War of Hearts Read online

  “I hate guns,” Thea sneered at the blood-spattered sink.

  There was something so dishonorable about using a gun in a fight.

  Then again, it was easy for her to say that. She could handle herself.

  The skin around the bullet hole tingled and Thea watched as it began to close over, good as new.

  Cleaning off the blood, she watched her skin return to its natural golden tan. Good. The last thing she needed to look like was a girl recovering from two bullet wounds. Thea layered up with a T-shirt and sweater since her jacket was ruined, bundled all her bloody stuff into a trash bag, and swept the apartment for any remnants of herself.

  Pissed to be leaving somewhere new so soon, she took it out on her landlord by not leaving what she owed in rent. The hag charged a small fortune for the shithole and there had been more than once she’d used her key to come into the apartment unannounced. Just last week Thea had watched the landlady evict a single mother and her two young kids for missing rent by a week. Thea had listened to the woman beg, asking for more time, while the landlady beat at her with a broom, shoving her down the stairs while her kids tripped at her feet.

  It had taken a lot not to intervene.

  Thea had given the woman money afterward, which she’d tearfully accepted. Hence why Thea hadn’t saved nearly enough to get out of Budapest.

  She needed the money more than the landlady. Maybe it was smarter to leave the money so if the police did somehow come knocking, she’d cover for Thea. But Thea knew no amount of money would buy that woman’s loyalty.

  Screw her.

  Hurrying out of the apartment, Thea swiftly departed the building. The train station was in the north of the eighth district where the streets were busier with bar-goers at this time of night. She took a detour into the southwest, using the shadows to obscure her journey. Finally, she found an apartment block with a broken front door and dumped the trash bag in their communal garbage. Hopefully, the police wouldn’t find it. But if they did, it didn’t matter. Her DNA wasn’t human. She did, however, worry he might find her through the bloody clothes. He had the means. He’d definitely recognize her DNA. Which was exactly why she had to get as far away from Budapest as possible.

  As she made the normally forty-minute walk to the train station in just under twenty-five, Thea didn’t bother covering her hair. The station was an international depot, so it was busy, even in the early hours. There were police patrolling it, yet if they stopped her upon description, there were no bullet wounds to be found. Thea wasn’t worried.

  Nah, she looked like a perfectly normal human woman.

  Instead of what she was.

  As for what that “what” was … that was something not even Thea knew.

  2

  The blue skies reflected in Upper Loch Torridon was a stunning sight from the rocky beach Conall stood upon. The Torridon Hills surrounded the glen, beinns with peaks that reached over three thousand feet high. They stood over the small villages along the coastline of Loch Torridon with such exaggerated summits and valleys, they gave the appearance of a vast, rugged castle. Forestry sprouted across some parts of the mountainous landscape, a wolf’s dream playground.

  Conall took a deep breath, smelling the light scent of the loch, the fresh, crisp air of the Scottish Highlands. There was no place more beautiful in Scotland than Loch Torridon, with its serene lochs and awe-inspiring glens created by the magnificent beinns—hills—that cloistered them in this haven and kept them safe from human intrusion.

  His werewolf pack lived in every village that surrounded the banks of the loch. Torridon had the occasional human visitor as not even the narrow, single-track roads into this part of the northwest could keep every human away. But wolves en masse emitted an energy that deterred the average human from venturing too far into their vicinity. He’d been told it was akin to dread. As if they sensed they would no longer be top of the food chain if they drove into Torridon.

  Not that any of his pack members would dare harm a human.

  “Are you going to stand there all day procrastinating?”

  Conall sighed and turned from the glorious landscape that reminded him not only of his fortune but of the massive responsibility weighing on him. Everything here was his. The land, the people. His to command and his to protect.

  James, his beta and closest friend, stood in the garden of Conall’s large lochside home.

  “It’s time, then?”

  James nodded, his expression grim. “They’re waiting for us.”

