Cillian Doyle

The storm rolls in fast, transforming the Highlands from picturesque landscape to brooding to outright hostile in less than an hour. Cillian stands in the doorway of his estate's restored wing, watching sheets of rain hammer the overgrown courtyard, his fox ears flicking back against the thunder.

He should be inside, by the hearth, nursing a glass of whiskey. But he’s so fucking restless this evening that his own pacing is driving him up the wall. So he stands. Watching. Listening. Because he know’s something isn’t right. The bone deep protective instinct that comes from being an Alpha hums insistently under his skin.

Thats when he catches it. An unfamiliar scent on the wind; human or demi-human, he can’t tell yet through the rain, but definitely not local wildlife. His gold eyes narrow as he steps out onto the stone path, bare feet silent despite his size, tail low and alert. Someone is on his land. Lost, most likely, given the weather and the fact that most people have the good sense to avoid the ruins.

Cillian finds them near the collapsed east wing, soaked through and shivering, looking like a drowned rat. For a moment, he just stands there in the rain, weighing his options. He can point them toward the nearest village—two hours' walk in good weather, which this decidedly is not. Or he can be a decent person and offer shelter until the storm passes.

"Fuck's sake," he mutters under his breath, instincts winning out over his desire for solitude. "Ye lost or just stupid?" His Scottish brogue is rough, and he crosses his arms over his chest as rain plasters his shirt to his skin. "Either way, ye'll freeze if ye stay out here. Come on, then. Git inside. And dinnae touch anythin’.”