The Wolf Laird’s Obsession (The Highland Beasts #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Brilliant, Sorcha. Truly brilliant. That will calm her like a bucket of cold water.

Sorcha quickened her pace down the corridor, the laughter of passing servants carrying heather and ribbons bouncing off the stone walls.

Though the sun had barely risen, Sinclair Castle hummed with wedding jubilation. But Sorcha felt nothing of the sort. Her only focus was on how she could comfort her little sister, Ailis.

The bride.

“Is he nae beast more than man?” Sorcha heard a young maid whisper down the hall, not taking notice of her.

“Aye,” said an older maid walking beside her. “Laird MacLaren isnae kent for charm. Lady Ailis will be lucky nae to be eaten alive by that wolf.”

Sorcha’s grip tightened on her skirts, her heart heavy. She’d heard similar comments about Rowan MacLaren ever since the betrothal was announced.

A man who spoke more with his sword than his voice. A man whose heart had died long ago.

Is a beast like that capable of being kind?

And chances were, if Sorcha had been hearing these stories, then her sister likely did as well. And given Ailis’s sweet disposition, they probably frightened her.

The older maid caught sight of Sorcha, clearing her throat while elbowing the younger maid. They stopped, bobbing a slight curtsy as she walked past.

“Good morning, me Lady,” they both said in unison, keeping their heads down, the younger one slightly red in the ears.

Sorcha smiled, giving a light nod of acknowledgment as she continued down the corridor, the maids’ words echoing in her head.

She practiced another line of comfort as she walked.

“They call him a wolf, I ken. But wolves are loyal, are they nae?”

It sounded ridiculous the moment it left her mouth.

It doesnae matter what I say, does it? Doesnae change anything. Ailis still has to marry that man.

Sorcha stopped at Ailis’s door, a flicker of guilt stirring inside of her as she thought about the rumors. Perhaps young Ailis’s fear was not foolishness, after all.

Sorcha shook the thought out of her head. She just needed to make her sister smile, just once. Then, the day may not feel so hopeless. Maybe Ailis could even dare to be excited.

Wishful thinking.

She took a deep breath, pushing her shoulders back. Raising her hand, she gave the door a gentle knock.

“Ailis?”

No answer.

She frowned and tried again, louder.

“Ailis, it’s me. I’ve come to help ye dress.”

Unease, sharp and ugly, crawled up her spine as she was met with silence again. Was her sister unwell?

Unless…

Nay. Ailis is frightened, aye, but she wouldnae… Would she?

Sorcha barged into the room, chills running along her skin as the cool air hit her.

It was empty.

The bed was untouched, the covers smooth. And on the pillow lay a folded note.

She crossed the room, stumbling as she reached for the paper. Her fingers trembled, almost dropping the parchment as she struggled to unfold it.

I cannot do it. I am sorry. I know I am ruining everything. But at least… at least I am alive.

Ailis’s handwriting wavered across the page, the ink smudged where her tears had fallen. Sorcha’s tears threatened to do the same.

Ye daft lass, what have ye done?

Sorcha took a deep breath, steadying herself as she stepped into the corridor. A maid hurried past with linens piled high.

“Ye, fetch Flora. At once.” The urgency in her voice left no room for questions.

She stepped back into the room and started pacing, looking around desperately for anything else. Anything that Ailis could have left behind to explain what was going on.

But there was nothing.

“Me Lady… I came to find ye.”

Flora, her maid, appeared in the doorway. The moment their eyes met, Sorcha’s expression faltered.

Sorcha walked over to her, holding out the note without a word. She did not trust herself to keep her composure if she spoke.

Flora read it quickly, and to Sorcha’s surprise, she did not look as bewildered as Sorcha had expected.

“Aye,” Flora whispered. “The guards spoke with an English butler at first light. He was carrying a letter with yer uncle’s seal. They let Lady Ailis go with him. The carriage is already heading to London.”

London.

Sorcha leaned against the wall, holding herself upright as she went over every moment leading up to this point.

“I should’ve ken.” Tears threatened to fall, but she kept everything in her body tight, nearly snapping at the effort to speak as guilt overtook her. “She looked so frightened. I-I never thought she’d go this far.”

The thought of Ailis alone and terrified on the road twisted sharply in her chest.

I should’ve stayed the night with her. Listened more. Anythin’…

“It’s nae yer fault, me Lady.” Flora’s eyes were kind as she tried to reassure her. “She’s always been strong-spirited, that one. I daenae ken if there is anythin’ ye could’ve done.”

Sorcha was not convinced.

But she would not wallow.

She straightened, shaking off the overwhelm. She had to find her brother. Quickly.

“Be that as it may, Laird MacLaren willnae think so. And neither will Callan. Where is he? Does he ken?”

“In the council chamber.” Flora eyed her warily. “He doesnae ken yet.”

Sorcha nodded, not wasting a moment as she nearly ran to the council chamber, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She knew that expecting anything less than anger from Callan was impossible in this situation. And though she felt nearly ill at the prospect of Ailis’ abandonment, a part of her couldn’t help but admire her sister.

At least she has been brave enough to choose herself.

But now Sorcha would have to take the brunt of it.

The door to the council chamber stood half-open, voices murmuring inside. She bit her lip, palms slick with sweat as she hovered at the doorway. She took a deep breath before stepping into the room.

