War of Hearts (True Immortality) - S Young Page 0,4
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 when 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