Page 11 of Wolf of the Storm
Like why my aunt thought I was in danger.
Like what happened to her on these cliffs.
The village is quiet this early, though I spot a few locals eyeing me with the frank curiosity Gerry warned me about. An elderly woman sweeping her front step pauses to stare. A man working on a fishing net by the harbor does the same. I'm used to being anonymous in London crowds; here, I stand out like a red flag.
Flynn's Inn sits on the main street, a three-story stone building with window boxes full of hearty autumn flowers and a hand-painted sign swinging in the breeze. The front door is propped open despite the chill, and I can smell coffee and something baking that makes my stomach remind me I skipped dinner last night.
The interior is exactly what I expected—exposed stone walls, dark wood beams, a massive fireplace already lit against the morning cold. A handful of early risers occupy tables scattered throughout the dining room, their conversations dropping to curious silence when I enter.
"You must be Miss Warren." The voice comes from behind the bar—a woman in her early thirties with striking red hair pulled into a practical braid and green eyes that seem to see more than they should. "Maureen's niece. I'm Moira Flynn. Welcome to my inn."
There's a weight in the way she says Maureen's name—not quite sadness, not quite wariness, but something in between. I cross to the bar, very aware of the eyes tracking my movement.
"Just Eliza, please. And yes, I'm Maureen's niece." I set my camera bag on a stool. "I'm told your inn is the place to be for breakfast and local information."
Moira's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Both are true enough. Coffee?"
"God, yes."
She pours from a pot that smells like heaven and slides the mug across to me. "I was sorry about your aunt. She was... special. We'll all miss her."
"Did you know her well?"
"As well as anyone did, I suppose. She kept to herself mostly, but she'd come in for tea sometimes. We'd talk." Moira's expression is carefully neutral, but I catch knowledge flickering beneath—secrets she's choosing not to share. "She mentioned you a few times. Said you were a journalist."
"I am. Though right now I'm just here to handle her estate." I sip the coffee, which is exactly as strong as I need it. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask." Moira's smile is wry. "Whether I answer is another matter."
"My aunt's death. The official story is she fell from the cliffs during a storm. But was there..." I pause, trying to find the right words. "Did anything seem strange about it to you?"
The silence that follows is weighted. Several of the other diners have stopped pretending not to listen. Moira studies me with those unsettling green eyes, and I have the distinct impression she's measuring something about me.
"Strange things happen on this island," she says finally. "Always have. Your aunt knew that better than most." She leans closer, lowering her voice. "My advice? Don't ask too many questions. Don't go looking for answers you're not ready to find. And for god's sake, stay away from Raven's Point after sunset."
It's almost exactly what Maureen's letter said, and the repetition sends a chill down my spine. "Why? What's at Raven's Point?"
"Nothing good." Moira straightens, her innkeeper's smile returning like a mask sliding into place. "Now, what can I get you for breakfast? The full Scottish is popular, or if you prefer lighter fare..."
She's done talking, and I recognize the wall when I hit it. I'm ordering scrambled eggs and toast when the door opens behind me, letting in a gust of cool air and the scent of morning rain.
I glance back.
And my breath catches.
The man standing in the doorway is tall—well over six feet, with broad shoulders that fill out a dark wool coat. His hair is dark and slightly too long, falling across a face that's all sharp angles and rough edges. But it's his eyes that pin me in place. Storm-grey and intense, they sweep the room in one assessing glance before landing on me.
The impact is physical. Immediate. Overwhelming.
I've interviewed war criminals and corrupt politicians without flinching. I've maintained my composure in situations that would make most people panic. But this man—this stranger—looks at me and I forget how to think straight.
"Declan." Moira's voice breaks whatever spell just slammed into me. "You're early."
"Couldn't sleep." His voice is low and rough, with the soft burr of a Scottish accent that sends heat through me I don't want to acknowledge. He's still looking at me, and I realize with mortification that I'm staring at him like I've never seen a man before.
Pull yourself together.
"You must be Eliza Warren." He crosses the room in three long strides, and suddenly he's right there, close enough that I can smell him—something woodsy and clean with an undertone that makes me think of storms and wild places. "I'm Declan MacRae. I live on the island. Moira mentioned Maureen's niece had arrived."
