“What have you done, Alban?” Magnus demanded as he pulled another jumper over his white t-shirt. This one was blue-gray and his fifth wardrobe change so far. “You’ve gone too far, cousin—not to mention disobeyed my orders. I specifically told you not to bother the lass any further.”

Magnus waited for a response while checking his refection in his bedroom’s antique standing cheval mirror. But none came.

“Da…” he prompted, looking over to where his father, Lachlan, sat on the deep red velvet couch closest to the room’s stone fireplace. There were those in the village who claimed Magnus was the spitting image of his father. Even though there were 21 years and a head of gray hair between them, he and his father looked more alike than Magnus and his own brother, Iain. But right now, his father couldn’t have looked more different from his son. Unlike Magnus, Lachlan didn’t seem at all concerned about the future of their kingdom. In fact, he seemed more interested in the fire’s roaring flames than in responding to his son’s prompt.

“Da…” Magnus said again, his voice growling with impatience.

“If you’re asking for my opinion about the jumper, I say that is the one,” Lachlan answered in Gaelic. He then switched to English to add, “The color brings out your eyes and matches your kilt without being overly matchy-matchy.”

Magnus shook his head. It seemed his father had been spending too much time at Iain’s house again. Taking advantage of his brother’s electricity and flat screen to watch too many reality programs.

“It’s your line, Da,” Magnus reminded his father, turning from the gold-plated oval mirror to give him a censorious look.

Lachlan responded with a heavy sigh. “Ach, king of mine, I’ve never been one for play acting.”

“Neither have I,” Magnus answered. “That’s why I must needs practice.”

Lachlan shook his gray head. “I don’t know about this plan of yours. Seems dodgy at best and likely to end in complete disaster.

“It’s also the only thing standing between us and Iain becoming king—at least for as long as it takes him to design an algorithm to run the place so he doesnae have to,” Magnus answered. “Just give us the line, will ye, Da?”

Lachlan heaved another sigh and then said in a monotone, “But your majesty, she punched you, our beloved king. And as your faithful beta, I could not let that lie. She must be punished—Ach! This would be far more believable if it weren’t Alban doing the talking. Do you reckon he’ll even be able to pull off these lines?”

“She had her reasons, Alban, and that’s not for you to decide,” Magnus answered, ignoring his father’s argument. “Now as your king, I command you to withdraw these charges and release her.”

Magnus waited a few ticks, but no answer came. “Da…” he prompted again.

Lachlan rustled the script. “Next line’s not Alban’s. Says it’s meant for some bloke named Jaime.”

“Aye, he’s the current pack alpha of the Edinburgh wolves—the one in charge of dispensing justice if any of them step out of line.”

Lachlan’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But I thought you said she was living fully among the humans and didn’t hold any affiliations with the Edinburgh pack.”

“Doesnae matter. As long as she lives in Edinburgh, she’s subject to the laws of the city and my lands.”

“And you got the pack alpha to agree to this?” Lachlan asked with a disbelieving frown.

“Aye, he’s a massive rugby fan. Now could you give me the next line, Da? I need to be on the road in less than fifteen minutes.”

Lachlan made a disgruntled sound but eventually continued, “But Alban brought her into my pack jail cell for good reason. Are you saying we’re meant to let her go after she committed a crime against our beloved king?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Magnus answered, his voice becoming hard with intimidation.

“Well, I suppose we could let her go with probation. Say one month of good behavior to be cleared of the charges. Of course, she’d have to live in your kingdom village during that time—really, Son, don’t you think this is a little too specific? She’d have to be all sorts of daft to fall for this.”

Magnus didn’t answer. Not because he disagreed with his father, but because he’d well and truly run out of options.

He was fair to certain Tara hid from him when he’d stopped by her work last week. And he had no clue how else to get near her. According to Alban, she’d been driving straight to work from Iain’s heavily secured apartment every day since the full moon, and then back, without so much as a stop at the grocery store or pub. And he doubted she’d return a text message, even if he’d bother to send one.

Magnus had woken naked and alone in her forest dell. But it only took a single sniff of the scent she’d left behind for his cock to come to full stand. Being an unheated she-wolf, she hadn’t felt the same tug of erotic attraction he did. She couldn’t have or why else would she have left that morning without so much as a by your leave?

Yet, her unique Canadian smell of snow and wool lingered in his nose long after it should have faded. And he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Even though his time would be better spent looking for another she-wolf to mate.

Nae, he had to do this. He began pulling on his socks and Ghillie boots. It was like jumping for the goal line when you only had a few seconds left of play. A desperate “hail Mary” as his American football counterparts called it. That thing you did when you were left with no other options.

“I’m going now, Da,” he told Lachlan as he headed for the door. “Dinnae wait up.”

“I will not,” Lachlan answered in Gaelic, his tone as disapproving as that of an old gran. Magnus stopped mid-stride. Not because of his father’s patent disapproval, but because of who he scented on the other side of his door.

It was Alban, his beta enforcer. The one who was supposed to have put his future mate in a special Edinburgh jailhouse for wolves an hour ago.

