Page 3 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
The door to the council chamber stood half-open, voices murmuring inside. She bit her lip, palms slick with sweat as she hovered at the doorway. She took a deep breath before stepping into the room.
It looked as it had for years, though time had clearly taken its toll. Along the walls hung relics of their family’s history: swords dulled by battle, cracked shields bearing the Sinclair crest. Faded tapestries that once depicted their parents were now dull, the gold thread worn thin.
Sorcha’s gaze lingered for a moment.
We were so young then. None of us kent how quickly everythin’ could change.
Callan stood at the table with two of his men, reviewing final preparations for the handfasting ceremony. She watched the way he braced his hands on the old oak table, his shoulders tight.
When he spotted her, his expression hardened, and his lips twisted in a grimace.
He looked at the men, jerking his chin towards the door. “Leave.”
His tone earned him wide eyes as they abruptly grabbed their scrolls, politely nodding to Sorcha as they passed her out the door.
“What happened?” he demanded.
Sorcha eyed him warily. He had the aura of a much older man, twice his age. Grey streaks peeked through his long black curls, the same grey streaking his beard. Deep lines were etched in his face, his responsibilities taking their toll.
His expression made her hesitate, the truth not coming out as easily as she thought it would.
This alliance is meant to save us, and I’m the one about to destroy it.
Sorcha held out the note silently, knowing it spoke for itself. Callan snatched it, his eyes scanning the lines once, twice. He slammed his hand down on the table with an angry grunt, causing her to flinch.
I kent he would react this way.
“She fled.” His voice was tight, every syllable pulled taut as he tried to keep his composure, but his hands were shaking. “That thoughtless bairn. Does she ken what she’s done?”
Sorcha stepped forward, her raised voice shaky as she spoke. Not with fear, but anger. “She was terrified, Callan! She hasnae slept in days, she?—”
“Without this alliance, we are exposed!” he roared. “If MacLaren withdraws his offer, we’ll be standin’ alone against every clan watchin’ for weakness.”
The words hung heavy between them as he cursed to himself.
Without this alliance, rival clans would test their borders, debt collectors would circle them like vultures, and men who’d once been loyal might begin to calculate their odds. Sorcha knew that.
Still, does he nae care about Ailis a little?
“Have ye nae heard about the brute ye’re sending her off to? Do ye think Ailis didnae hear what everyone’s been saying?”
Callan yelled roughly, more frustration than anger. “Do ye think I wanted this for her? Do ye think I daenae ken what sort of man MacLaren is?”
She stood unwavering. “Ye ken him?”
“I ken his reputation,” Callan said grimly. “The Wolf of the North. Ruthless. And I ken what happens to clans who stand against him.”
She saw it then. Not his anger or frustration, but hisfear.
His responsibility wasn’t to their family alone but to their people. To others, he was the hardened, stoic Laird. They didn’t see—couldn’tsee—beyond his walls.
His heart was with the clan. Always.
Regret hit her. He had little choice in the matter as well.
“And where is she now?” he asked, pacing back and forth.
“With our uncle. In London.”
