, Wulfric growled.
I slid another egg onto her plate.
Not for food, you fool, he snapped, pacing inside me like a storm trapped in bone. Can’t you scent her incoming heat?
I smiled pleasantly at Euphemia when she lifted those dark brown eyes to me.
Mmm.
Yes.
Euphemia MacDonald.
Euphemia Wulverton.
The name tasted sinful on my tongue.
Those eyes would be beneath me every night. Every morning. Every lifetime, if the prophecy meant anything at all.
Oh, I could smell her heat.
I could smell everything now.
My senses roared with life—sharper, hungrier, impossible to ignore. I heard her swallow. Listened to the tiny hitch in her breath—the subtle flutter of her pulse just beneath the skin of her throat.
But most intoxicating of all—her sweet scent pooling warm between her thighs.
I didn’t need to look under the table to know her legs were clamped together like an iron vice. Her body was preparing for us. For me.
My father had insisted I choose a bride.
Well, I had found one.
And she was far more than he could have dreamed for me—
A daughter of Clan Donald no less. The prophecy had come full circle.
A flame-blooded Highland rose.
My mate.
My wife.
My destiny.
Let her eat. Build her strength. Because once I am inside her, I will not be leaving.
Mate.
Marry.
Breed.
Stuff her full at every turn. Fill her until she forgets her own name and remembers only mine.
She won’t be working in my home anymore.
Oh no.
She will have one task soon—and it will be done with her seated on my—
Lure her upstairs, Wulfric begged, pacing with manic urgency. Send the uncle away. Take her. Claim her.
Her family was a… complication.
Wulfric paced and snarled like a caged beast, frantic and half-mad with instinct. He knew the mating ritual spanned days. He knew time was slipping. He wasn’t thinking straight.
Me?
I played to win.
Especially now that I understood the stakes—and the prize.
She hid her eyes from me.
But the tremor in her dainty hands gave her away.
I lifted my cutlery and began to eat—not for sustenance, but to give her no reason to question why I was staring at her like a starving thing.
Soon she wouldn’t wear that drab grey garb.
I’d see to that.
I would purchase her a wardrobe of gowns—silks, satins, fabric that honoured the softness I intended to worship. No harsh linen would touch her skin again.
Not when she was mine to care for.
The rest of the time she would remain bare, with nothing at all between us.
Wulfric grunted his approval—low, primal, hungry.
Patience, I whispered to him. She is ours.
? ? ?
That night, I prepared for the run.
Fresh clothing hung from a high branch—protected this time. A hard-won lesson, one Wulfric delighted in far too much.
We spent hours scouting the land, searching for the perfect abode for our mate’s nest. Somewhere away from noise, staff, and her meddlesome family. A place I could fill with food, firewood… and the best part—my worn clothing. She would need my scent to comfort her when the change came.
I disliked my first transformation. I hated how violently Wulfric seized control.
Euphemia would not fare gently in her own transitional period. She would panic. Fight. Possibly try to cave my skull in.
Wulfric tittered at the thought.
I smiled, because I would not have her any other way.
Her spirit.
Her flame-red hair.
Her singular scent—one no other creature on this earth would ever carry.
Our mate.
Bound by blood and fate.
We were preordained hundreds of years ago. Possibly a millennium according to KB Wulverton.
A sudden ache speared through my chest.
Why had it taken so long?
Wulfric whimpered.
A soft, wounded sound—one he had never made before.
And I understood, finally, why he’d been so fretful.
Why he paced beneath my skin.
Why every shift in her scent drove him mad.
My sleeping wolf had known the passage of time.
He had felt every century without her.
So I repeated the chant to him—quietly, steadily, until the words sank deep.
Do not fret. She is ours, I murmured through our bond.
Only when his tremors eased—only when that low, aching grief inside him settled—did I stop. This was my wolf’s sole vulnerability.
We trotted to her croft. We sat beneath the trees. When he ran, I felt his joy of freedom. He wanted to hunt, but he won't because he needs to be close to Euphemia. I didn't complain, but sat with him, content to be within range of her scent.
? ? ?
Now that I focused on Wulfric, I could feel his giddiness as she ate at our table. His delight in her appetite. His quiet pride at us providing sustenance for her belly.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t take my eyes off her mouth for an entirely different reason.
The yolk dripped down her plump, pink lip—and the tip of her tongue swiped out to catch it.
A faux pas at the dining table.
Then reality came crashing down on me.
She could lick every single thing on the table—me included—and I would not give a single damn. I would encourage her further. Preferably into debauchery.
I poured her more tea into her cup, not because it was empty, but because I did not want her to leave our presence.
She does not have much time left, Wulfric said after we inhaled her scent.
He was right. Every day it deepened.
“My parents are sending a few things up for Christmas,” I said, forcing myself to take a bite of my food.
Her head tilted up—but my eyes betrayed me, dropping to her chest, remembering the glorious flash from the loch.
They were mine.
She was mine.
I shifted in my chair until it creaked beneath my weight.
“What kind of things?”
When my eyes returned to her face, Wulfric stirred—and I smiled despite myself.
Those rich brown eyes were hungry.
And not for food.