Thaddeus
The cottage was prepared, but cold and dark by the time we reached it. Each time her body stiffened against mine, I moved faster through the deepening snow. Her pain was intolerable—for both of us. It made Wulfric snap and snarl inside me, restless and furious.
The pantry was stocked. Dry firewood had been laid in every room we would use. My clothes were already set aside in the bedroom. Most importantly, the family who owned the cottage had left for the Lowlands, according to the locals.
It was secluded.
Callum wouldn’t find us.
Euphemia’s grace and beauty were astounding. I had expected her to fight us—to resist the bond that trespassed against her contempt for my people. Yet here she was, staying close at my side. I rested my hand at her waist, drawing her in to press a kiss to the snow-dusted scarf covering her head.
“Let me take care of you,” I murmured softly. “Let me ease your pain.”
She pushed her scarf down and glanced up at me. Her pupils were blown wide, and she nodded—just once—before another cramp seized her. She grimaced and fisted my lapel, breath hitching.
I didn’t hesitate. I scooped her into my arms, pressing her firmly against my chest to steady her, to reassure her, and carried her toward the bedroom.
“Why does it need to hurt?” she whispered as I set her carefully on the bed.
It’s because it’s her first heat. Tell her it won’t hurt for long, Wulfric whined.
“Wulfric says it’s because it’s your first heat,” I said gently as I began to unbutton her coat. “It won’t hurt for long, sweetness.”
Her head snapped up.
“It talks to you?”
“He won’t shut up,” I muttered.
Despite the pain, Euphemia smiled—and the sight of it struck us both like a blow.
I felt as though I stood on the edge of something vast, on the brink of tipping into a life I could never step back from. Not because I didn’t know that nothing would ever be the same after tonight—but because of what Euphemia was giving me.
Her trust.
Her choice.
Her willingness to believe that we would be a good mate for her.
Wulfric began to purr, the sound slow and deep, meant for her alone. Beneath it, I felt everything he could not put into words—relief, awe, gratitude—vibrating through my chest.
I no longer knew if it was the beast or the man in me, but when her coat slipped down her arms, and her aroma reached me, I had to take a step back before I lost all sense.
“Prepare your nest,” I rasped.
She blinked, her expression blank, before she raised her chin and sniffed the air.
Just as she turned to reach for my clothing, I pulled away and stalked toward the hearth.
I needed the fire burning for her.
My rut was coming—and there was no stopping it now. Whether she was ready or not, my instincts were sharpening, slipping loose of restraint. Feral.
Months of waiting.
Each torturous day spent inhaling her scent.
Watching her awaken—slowly, unknowingly.
Now the scent she gave off had deepened, clinging to me like living tendrils, wrapping around my thoughts, sinking into my blood, triggering something vast. Something ancient.
My hand trembled as I hurled thick chunks of wood into the fireplace, the logs striking stone with dull, violent thuds.
The fire caught quickly.
The flames lapped together—
the same colour as my mate.
Glowing.
Burning.
Alive.
Just like her.
I straightened slowly, my attention drawn back to the bed. She moved as if half-dreaming, touching and inhaling each piece of my clothing with reverence. Building. Nesting.
Pride swelled in my chest.
I pulled off my coat and scarf, letting them fall where they may, then set my fingers to the buttons of my shirt as I stalked closer to her.
We watched her together—the wolf and I—as she wove, tucked, and claimed us with instinct older than reason.
Wulfric was calm.
Everything was right in his world now that she was here.
Uninterrupted time for our union to flourish.
For our mate to take our seed and knot.
To be bound by blood and fate.
I prowled the space around the bed, pacing with barely contained impatience.
Waiting for her invitation.
When I paused to hand her my shirt, she snatched it from my grasp.
So close, Wulfric murmured.
I didn’t know much about our kind, but I knew—from the ache of his yearning—that he was utterly besotted by her.
Not in the way poets wrote of love.
This was survival.
This was instinct etched into our bones.
She was part of us.
? ? ?
The fire’s warmth spread steadily through the room. Fresh water waited in a pitcher nearby. A basin and clean linen rested at the foot of the bed—prepared, deliberate, untouched.
The nest was ready.
But I waited.
I waited until the heat took hold of her completely. Until it left her restless and aching for us. Until her fingers curled at the neckline of her dress as though the fabric itself were an offence. Until the silence finally broke—fractured by soft, desperate sounds she could no longer hold back.
I waited until restraint became agony.
Until patience felt like punishment.
Until we were both balanced on the edge of breaking.
When she turned to me, it wasn’t as a Scotswoman. There were no enemy lines between us—no history, no borders. When her eyes drank in my half-naked form, there was no animosity. Only drunken desire. Only need.
We held our ground against everything urging us forward.
Then Wulfric growled—low and furious at me for denying him. The sound ripped violently through the room.
Euphemia whimpered, clutching her belly.
She gasped my name.
And I stepped out of the shadows.