Chapter Seven
Connor
After the revelations of the last few days, he needed a run. His wolf needed to smell the honest earth, touch what was real, and feed off the energy of the land. The current mumbo jumbo scenario he was embroiled in needed to be replaced by something he understood. Something tangible and normal.
Behind him, the Brannigan clan gathered in a loose half-circle near the rise, boots crunching over gravel and damp earth. They’d walked out from the castle in twos and threes, quiet, as if instinct had told them this wasn’t a day for chatter.
Alicia had wanted to come. Connor had crouched, touched his forehead to hers, and told her not this time.
Not until she was older. Not until she could keep up.
Not until she could understand what it meant to run with teeth and hunger and joy all braided together.
She’d pouted, then hugged him hard around the neck as if she could anchor him with her small arms.
Now, with the wind in his face and the scent of peat and rain on the air, Connor felt that hug like a phantom weight. A reminder. A responsibility.
Fraser came up beside him, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his cigarette unlit for once. His scar caught the flat light, making him look even more carved, more weathered.
“You’re broody,” Fraser said.
Connor didn’t look at him. “I’m thinking.”
“Aye. Same thing.”
Connor exhaled through his nose. “We doing this or not?”
Fraser’s mouth twitched. “We’re doing it. Clan’s been twitchy for days. They need the run.”
Connor nodded once. He felt it too—the restlessness under the skin, the wolf pressing against bone, impatient with walls and corridors and human rules. The castle was home, but it wasn’t the Highlands, not as the open land was.
Moira stood a little apart, her hair pinned back, her eyes on the horizon. Louella lingered near her, arms folded, calm as ever.
Graeme crouched on the ground, his hands dribbling soft soil between his fingers.
Laird hovered close, eager and watchful, as if he needed permission to breathe. Angie muttered something under her breath, half prayer, half warning, her fingers worrying at the charm bracelet she always wore.
Briar stood silent, nostrils flaring, no doubt already scenting the chase. John was watchful, his red hair blowing behind him as he gazed down the path.
Connor lifted his chin, sniffing the air. Water. Cold and clean, carried on the wind from the falls.
“Down there,” he said, and started walking.
They followed without question.
The path was narrow and slick, winding between rocks dark with moss. The sound of the waterfall grew louder with every step, a steady roar that swallowed the smaller noises, the crunch of boots, the rustle of jackets, the occasional low laugh.
When they reached the clearing, the falls were waiting.
White water spilled over black stone in a wide curtain, crashing into a pool that churned and frothed before smoothing into a slow, dark ribbon that ran away through the glen.
Mist hung in the air, beading on Connor’s lashes, dampening hair and skin.
The place smelled of wet rock and cold life.
It was perfect.
Connor stopped at the edge of the grass and turned to face them. The clan spread out behind him, a rough line of bodies, all of them carrying the same hunger in their eyes.
“This stays ours,” Connor said, his voice low. “No noise. No nonsense. We run, we swim, we come back. Understood?”
A murmur of assent rippled through them. Fraser’s gaze flicked over the group, checking, counting, as he always did. Second-in-command, but more than that, Connor’s anchor when the wolf wanted to take too much.
Connor’s wolf stirred, impatient. He stripped first. Not in a showy way, but more efficient. Jacket off, shirt over his head, his boots kicked aside. The cold air hit his bare skin like a slap, but it only sharpened him, making his blood feel hotter by contrast.
Around him, the others followed suit. Clothes dropped in piles on rocks, laughter brief and rough, bodies marked by scars and muscle, and the hard work of living.
Laird hesitated, glancing at Connor as if waiting for permission.
Connor met his eyes. “You’re Brannigan,” he said simply.
“You never need permission to be wolf.” It was a throwback to Laird’s days in Niall O’Connall’s cruel clan that Laird still felt the need for approval with everything he did.
Connor detested what Niall had done to the members of his pack.
Something in Laird’s face loosened. He nodded, swallowing, and pulled off his shirt deftly.
Angie muttered again, then kissed two fingers and touched them to her brow.
Moira rolled her shoulders, calm as a mountain.
Louella’s smile was soft, almost amused, as if she knew a secret the rest of them didn’t.
Connor stepped forward until his toes sank into wet grass. He let the wolf rise.
It was never gentle. Not for him. It was a surge of bone and muscle rearranging, skin tightening, a pressure that built until it required release. His spine arched, his breath tearing from his throat as the world snapped into sharper focus.
Smell first. Everything exploded into scent: Fraser’s smoke and leather, Moira’s herbs, Louella’s soap, Laird’s nervous sweat, Angie’s strange metallic tang that always made Connor’s wolf tilt its head.
The water smelled like stone and snowmelt. The heather smelled like crushed purple sweetness.
Sound next. The waterfall thundered, but beneath it Connor heard heartbeats, the tiny click of claws as they hit rock, the soft huff of breath as wolves shook themselves free of human shape.
His vision shifted, colours deepening, edges sharpening. The world became a place of movement and intention.
Connor was wolf. Big, silver-grey, Highland-bred, thick-furred, built for cold and distance. He shook once, feeling water’s mist scatter from his coat, and lifted his head.
A chorus answered.
Fraser’s wolf, grey, scarred even in fur, moved to Connor’s flank without being told. Moira’s was a steady brown, with wise eyes. Louella’s was smaller, quick, with a bright intelligence. Laird was a young and rangy off-white, his ears too big for his head.
Angie’s wolf always made Connor’s hackles lift. Not because she was a threat, never that, but because there was something odd in her scent. Something that didn’t belong entirely to flesh and fur.
A kitchen witch, she’d called herself. Connor’s wolf didn’t know what that meant, but it knew difference.