It looked as it had for years, though time had clearly taken its toll. Along the walls hung relics of their family’s history: swords dulled by battle, cracked shields bearing the Sinclair crest. Faded tapestries that once depicted their parents were now dull, the gold thread worn thin.

Sorcha’s gaze lingered for a moment.

We were so young then. None of us kent how quickly everythin’ could change.

Callan stood at the table with two of his men, reviewing final preparations for the handfasting ceremony. She watched the way he braced his hands on the old oak table, his shoulders tight.

When he spotted her, his expression hardened, and his lips twisted in a grimace.

He looked at the men, jerking his chin towards the door. “Leave.”

His tone earned him wide eyes as they abruptly grabbed their scrolls, politely nodding to Sorcha as they passed her out the door.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Sorcha eyed him warily. He had the aura of a much older man, twice his age. Grey streaks peeked through his long black curls, the same grey streaking his beard. Deep lines were etched in his face, his responsibilities taking their toll.

His expression made her hesitate, the truth not coming out as easily as she thought it would.

This alliance is meant to save us, and I’m the one about to destroy it.

Sorcha held out the note silently, knowing it spoke for itself. Callan snatched it, his eyes scanning the lines once, twice. He slammed his hand down on the table with an angry grunt, causing her to flinch.

I kent he would react this way.

“She fled.” His voice was tight, every syllable pulled taut as he tried to keep his composure, but his hands were shaking. “That thoughtless bairn. Does she ken what she’s done?”

Sorcha stepped forward, her raised voice shaky as she spoke. Not with fear, but anger. “She was terrified, Callan! She hasnae slept in days, she—”

“Without this alliance, we are exposed!” he roared. “If MacLaren withdraws his offer, we’ll be standin’ alone against every clan watchin’ for weakness.”

The words hung heavy between them as he cursed to himself.

Without this alliance, rival clans would test their borders, debt collectors would circle them like vultures, and men who’d once been loyal might begin to calculate their odds. Sorcha knew that.

Still, does he nae care about Ailis a little?

“Have ye nae heard about the brute ye’re sending her off to? Do ye think Ailis didnae hear what everyone’s been saying?”

Callan yelled roughly, more frustration than anger. “Do ye think I wanted this for her? Do ye think I daenae ken what sort of man MacLaren is?”

She stood unwavering. “Ye ken him?”

“I ken his reputation,” Callan said grimly. “The Wolf of the North. Ruthless. And I ken what happens to clans who stand against him.”

She saw it then. Not his anger or frustration, but his fear.

His responsibility wasn’t to their family alone but to their people. To others, he was the hardened, stoic Laird. They didn’t see—couldn’t see—beyond his walls.

His heart was with the clan. Always.

Regret hit her. He had little choice in the matter as well.

“And where is she now?” he asked, pacing back and forth.

“With our uncle. In London.”

He stopped mid-stride, wide-eyed as he looked at her. A rare moment of seeing him in shock.

“In London?” he repeated, gritting his teeth as if holding back another curse. He rubbed his hands down his face as he mumbled to himself about intercepting their sister and dragging her back by the hair.

A knot twisted in Sorcha’s stomach, thinking of Laird MacLaren showing up to no bride.

Would he listen to reason, or silence us before we could speak?

“What will we tell Laird MacLaren?” she asked, her breath short.

Callan did not answer at first, and for a moment, Sorcha was not sure if he had heard her.

But then he turned to her, his jaw tight. His expression made her square her shoulders and press her feet into the floor, expecting to be struck by his next words.

“We willnae tell him anything.”

Sorcha quirked an eyebrow, about to question him, but he spoke again.

“Because ye will take Ailis’s place.”

The air seemed to thin as her world closed in on her erratic heart.

Impossible. Laird MacLaren would never accept me as his bride.

Where Sorcha was hard lines and sharp edges, Ailis was full of life, bright, and soft. There was a reason Ailis was chosen and not her. Her gut twisted, thinking of Lord MacLaren’s reaction when he saw her.

“Callan—”

“Sorcha—” Callan interrupted. “MacLaren will be here any moment, and should we welcome him empty-handed?”

He did not need to explain further. Sorcha could imagine every terrible event that would follow.

He was right. But that fact did not make things better. Did not make her want to give in.

Why do I have to fix this?

Her hands fisted, shaking as she struggled not to lash out.

“Laird MacLaren asked for Ailis,” she pointed out.

“He asked for an alliance,” Callan corrected, his gaze unwavering. “Alliances daenae vanish because faces change. Ye’re still a Sinclair after all is said and done. Still young enough to bear an heir.”

Sorcha’s eyes widened, and she blushed at his words, her anger fading into embarrassment. So caught up in taking her sister’s place, she almost forgot the duties that came with that.

Her gaze dropped to the floor as she took deep breaths to calm herself.

She’d never been first to be chosen. Never been the answer. But now she was the only choice.

She looked up at Callan.

“If this is what the clan needs,” she answered, keeping her voice steady even though something in her chest cracked. “Then I’ll do it. I’ll marry Laird MacLaren.”

The words had barely left her mouth when the horn sounded outside. Then it sounded a second time. Then a third.

The Highland Wolf had come to claim his bride.