Highland Wolf Pact

By: Selena Kitt

A Scottish Wolf Shifter Romance


BOOK DESCRIPTION





Sibyl Blackthorne isn’t afraid of anything—except maybe being sold into marriage to a man she doesn’t love. A man she’s never even met. A man who, by reputation, is one of Scotland’s cruelest lairds in over a century.



But what choice does she have, with her father dead and her uncle now married to his brother’s widow, putting him in charge of not only the Blackthorne fortune, but Sibyl’s future as well?



Then her betrothed turns out to actually be far worse than his reputation, so headstrong Sibyl decides life as a peasant, or even death, would be preferable to a future with such a despicable man, and makes plans to run away.



On an organized hunt for wolves—or, as the Scots call them, wulvers—Sibyl escapes her fiancé’s clutches, only to find she’s run into something far more untamed and dangerous in the middle of the woods.



When a big, brawny, long-haired man, who only speaks to her in Gaelic and calls himself Raife, simply picks her up and carries her off with him into the Scottish wild, Sibyl knows she’s in trouble.



When he takes her to a place no human has ever been, she knows she’s gone over the edge.



And when he, at last, marks her as his own, she discovers that only one wild heart can claim another.





HIGHLAND WOLF PACT




By Selena Kitt





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Chapter One





Scotland

Middle March

Year of our Lord 1502





Sibyl Blackthorne wasn’t afraid of anything.



That’s what her father had told everyone, from the time she was a toddler. It was probably because she was an only child, and a girl, that Robert Blackthorne, her dear, sweet father had encouraged her to do more masculine things than feminine ones. Who could blame the man for wanting a son? If she’d been a boy, she could have carried on the family name, assumed the family title, and run the family estate.



But Sibyl was a girl, and all she was good for was marrying. After all the sword fighting, archery and riding lessons, Sibyl’s only real contribution to her family was her pretty face and ability to catch a husband. She found the whole process ridiculous and told her mother so, several times, while her mother instructed the servants to lace her corset tighter, pinch her cheeks for color, and powder the tops of her breasts as if they were dinner rolls and they were dusting them with flour.



Her protests, however, did her no good whatsoever. Her father wasn’t even around to protect her anymore—a fact that made her tear up every time she thought about it, so she tried not to—and in the end, her uncle got his way. Godfrey Blackthorne was a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer, whether it was from the Archbishop of Canterbury or even the king himself. He wasn’t going to let a little slip of a girl like Sibyl thwart him. So Sibyl had been effectively sold—that’s how she saw it, even if it was a perfectly legal marriage pact, drawn up between her uncle and her betrothed and signed by King Henry VII—to a man she not only didn’t love, but a man she didn’t even know.



She had thought the worst part would be adjusting to living in Scotland, but she was wrong. The worst part, at least so far, had been her betrothed himself. The man she had anticipated meeting during the entire month-long trek across the English countryside, through the Scottish lowlands, to a dank, dark structure the Scots actually called a “castle,” had turned out to be far worse than the uncle she had left behind.



“We need to get ye ready fer the hunt, ya ken?” Moira bustled into the room, her arms full of fabric. Sibyl felt like a doll they dressed up several times a day and paraded out for her fiancé’s approval. She didn’t understand—it wasn’t as if the man hadn’t already agreed to marry her. But Alistair seemed to delight in each new outfit. She found it rather disconcerting.



“I don’t want to go.” Sibyl sighed, leaning against the window ledge and peering down at the courtyard below. The men were already tussling in the yard, energy high, anticipating the kill. She’d been excited at the prospect of a hunt at first. Her father had led many on their estate back in York, and she’d ridden alongside the men with her own bow. Her father had even marked her cheeks and forehead with the blood of the first boar she’d ever taken down by herself from horseback. She was an excellent shot—she could hit her mark at fifty yards.

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