PROLOGUE
The wolf howled, scraping his paws against the bulwark of his prison. He hungered for food, for blood. For the hunt. His claws were dulled from pawing at the gray stone walls that surrounded him. Sometimes he scratched so hard, the sharp nails broke off and bled. Consumed by the need to escape, to hunt, to kill, he felt no pain. His rage darkened and grew stronger as his yelps became louder and more shrill.
The coppery aroma of his own blood fueled his lust for the hunt. His stomach rumbled. He bared his jagged, pointy teeth, growled again, and paced around the inside of his rock dungeon. In his head, rabbits, foxes, humans lay, all dead at his feet, their flesh ripped open by his cuspids.
He lowered his lupine snout to the ground and sniffed. Food was out there. Waiting for him. He picked up the earthy scent of the older human—the one who was kind to him. The aged man was near, somewhere close behind the animal’s cage. If the man were to open the door, the wolf would kill him without remorse.
In the barred window high above him, the full moon cast a luminous ray of light upon the floor. The wolf jumped against the stone door with a frenzied howl. He smelled the human’s iron-laced blood, heard his heart beating, his lungs expanding with air.
Muscle.
Bones.
Blood.
Meat.
The wolf turned and regarded a pile of splintered remnants, all that was left of the meager meal the human had left for him. The dead meat had sated his stomach hunger, but not his bloodlust. He wanted to hunt.
He needed to hunt.
To kill.
He licked his bleeding paws and then continued to sniff, picking up a new scent.
Musky.
Yeasty.
Female.
His cock grew hard. Harder than it had ever been. Gone was the desire to hunt, to kill, to consume the mangled raw flesh of his victim.
He wanted to copulate, spread his seed.
Now.
He threw his muscular body against the bolted stone door, yelping and howling louder than before. Again he pounded, bruising and bloodying himself, his thick black fur falling to the ground in clumps.
He continued until he collapsed from exhaustion, his body weakened, his unsated lust consuming him. He dreamed of mounting his mate, of thrusting himself into her.
Of claiming her.
1
Dumped.
Unceremoniously dumped by Wade Stallworth at the coffee shop across the street from her office.
So sorry. Someone else. Never expected this. A woman at the office. Soul mates. Still friends?
Suzanne had numbly nodded, murmured something about understanding, and walked back to her office. There she had sat, staring at the rock he had given her over a year ago. Why hadn’t he asked her to return it? She supposed the expense of such a bauble meant nothing to him.
Suzanne looked at her cousin, Isabella, who was driving the rented economy car down the dark and winding Scottish country road. Isabella was a self-proclaimed witch, but she wanted no part of black magic, as she called it. No help there. Suzanne didn’t believe in any of that stuff anyway. Still, the thought of Wade ending up with a case of blistering jock rash made her feel slightly better, if only for a second.
But the next second, the tears came again. Only a few, accompanied by quiet sobs. Isabella reached over and patted Suzanne’s thigh.
“God, I’m sorry, Bell. Here I go again.”
“It’s okay, Suzie. It’s going to take a while. You were with Wade for years.”
Suzanne nodded and wiped her nose. “You know, he never said I was beautiful. The man I marry should think I’m beautiful, shouldn’t he?”
“Of course he should,” Isabella said, “and you are.”
But Suzanne had never thought so. Instead of dark gray eyes, she had always wanted blue. And instead of her boring brown hair, she coveted Isabella’s blondness. Suzanne’s curves and long oval face paled in comparison to her cousin’s lithe build. Isabella, at five feet six and a half inches, was the perfect height and made Suzanne feel like an Amazon at five feet nine.
She choked back another sob. “I don’t want to ruin this trip for you.”
Suzanne had taken a leave of absence from her law firm to accompany Isabella to northern Scotland. Isabella’s grandmother, whom she barely knew, had died recently and left her only grandchild a small castle outside a remote little village called Padraig. Suzanne loved all things Highland and Gaelic. But the trip that should have been a dream come true was tainted by Isabella’s grandmother’s death and Suzanne’s own recent dumping.
“Don’t be silly.” Isabella rubbed Suzanne’s thigh again. “I want you here. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”
Suzanne sighed. Isabella had been her rock since the Wade debacle. Suzanne was glad to be out of Denver, out of the whole freaking United States. Here in Scotland, Wade could become part of her past, and perhaps she could think about her future—her law practice, her desire for a home and children.