Page 21 of Unveiled

“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.