John was a large wolf, deep brown with red in his fur, and Graeme was a lithe, willowy grey wolf, with eyes that didn’t cease watching his pack. Briar was grey-black, his form fluid and made to run.
Connor gave a low chuff, a command and comfort.
They moved. Not a march. Not a line. A flow.
Connor broke into a run, paws thudding over wet earth, and the clan surged after him, a pack spilling across the clearing like a living shadow.
The Highlands opened, wind tearing through fur, the ground rising and falling beneath them.
Connor ran because he had to. Because the last few days—storms and strangers and that damned village that’d arrived like a wound in the world—had tightened something inside him until he could barely breathe.
Here, in wolf form, he could breathe. He could be what he was without apology.
They circled the clearing once, twice, wolves darting and weaving, bodies bumping in play that was half challenge, half joy.
Laird chased Louella’s smaller wolf and got bowled over for his trouble, rolling in the grass with a startled yelp that turned into a delighted growl.
Fraser’s wolf ran shoulder-to-shoulder with Connor. Steady, matching his pace. A reminder: you’re not alone.
Connor angled toward the pool. The waterfall’s mist cooled his muzzle. The roar filled his ears until it was the only sound, like the world had narrowed to water and stone and pack.
He didn’t hesitate. He leapt, and cold swallowed him whole.
The shock was immediate. Ice biting through fur, water closing over his head, the pressure of it forcing air from his lungs.
For a heartbeat he was nothing but instinct, kicking hard, claws slicing through water.
Then he surfaced, shaking, snorting, the cold turning into exhilaration.
One by one the others followed, splashes and dark shapes cutting through the pool. Fraser surfaced near him, eyes bright, and shook violently, sending a spray of water into Connor’s face. Connor snapped at him, playfully, and Fraser’s wolf bared his teeth in a grin.
John, Graeme, and Briar formed an unruly trio, all trying to best each other in the water-dunking play.
Moira swam with calm strength, unhurried. Louella paddled near the edge, then darted under the falls itself, letting the water pound her back like a massage.
Laird tried to follow and got shoved sideways by the force, yelping, then trying again with stubborn determination.
Angie didn’t swim so much as glide. Her wolf moved through the water like it belonged there, her eyes half-lidded, as if listening to something under the roar.
The world was changing. The village, and whatever the hell the Veils were. Words like Valour and binding and Council of Veils, things that had no place in Connor’s practical life, had forced their way in.
Even here, in the cold water, he couldn’t fully escape it.
Fraser bumped his shoulder, giving a solid nudge. Connor looked at him. Fraser’s wolf held his gaze, steady. Then, as if to say enough, he turned and swam toward the far bank, hauling himself out with a grunt and shaking until his fur stood up like a storm cloud.
Connor followed.
The pack climbed out, dripping, steaming faintly in the cold air. They shook water from their coats, sending droplets flying like rain. Wolves nudged each other, checked each other, a quick accounting. Everyone’s here. Everyone’s whole.
Connor stood at the edge of the pool, water running from his fur, and lifted his head to the wind. For a moment, there was only the Highlands.
Only the land that had held his ancestors as the land held him now.
Then the pull of home tugged at him. The castle’s walls, warm fires, Alicia’s small hands, and the weight of responsibility settling back onto his shoulders.
He gave a low bark. The pack moved as one, trotting up the path, paws silent on wet earth. The return felt different. Slower, satisfied.
The wolves had fed their souls.
As the castle came into view, its stone walls rising from the mist, Connor felt the shift pressing again, the human shape waiting beneath the fur. They reached the shelter of the trees, out of sight of any windows, and Connor let the change take him.
Bone re-formed. Skin tightened. Breath tore from his throat as he returned to human form, knees bending slightly with the force of it.
Cold air hit his bare skin again, but now it felt less like a slap and more like a promise.
Around him, the others shifted back too with grunts and gasps, the soft thud of bodies settling into human form.
Fraser was the first to speak, his voice rough. “Better?”
Connor nodded, reaching for his clothes. “Aye.”
They dressed quickly, hands clumsy with cold, their laughter low and brief.
Laird’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright. Louella ruffled his wet hair like he was still a boy, and he didn’t flinch away.
They walked back into the castle in a loose group, boots leaving damp prints on stone floors. The warmth inside hit them like a blanket. The smell of stew drifted from the kitchen.
Alicia came barrelling into the hall, skidding to a stop when she saw Connor, her eyes wide.
“Did you run?”
Connor crouched, still damp, and she launched herself at him. He caught her easily, lifting her into his arms. “We ran,” he said into her hair.
“Did you swim?”
He glanced at Fraser, who was trying and failing to look stern. “We swam.”
Alicia squealed. “Next time I’m coming.”
Connor kissed her temple. “Next time,” he lied gently, because he didn’t know what next time would look like anymore.
***
Later, the clan scattered, some to the kitchen, some to the fires, some to beds.
The run had taken the edge off, leaving a heavy, satisfied tiredness in its wake.
Connor sat in the great room with a mug of something hot in his hands, boots off, socks steaming by the hearth.
Fraser dropped into the chair opposite, groaning like an old man.
Moira passed by and squeezed Connor’s shoulder, brief and grounding.
Connor stared into the fire, feeling the wolf curled inside him, calmer now. Outside, the wind still worried at the Highlands. And somewhere beyond the glen, beyond the waterfall, beyond the certainty of stone and water and pack, the world was shifting.
Connor didn’t know what the Council of Veils had done. He didn’t know what being a Valour would demand of him. But for tonight, his clan was warm, fed, and safe. For tonight, that was enough.
Tomorrow, he’d walk the streets of the village and see how the townsfolk were doing. Perhaps his sense of unease and impending doom would diminish there.
And he might meet Adrian.