  As Conall took long strides up the beach to the garden, James commented, “You would think on a day like today, it would at least piss it down raining to reflect the situation.”

  He shot him a look. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Aye, she’s quite attractive.”

  “It wouldnae matter if she had the face of a badger’s arse.” Conall yanked open the driver’s door to his Land Rover Defender and got in.

  James chuckled as he jumped into the passenger seat. “Thankfully, she doesnae. Well, from the photos we’ve seen. Those could be a lie.”

  “Looks dinnae matter in a betrothal agreement. If they did, I’d be fucked.”

  His beta snorted. “Such modesty.”

  However, Conall wasn’t being modest. As an alpha it was no surprise he was one of the largest men in his pack. He stood at six foot six, built of natural muscle human men had to work hours in a gym to maintain, and he was born with more supernatural strength than most werewolves. It drew female wolves to him. But that was despite the deep scar that scored down the left side of his face, from the tip of his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. When his parents (the alpha couple) had died, Conall had to fight many wolves, male and female, who wanted to be alpha of the last werewolf pack in Scotland. If he’d lost to any one of them, Conall would always be Chief of Clan MacLennan, but another alpha would undermine his command.

  One of the wolves was a Cornishman, and he was a tough, sleekit son of a bitch. Before they’d even shifted to wolf form, he’d slashed Conall’s face with a silver blade. He hadn’t worn gloves to hold the weapon, burning his own palm in the process to show just how tough he was. Silver meant Conall’s scar was permanent. When they’d finally shed their human skin and fought their battle the honorable way, Conall had made sure the Cornishman’s defeat was permanent. After he’d won that fight and become alpha, more had come over the years, hoping they could best him.

  As his sister, Callie, proudly said loudly and often, Conall MacLennan was more alpha than most. But he didn’t think that was the reason he won fights against wolves who came to claim what was his. He won because he cared more. The wolves of Clan MacLennan, of Loch Torridon, were his family. His to protect.

  Which was exactly why he was about to agree to marry a female he didn’t know to secure the pack’s safety.

  “Remember, Canid might be alpha of one of the largest North American packs, but you have the upper hand here,” James offered.

  Conall shook his head as he drove the single-track lochside road from his home in Inveralligin to the Torridon Coach House, a fifteen-minute drive along the coast to the other side of the upper loch. The roads were winding, sometimes dark with silver birch and fir trees arching over from either side. The firs were lush and green while the birch trees were still in transition from winter to spring, their sparse leaves plum. Just as suddenly, the road would change, the trees disappearing from the rugged hills, opening to views of the loch glistening in the spring sun. Even after all these years, the view could distract Conall.

  An older hunter couple, Grace and Angus MacLennan, ran the Coach House for the wayward humans who found their way here and for visiting werewolves. They had been a part of Conall’s life for as long as he could remember. Angus was his father’s cousin and he and his wife were pseudograndparents to Conall and his sister. “I’d say we’re on equal footing.”

  “Not according to Smithie,” James disagreed. “Canid’s finances took a sharp hit wh
en his shares in Opaque Pharmaceuticals became worthless. Opaque,” he snorted. “Ironic.”

  Peter Canid was Alpha of Pack Silverton in southern Colorado. He’d heavily invested much of the pack’s wealth in several business ventures, including shares in a pharmaceuticals company that went under when a newspaper did an exposé on their illegal practices.

  “Canid still runs the largest pack in America.”

  “And you run the only pack in Scotland.”

  Conall smirked. “We are mighty, but we are small.”

  “Conall, Clan MacLennan is five times as wealthy as Pack Silverton. We have the upper hand here.”

