Page 7 of Wolf of the Storm
I force myself to breathe. To think. To be the alpha my pack needs instead of the wolf that wants to throw caution aside for a stranger.
But she's not a stranger. Not to my wolf. She'smy mate, and that changes everything.
I watch from the shadows as Gerry Baxter—all island courtesy and helpful chatter—returns with his taxi. She's polite but guarded—a journalist's instinct, probably. She accepts his offer of a ride, and I memorize every detail: the curve of her waist as her coat flares in the breeze, the way she moves with careful awareness like someone who's been in dangerous situations before, the slight tension in her shoulders that says she's nervous but won't show it.
Maureen's niece. The journalist from London.
Of all the bloody timing.
Gerry loads her suitcase into his ancient Land Rover, and I have maybe thirty seconds to decide what to do. Follow them? Introduce myself? Stay hidden and observe?
My wolf makes the decision for me. I'm already moving through the back streets, taking shortcuts that will let me reach Clifftop House before they do. I need to see where she'll be staying. Need to know she's safe. Need to?—
My phone buzzes. A text from Jax:
Where are you?
Right. The emergency meeting I called. The one where I'm supposed to be discussing how we handle Maureen's death and what comes next, not tracking a stranger through the village like a lovesick wolf.
I'm already at Clifftop House, hidden in the tree line, when Gerry's Land Rover pulls up the gravel drive. I watch her climb out, take in the house with an expression I can't quite read from this distance. Grief, yes. But also determination. The journalist in her is already working, asking questions, noticing details.
Gerry helps her with the suitcase, hands her the key, says something that makes her nod. Then he's gone, and she's alone.
She stands there for a long moment, staring up at the house. The wind catches her hair, and even from here I can smell that vanilla scent, now mixed with salt air and the coming storm.
Every instinct screams at me to go to her. To introduce myself. To offer help, protection,anythingto justify being near her.
Instead, I send back to Jax:On my way.Then I force myself to walk away, back toward the cottage and the pack that needs their alpha thinking clearly.
It's one of the hardest things I've ever done.
The others are already at the cottage when I arrive—our meeting place when we need privacy and wards strong enough that even supernatural ears can't overhear. It's Torin's place, technically, though we all contributed to the protections woven into its walls.
Jax is pacing, which is never a good sign. My beta—second-in-command and the pack's tactical mind—has more nervous energy than anyone I know, and when he paces, it usually means he's working himself up to an argument. Brennan lounges in a chair by the fire, appearing relaxed, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. Our researcher and tech specialist never looks worried, which somehow makes his concern more obvious. Torin sits at the table with that faraway look that means he's sensing something the rest of us can't—the pack's seer and strongest magical practitioner. Callum stands by the window, always the watcher, his detective's instincts never quite letting him relax. And Eamon is making tea because that's what Eamon does when he's stressed—our healer and heart of the pack, he feeds people.
Five brothers. Not by blood, though we've shed enough of it together that it might as well be. The blood oath we swore at midnight binds us tighter than any family tie, and the weight of it settles on my shoulders as I close the door behind me.
"About bloody time," Jax says, spinning to face me. "Where were you?"
"The ferry dock. Then Clifftop House." I cross to the table, avoiding his eyes. Jax reads me too well. "Making sure our new arrival got settled."
"Maureen's niece." Brennan's voice is carefully neutral. "Eliza Warren. Investigative journalist for several Londonpapers. Specializes in uncovering corruption and conspiracy theories. Won an award two years ago for exposing a trafficking ring."
I look at him sharply. "How do you know all that?"
"Because unlike some people, I believe in being prepared." He pulls out his phone, scrolls through something. "The moment we heard Maureen had an heir arriving, I started digging. She's good at her job, Declan. Really good. The kind of good that means she won't just accept the official story about her aunt's death and leave."
"The official story is solid," Callum says from the window. He's the most human of us, a late-turn who still thinks like the detective he used to be. "Accidental death. Clean investigation. No evidence of foul play."
"Because that’s what we want everyone to think," Torin says quietly. "Maureen's death wasn’t exactly what it appeared to be. True she went walking in dangerous weather and fell, but there was a feeling of deception around it… a kind of supernatural interference."
"Then why are we worried about a journalist?" Eamon sets mugs on the table, Earl Grey for most of us, something that smells medicinal for Torin. "If there's nothing to find, she'll find nothing."
"Because she's Maureen Gordon's heir," I say, finally sitting. "Which means she now owns Clifftop House. Which means she has access to anything Maureen left behind."
The silence that follows is heavy.
"The journals," Jax says flatly. "You think Maureen kept journals."
