Page 95 of Their Mate
“Aye, it’s me. You lot still hugging the river?”
“We made it north of there,” she said. “But… we’ve lost contact with you guys. We thought?—”
“They’re not dead,” I cut in. “Just daft. Walked right into the Watch’s waiting arms and slammed the cage shut themselves. I tracked the scent. They’re behind steel deeper in the rock than I care to know.”
Silence, broken only by the sound of a man’s voice in the background, clipped and angry.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“The Isle of Man, just north of Douglas Head. There’s an inlet; our boat is just past it, hugged up under the cliffs.” I grinned despite the ache in my chest. “There’s no time to waste. Find a boat and head in this direction at full steam with every one of your wolves and every weapon you can lay your hands on.”
“I’ll come,” she said. “We’ll come.”
I clicked the radio off before she said anything more, before the edge in her voice broke and she started asking about her brother.
So that left me alone again, on the rocking hull of a cruiser older than sin, the cliffs looming dark and mute behind me. I picked up the rifle next to me, set it across my knees, checked the rounds, and sat back. The night stretched cold and long, and the only sound was the water harassing the rocks like it meant to drown them.
I should have been afraid, but fear wasn’t what I felt. Loyalty, maybe. Or love, the kind I’d never been daft enough to name out loud. Whatever it was, it kept me awake while the island slept.
I thought of Sera, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the steel in her voice, the fire in her eyes. Thought of the way she’d looked at us, like she wanted to hate us, but couldn’t quite manage it. Thought of the bond that snapped tight the second I saw her, and how I’d let her walk away anyway because it was her choice.
Now she was behind steel doors, and I wanted nothing more than to break her out, along with the rest of my bloody pack.
I’d get them out. Or I’d die trying.
Dawn came in gray and mean, sky and sea the same color of hammered pewter. I hadn’t slept. I’d been too busy listening to the surf gnaw at the rocks and imagining every way this whole thing could go sideways.
That was when I heard the low chop of an engine pushed hard. I straightened on the quay just as a black boat cut round the headland, spray fanning off her bow.
The woman who’d hired me to fetch Logan Yorke stood at the front of the boat, hood down now, wind dragging her black hair back from her face. Everything about her seemed like it was deliberate, from the way she braced against the swell, to the clasp of her fists at her sides, to the way her eyes swept the shore before they even landed.
She wasn’t alone. Four men rode with her—wolves, all of them. Their scent hit me before the boat even slowed.
The boat slapped into the quay, rubber fenders squealing. I caught the bow line and made it fast as she hopped off, boots finding stone securely like she’d done it a thousand times.
“Buchanan,” she said. No hello, no small talk, just my name in that cool, all too-knowing voice.
I squinted at her. “You’ve the advantage, lass. I don’t know your name, but you know mine.”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “For now, let’s keep it that way.”
I snorted. “Mysterious then, are we? Fine.”
“You’ll get it when you’ve earned it,” she said, and stepped aside so that her men could climb out.
The first was broad as a barn and grinning like he had just won some grand prize of sorts. “Griffith Madoc,” he said, voice warm and Welsh. “Griff to friends. I’m the one who lifts the heavy things and tells better jokes than anyone still alive.”
“Bold claim,” I said.
“You’ll see,” he grinned.
The second was leaner, and when he spoke, he had a thick English accent. “Bishop Hale.” His eyes cut to me like he already had a file on me.
“Charmed,” I said dryly.
The third had dark hair laced with gray and a beard encasing his entire jawline. There were knives on his belt and he seemed like the kind of man who’d grown up with them there. He inclined his head once. “Nox Byrne.”
The last climbed out with a medic’s bag slung across his chest, eyes steady, movements precise. “Eamon Tierney.”
