Page 9 of Loched in Love

Elena. “She was already on her way to Scotland,” I breathe as I look down at her.

The werewolf shoves his hands into his pants as I rise to my feet to thank him.

“Yeah, she’s got a printed ticket in her bag. She’s left quite a few plastic sample jars dotted around the moat you might want to take a look at,” he continues.

“Nae, she can show me herself when she awakes. I’ve no doubt it’ll be soon,” I say.

“Let’s get her settled in then. Bring her to the west wing, Lachlan, I’ve got you each a room set up,” Whitley says, smiling softly by the door.

“That was… neat,” Bernadette says, before getting to her feet and leaving the room.

I turn to my bundle on the couch, and grin from ear to ear as I move to gently pick her up, and follow Whitley to where she leads.

Cuddling Elena to me, I adjust her to miss the doorway on our way out, admiring how thick her legs and hips feel. My mate is full-figured and shapely.

She’s thicker than porridge. I bloody love porridge.

Chapter 3

ELENA PIERSON

Igroan into my pillow, my brow puckering in disgust at the sounds of muffled, indistinct arguing nearby, and curse inwardly when I hear the unmistakable sounds of a male voice. I swear, if Natalie’s brought my brothers to my house again before noon, I’ll kill her.

With one last huff of annoyance I raise up off my pillow, opening my gaze as I do and go stock still. All of the irritation inside me deflates.

Where am I?

The sound of a murmured dispute continues, but drops to a whisper as I gingerly take in my surroundings.

I sit in a luxurious four-poster bed covered in light, cream sheets and a thick, fluffy comforter that feels like a cloud. The room is huge, bigger than my whole apartment back home, and the walls are a deep burgundy lined with old furniture. I glance at the window where sunlight pours through thick-patterned glass, and suddenly yesterday’s adventures come back to me in a rush.

The plane trip to Europe, the long bus ride to Romania, and then falling backward into icy water. Oh no.

I must be in the fucking castle.

Peeling away the covers, I realize I’m still dressed in the clothes I threw on at the village hotel the night before, a comfortable pair of beige shorts and white button-up.

Strange, I remember falling into the water, but my clothes smell clean.

Another glance around the room and I spot my boots sitting by an old chair and vanity, but before I can get out of the bed to go and beg someone for forgiveness, there’s a swift knock at the door.

A woman walks in wearing a chef’s uniform with a huge smile on her face. “Good morning. I thought you might be waking up soon and wanted to let you know breakfast is served downstairs,” she says.

“Umm, hello,” I mutter, suddenly at a loss of words on just how to broach my trespassing and whether the castle hosts will be calling the cops.

She tucks a stray brown hair behind her ear and opens the door a bit wider to talk. “You gave us quite a scare, falling in the moat like that.”

“I’m so sorry for any problems I’ve caused,” I reply, moving to get up from the bed. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I don’t think anyone would ever choose to fall into the moat on purpose, and no one is upset you did. Everyone is curious about what you were doing though, especially so late at night,” she says, as if unconcerned about my trespassing completely.

Embarrassment courses through me, followed by a large dose of relief. At least I’m not going to jail.

“Everyone?” I question, wondering just how many people are still here when the place was supposed to be closed for renovations.

She holds a finger to her lips as if to shush me and steps into the room, closing the big wooden door quietly behind her.

“I’m Whitley, the castle chef. Why don’t you come downstairs and join us all for breakfast, and tell us about your adventure? Vlad and Aubrey, the castle hosts, are already there eating by now. They don’t sleep much. Why don’t we head downstairs to hear about it,” she says, smiling warmly.