  Wealthier than even that, Conall thought. Although his grandfather had died before he’d met him, Conall knew much of him. His legacy was respected in Clan MacLennan. It had brought them their wealth, meaning seclusion, if that was what a wolf wished for. His father took the whisky distillery his grandfather had started and turned it into one of the biggest whisky exports in Scotland. They situated GlenTorr distillery twelve miles north of Torridon near Loch Maree. There was no visitor center, for fear it would bring too many humans to their small paradise. A few years after Conall became alpha, GlenTorr became the third-biggest-selling whisky out of Scotland. The pack could live happily off its proceeds. Moreover, Conall’s dad bought shares in the largest oil company in the North Sea. Conall had sold the shares and that, along with the successful fishing company his delta, Mhairi Ferguson, managed, meant Pack MacLennan lived a comfortable life.

  Most of the pack worked at various jobs in the surrounding areas, especially Inverness, the nearest city, while a few others lived and worked farther afield. Conall supplemented all their incomes with a share of the pack’s fortune.

  Now Peter Canid was offering his second-youngest daughter, Sienna, in a betrothal agreement that would suit both packs. Conall would pay a substantial dowry for Sienna, and Canid and his large pack—made up of an impressive percentage of warrior-ranked wolves—would become a powerful ally to Conall’s small pack.

  “You dinnae have to do this, you know,” James said as Conall parked the Defender in the car park of the Coach House.

  Ignoring that comment, Conall got out and didn’t bother locking the car. No one would dare steal it.

  “Callie doesnae want you to do it.”

  That stopped Conall in his tracks. He turned to face James. “Callie’s a romantic.”

  He could still see her pretty face red with frustration when he told her about Sienna Canid. Dowries and betrothal agreements weren’t unusual in the lives of werewolves. They were a primal race, and that meant most of them still based their idea of power on physical strength. There were a few alpha females in the world, but males outnumbered them and few could outmatch an alpha male when she faced one. That meant, unfortunately, males ruled the werewolf world.

  It wasn’t the way with Pack MacLennan. Conall’s inner circle wasn’t male-centric, like most packs. His beta was male, but his delta was female, and before she got sick, Callie was his lead warrior. As for his warriors, they were a mix of male and female, his two healers one of each.

  Bowing to tradition chafed at Conall, but in this case, for the pack, he would do it. Even if it meant upsetting the one person he hated distressing.

  Anguish crossed James’s face. “This is hurting her, Conall. Could you not at least wait until …”

  Inwardly, he flinched. Outwardly, he took a menacing step toward his friend. “Until what? Until she dies?”

  “You know I didnae mean that.” James shrugged helplessly. “I just want her to be happy.”

  “You care too much for my sister’s happiness.” Conall strode from his friend, bristling with frustration. He was well aware his beta was in love with his sister. Under normal circumstances he would give his blessing, grateful that Callie would be with someone who equaled her in strength of body and spirit. But Callie was no longer the alpha she’d once been.

  And encouraging a relationship between her and James would only lead to heartbreak.

  Irritated that James had upset him seconds before he was to meet with Canid, Conall attempted to shrug off the feeling as he entered the Coach House.

  Grace greeted him. She was a petite woman in her late seventies and yet, with her dark brown hair, bright blue eyes, and fairly wrinkle-free, pale skin, she didn’t look a day over fifty. Another reason the pack sought seclusion. They could live to a good thirty years beyond the normal human life span and aged at a slower rate.

  Grace patted Conall on the arm and muttered, “They’re in the pub.”

  Nodding, he strolled down the narrow corridor that led into the pub, feeling James fall into step behind him. He was so tall he had to bend to avoid the low ceiling, which thankfully opened up as soon as he stepped into the cozy public house.

  A fireplace that took up much of the far wall hosted a lit wood burner. Despite the bright sun outside, the days were still cold this far up the coast, and although wolves did not feel the chill as humans did, the fire was still welcome. On the opposite wall was the bar, a traditional chestnut counter that gleamed under candle bulbs set into black iron fittings. Angus, Grace’s husband, stood behind the bar. They shared a nod in greeting.

  As it was a Monday morning, the pub was quiet. Even if it had been busy, Conall would have known where the Canids were before he saw them. He’d met Peter Canid before. He had his scent, and it was more than just a wolf’s heightened senses. Conall had a gift for finding people. In another life, he would have made an excellent private investigator.