What. A. Dick.

Tara stewed in a room lit by beautiful antique brass lanterns. One she had already spent time in when she was shoved in it just last summer. It was the Scottish king’s official study, with intricately carved columns, an oversized heavy pine wood desk, and a stone hearth. Gorgeous and supple leather armchairs sat in front of a well-built fireplace. They’d probably been sourced from one of the beautiful Highland cattle she’d sighted grazing in the fields during her last trip to the Highland kingdom village of Faoltiarn. There were also three walls of built-in bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound books she doubted Magnus had ever read. Anyone else would have considered the room quite impressive.

However, for Tara it was anything but. Especially after being shoved—albeit more gently this time—into Magnus’s study for yet another forced visit. A jail cell was a jail cell no matter how many fancy museum artifacts you stuffed into it. And Tara knew she had to escape this room somehow or she would be stuck in Magnus’s backward ass village forever.

Tara could hear soft voices outside the door whispering to each other in Gaelic, a nearly dead language few actually spoke outside of school in Scotland. She only understood one word: banrigh. Gaelic for queen. They were already calling her that…as if it had been decided she’d spend the rest of her life in Faoltiarn, a village that still continued on like a never-ending production of Brigadoon, forever stuck in an ancient era no matter what else happened to the world around it.

That old trapped feeling set in, like a shadow squeezing her heart. And she could sense her freedom slipping through her hands like freshly tilled soil.

Tara carefully scanned the room. She wasn’t interested in any of its impressive artifacts. She was searching for anything that could help her escape. There was zero technology that she could see: no computers, no routers, not even a landline. No surprise there. She could smell the homemade methane coming off those exquisite brass lamps, and she doubted the castle was wired for electricity.

But then her nose picked up a scent she hadn’t noticed the last time she’d been held captive in this study. Sniffing, Tara went over to the inner wall of books and squinted at one row in particular. It smelled not only of books, but of something else. Something dark and smoky.

Thinking of all the Sean Connery-era James Bond films she’d binged on before moving to Scotland, Tara started pulling on the book spines. Sure enough, the fifth book in the row was harder to pull than the rest. She pressed down hard, tilting the spine towards her, and heard a metallic click. Then the entire row of books shifted down, revealing yet another ancient artifact.

One that made Tara’s eyes light up.

“Bloody Christ! What in the hell were you thinking, man?” Magnus demanded as he stormed down the hallway towards the king’s study where Alban had stowed Tara.

“Now, now, Son, do not let your temper get away from you,” Lachlan said in Gaelic. “I am sure Alban has a perfectly good reason for bringing Tara here. Again. And locking her up. Again.”

Magnus gritted his teeth. Ever since his cousin returned from Afghanistan in a state one could only describe as borderline rabid, Lachlan spent more time defending his nephew than wondering, as Magnus often did, if perhaps the fellow just wasn’t cut out to be a beta after everything that had happened to him.

“I do,” Alban agreed. His cousin was a miser with his words. However, Magnus knew his beta well enough to hear what he didn’t say: I have my reasons. Your father is right. I didnae bring your almost mate here on a lark.

To which Magnus answered, “What reason could you possibly have to deviate from the plan? What’s more, how am I supposed to play the chivalrous king now? She’s bound to think I’m a nutter who gets his jollies locking women up in my study. Like James McAvoy in that film, Split.”

“Did you see that film, then?” Lachlan asked. “Because I’m not entirely convinced he was supposed to be a Scot. In fact—”

“I don’t care!” Magnus roared at his father. “The point is this wasn’t the plan! He shouldn’t have brought her here. For any reason!”

And Christ, look at that. There was a gaggle of castle servants clustered together outside his study door, whispering in Gaelic about the she-wolf in the study.

Could this night get any wor—?

Magnus stopped short, a single scent slicing through all the others in the castle and effectively silencing every disparaging thought in his head. It was Tara. He could smell her loud and clear, even through the heavy wood and iron door of his study. But she no longer smelled like the aggressive lone wolf he’d met in the forest dell.

“Is she…?” he heard his father say behind him.

“Told ye I had my reasons,” Alban answered.

“Unlock the damn door!” Magnus commanded the servants. The women started to drop into a curtsey, but he cut them off, “Don’t bother with the formalities. Just get the door open!”

They did as commanded, jumping out of the way when Magnus barreled into the room.

Tara stood directly in the door’s path. And aye, her scent...instead of the intoxicating combination of snow and wool that had haunted him in the months since he’d met her, a new odor permeated the room: hers mixed with another. One he instantly recognized because it was his.

Tara smelt like them both, with a heavy dose of hCG—the pregnancy hormone—thrown in for good measure.

“She is with child!” Lachlan exclaimed behind him in Gaelic, as if narrating his son’s thoughts.

“Tara…we are wolf-mated then?” Magnus asked, his voice husky with wonder.

Tara didn’t immediately respond. And when she eventually did, it wasn’t with words. Magnus heard the distinct sound of a gun cocking. Then Tara raised his great-great-great grandfather’s Lebel military rifle and pointed it straight at him.