HEART OF AN ALPHA

Lady Isolde clenched the reins of her horse so tightly her knuckles turned white. The sharp wind howling through the Highlands cut through her thick riding cloak, carrying with it the earthy scent of heather and pine. She sat tall in the saddle, her spine stiff with defiance, as the rugged landscape unfolded around her. Jagged peaks loomed on the horizon, and endless hills rolled beneath the shadow of storm-laden clouds. It was a land as fierce and unyielding as the people who called it home-a land she was now bound to by duty.

Her father, Lord Godfrey, had scarcely spared her a farewell before sending her to this desolate place. The marriage was to ensure peace between England and the Highland clans. A political alliance, he had called it, though she knew better. It was not peace her father sought but power. The union would secure control of the volatile borderlands, and Isolde, his only daughter, was the sacrificial lamb.

The escort of armed guards surrounding her bore the same grim determination as she did. None spoke as they traveled, their eyes scanning the hills for signs of trouble. The Highlanders were known for their cunning and their disdain for outsiders. She could feel their stares even now, hidden figures watching from the cover of trees or behind boulders.

"Milady, we're nearly there," one of the guards announced, his voice clipped with unease. He gestured toward a stone keep perched on a distant hill, its walls weathered by time and war. Castle Dunlachan, her new home.

Her stomach churned. The man awaiting her within those walls was Lachlan MacRae, the infamous leader of the MacRae clan. The stories she had heard painted him as a savage brute, a warrior hardened by battle and untouched by civility. Yet she was to marry him, to share his home, his life.

Drawing a deep breath, she fought the rising tide of panic. She would not show fear. Lady Isolde of Ravenswood was no trembling flower. If she was to be shackled by this union, she would face it with her head held high.

The gates of the castle creaked open as they approached, revealing a courtyard bustling with activity. Highlanders clad in tartan and leather paused in their tasks to stare. Some nodded respectfully, others simply gawked, their expressions unreadable. Isolde dismounted with care, brushing dust from her skirts as she glanced around.

The keep's imposing doors swung open, and a man strode out to greet her. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied back and piercing green eyes, he moved with the confidence of a predator. Lachlan MacRae.

"Lady Isolde," he greeted, his voice a deep rumble that carried over the quiet murmurs of the crowd. He bowed slightly, though the gesture felt more like an acknowledgment than a true sign of deference. "Welcome to Dunlachan."

She dipped into a curtsey, her movements precise and practiced. "Laird MacRae," she replied, her tone cool but polite. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, she saw something flicker in his eyes-curiosity, perhaps, or amusement.

"You've had a long journey," he said, his expression unreadable. "We'll see you settled."

"I appreciate your hospitality." Her words were measured, each syllable carefully chosen. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how out of place she felt here.

He gestured for her to follow, and she walked beside him toward the keep. His presence was commanding, his steps purposeful, and she found herself acutely aware of the space between them. The castle interior was as stark as the exterior, its stone walls adorned with faded tapestries and ancient weapons. It was a warrior's home, not a lady's, and the air carried the faint scent of peat smoke and leather.

"This will be your chamber," Lachlan said, stopping before a heavy wooden door. He pushed it open, revealing a room that, while modest, was clean and well-appointed. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light over a sturdy bed and a small table set with a meal.