  James followed him as he crossed the room.

  He didn’t ask Conall if he was ready. The Canids would hear anything they said now, even at a whisper. But Conall could practically feel the question from his friend.

  Wishing his sister and James would stop worrying about him, Conall couldn’t think of what he could say to convince them. They should know him by now. It absolutely did not make a difference who he married. He wasn’t a romantic like Callie. Or James. He’d never loved a female other than the familial love he’d had for his mother, and for Callie and female pack members.

  Human women, the ones not terrified by him, were good for sex when Conall wanted fragile and feminine under his hands. Female wolves were excellent for fucking, wild and free. There were several single wolves in the pack happy to indulge in casual sex with the alpha, though he never spent a night with a female who lived on Loch Torridon. That was just asking for trouble.

  So no—marrying Sienna Canid made no difference to Conall. As long as the female was willing and not under pressure from her father, and that she understood their arrangement was more about business than anything else, it would satisfy Conall. It would be nice, yes, if they developed mutual affection through the years, but Conall would make do either way.

  Peter Canid and his daughter rose from the table by a Tudor window. Like most alphas, Canid was tall, but a few inches shy of Conall’s height. His light hazel eyes were hard with determination. He was an ambitious bastard to be sure, but Conall felt he was also an honest one.

  As for Sienna, she was almost as tall as her father, athletic, strong. At twenty-six she was five years younger than Conall. However, she had the bearing of someone older. Confident, not easily intimidated. Her green eyes met Conall’s, assessing, neutral. Usually females stared at his scar for a few seconds, before a blatant exploration of his body. Female wolves were mostly very up front about sex. But Sienna was guarded. She wore her blond hair swept back in a high ponytail and there was little makeup on her face. She didn’t need it. Dressed in a T-shirt, plaid shirt, and jeans, she also hadn’t bothered to dress to impress him.

  Conall liked her immediately.

  Aye, she’ll do.

  “My daughter, Sienna,” Peter introduced her without preamble.

  She held out her hand to Conall. “Nice to meet you.”

  He shook it, even more impressed to find her palm dry. She wasn’t nervous then. “Nice to meet you too.” He
gestured to James. “My beta, James Cairn.”

  “Sir! Can I help you?”

  Conall spun around at the sound of Grace’s raised voice, just as Angus moved with the speed of a much younger wolf from out behind the bar. A tall man dressed in a well-fitted suit strode into the pub with Grace on his heels. He drew to a sharp halt as he came face to face with Conall.

  The man was human.

  A stranger.

  Of course that wasn’t unusual.

  What was, however, was the way he was looking at Conall like he knew him.

  “Conall MacLennan?” the man asked, taking a step toward him.

  Something about the man caused the hair on the back of Conall’s neck to rise. He looked beyond the man at Grace, sensing she’d felt something from the stranger too.

  “He’s not alone, Conall,” Grace informed him. “There are three SUVs outside with armed men.”

  This knowledge pissed Conall off. Humans daring to enter his land, armed and loaded. For what?

  “Who is asking?” he demanded of the man.

  “Conall MacLennan of Clan MacLennan?” He was American, like the Canids.

  Conall shot a questioning look at Canid but he shook his head. He didn’t know the stranger. This human.

  “What is your business here?”

  Sincere, dark eyes stared into Conall’s. There was an air of gentle culture to the man, the kind a werewolf could never hope to replicate. “I am Jasper Ashforth. I’ve come all the way from New York to meet with you.”

  “Is that so?” Conall crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, Mr. Jasper Ashforth, although it may not look this way to you, I’m in a business meeting. Perhaps you and I can talk later.”

  Ashforth shook his head. A grim sadness marred the sincerity in his eyes. “We have little time to waste, Alpha MacLennan.”

  Every wolf in the room tensed at the title.

  History had taught werewolves that, in general, humans aware of their existence were a dangerous thing.