Prologue
Sam Houston Forest, Texas
Amber Hamilton
The moon trickles through the branches, illuminating the silhouette of the naked trees that bear their souls to the forest. My feet pad silently as I sift through their jagged arms, trying my best not to make a sound.
The air is thick with the scent of pine and earth, the sound of crickets blaring the rhythmic tune of the night. It won’t be long now before I reach the clearing. I spotted it on my map earlier, when the daylight was still glaring hatefully at us from the horizon.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, my breath quickening—then a twig cracks nearby, freezing me midstep.
Shite, I should’ve allowed my wolf to take the lead. But after trekking across the blundering bens and raging rivers, Shona was resting, weary from our travels. It would be cruel to wake her now.
“Aye, it would.”
That voice.
Low, dark and timbre—it weaves over me like a blanket, heating my skin and heightening my other senses. The crunch of leaves curls my fists, and I close my eyes, praying to the Moon Goddess that this isn’t real.
It cannae be him.
It just cannae be…
How did he find me?
I’d been so careful to mask my scent. My fucking hair is covered in leaves, and I even allowed Shona to roll in the various animal carcasses we found in the woods (which she loved, by the way).
Another crunch makes my arm hairs raise, and I feel him before I see him. His presence looms over me, and every cell in my body is screaming at me to run. But my soul—it aches for him.
Violently. Unequivocally.
I was marked. His.
Or, at least, that’s how it was supposed to be. But I had escaped that life. Left the clan for good.
Or … so I’d thought.
I slowly twist my torso, only to have my neck grabbed and pushed back into the wall of tree bark behind me. Two golden orbs pierce my emerald ones, and my knees buckle. Partly because of the heavy grip that strangles my throat, but also because I’m gazing at the most handsome man that has ever graced the highlands.
Alpha Tavish Rowe—or Tavvie, as I like to call him—is a force to be reckoned with.
With thick black hair, warm hazel eyes and sharp cheekbones that can cut through glass, his looks alone are enough to send the most desperate woman to her grave. But it’s his muscular physique and various clan tattoos that have most wolves running in the opposite direction.
Tav is dangerous, having executed multiple wolf packs in the Scottish area that seek to acquire his assets.
See, he isn’t just a pack leader…he’s a fucking laird. And with that kind of wealth comes enemies. Ones who want nothing more than to abuse his power by infiltrating the current drug trade that’s seen businesses booming—and werewolves crashing.
As for my mate? He wants no part of it. And so, he’s taken on the role of vigilante so he can execute anyone who might be involved.
His official title is Laird Tavish Alasdair Caelan Rowe of Blackfen. It’s all very bougie on the uptake, and one of the main reasons why I left his privileged arse in the first place. That kind of life just isn’t for me.
I feel it stints one’s perception of what the real world is like. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend my entire life breeding and caring for his pups—all so we can carry on his legacy. Meanwhile, there’s an entire plethora of land to explore.
Anyway, I sort of left him at the altar—before anyone could tie our hands with ribbons or tartan cloth and seal me into a life I never chose.
This, of course, infuriated the man, and all that angry testosterone must’ve followed me to Texas, where I am now being choked against a tree.
I try to alleviate the pressure, but it’s like scratching my nails against a concrete surface.
Tavish is clearly unfazed as he hoists me up by the arm, pressing his body tightly against mine. We both groan at the connection, and I curse myself for being so weak.
His lips instantly find my ear, his warm breath sending an unwanted shiver down my spine.
“Found ye.”
His tongue flicks out, riding up my neck. I quiver when he reaches that spot—the one where he had marked me so many years ago—and the action alone speaks volumes.
He tastes me like he owns me. And in many ways, he does. After sixteen years of friendship and eight years of courting, he’ll always have my heart. But up until he allows me the freedom to step outside our closed-off little realm, he’ll never have my soul.
“Do you know how long I’ve been searching for you, Amber?” His tone lashes at me like a whip, and I wince at his words. “Four years.”
The invisible rope around my neck tightens, leaving a numbing sensation that presses against the sides of my skull.
“Four fucking years!” he bellows, and I shrink at the sound.
A sharp pain follows it, piercing the side of my neck. The agony consumes me, clouding my vision. A hateful curse spews from my lips, and I’m spiraling down a tunnel of misery before everything goes black.
