Chapter 2 — **Chapter 2**

Elowen Morgan (Third-Person Limited)

Elowen Morgan gripped the steering wheel of her rental car, her knuckles whitening with every twist of the narrow Scottish lane. She felt as if one wrong move would scrape the left side of her car clean off. *What had she been thinking?* “This was sheer madness,” she muttered.

“Going to Scotland to look for your missing boyfriend?” Kiersten’s voice crackled over the speakerphone. “Or deciding to drive on the wrong side of the road?”

“The driving part!” A dark hedgerow loomed ahead like a living wall, and Elowen slammed on the brakes. The car jolted to a stop, her heart pounding in her chest.

A thin man stepped from the shadow of the hedgerow, his head cocked curiously at her. He tugged his cap lower over his face, then loped across the field with an odd, uneven gait, stepping over a low stone wall bordering a green pasture before vanishing into a copse of leafless hawthorn trees, their bright red berries stark against the grey sky. Elowen blinked, and he was gone, as if swallowed by the landscape.

She exhaled shakily, guiding the car back into the lane. Six weeks. It had been six weeks since Thorne disappeared, and every mile of this journey felt like a battle against the fog in her mind, threatening to drag her back into the dark pit of depression she’d only just begun to climb out of. She couldn’t stop now, though. Not when she was so close to answers.

“I don’t think we should be talking while she’s navigating these roads,” Laura chimed in, her voice tinged with worry. “I feel guilty neither of us came with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elowen said, her pulse slowing as the road widened after a curve. “You both have lives and jobs. I’m the unhinged mythology professor whose boyfriend vanished without a trace. This is on me.”

“You’re not unhinged,” Laura countered firmly. “You know Thorne. He wouldn’t ghost you. We’ve got your back.”

“Thanks.” Elowen nodded to herself. *Right*. She knew something was wrong. The police in Redvale, her small Northern California coastal town, had dismissed her as a jilted girlfriend with too much imagination. But Thorne hadn’t just left. His car was still in her driveway, his passport and guitar abandoned in her house. And then there was the phone—pinging in Edinburgh just five hours after it had been at Mad Creek Bridge near her home. Impossible. Something horrible had happened, and she wasn’t going to let it go.

“Did you ever get through to Thorne’s brother?” Kiersten asked.

“He’s avoiding me,” Elowen said. “I got through once, asked for Thorne, and he hung up. Called back, no answer.”

“He might be as worried as you are,” Kiersten offered.

“I don’t think they’re close,” Elowen said, her eyes scanning the unmarked country lane for any sign of Murray Smithworks, the family business Thorne had mentioned in passing—a blacksmith shop he’d worked at before escaping to California. That’s where she’d start. “But yeah, he’d have to be worried, right?”

Her gaze drifted briefly to the landscape, grey and green under a brooding sky. In the distance, on the slope of a hill, she spotted a stone circle, ancient and stark against the rolling valley. It was like something out of her mother’s fantasy watercolors, or the Welsh myths she taught in her classes—tales of vanishings and otherworldly thresholds. A pang of nostalgia hit her; she wished she were exploring Scotland with Thorne, hearing his childhood stories of these very hills. Instead, she was chasing a ghost.

A sharp honk snapped her back to the road. A delivery lorry was pulling out into the lane, directly in her path. She swerved left, raising a hand in apology, her heart racing again. As she passed, she caught sight of the faded paint on a stone barn behind the wall where the truck had emerged: Murray Smithworks.

Relief flooded her. She found a spot to turn around, then carefully drove back to the business, turning left into a yard surrounded by carved grey stone. The air was thick with the faint clang of hammers and the sharp scent of heated metal, a gritty contrast to the pastoral hills beyond. She parked near a low building marked as an office, took a deep breath, and sent a quick text to her friends.

*Found it. Wish me luck.*

*Good luck. Don’t let him brush you off.*

Elowen stepped out into the cool Scottish morning, the overcast sky mirroring Redvale’s familiar chill. The temperature hovered around forty degrees, a reminder of why Thorne had taken California’s coastal weather in stride. She approached an old wooden door with peeling paint and a small plaque reading *Office*. She knocked, then eased it open. “Hello?”

“Just a moment, dear!” a warm voice called from the back. “Just a wee moment.”

Soon, a round woman with curly hair and a rosy face bustled from a hallway, her hands fluttering nervously. “These boys,” she sighed, settling at a cluttered desk with a computer and two phones. “Can’t fill out a sales order to save their life. How can I help you, dear? If you’re looking for the garden store, it’s down the lane. We don’t sell directly here at the smithworks; this is for restoration and construction.”

Elowen raised a hand. “I’m not here for garden things. I’m looking for Gareth Murray.”

The woman tilted her head, her smile curious. “American? And you’re looking for Gareth, are you?”

“Yes, Gareth Murray. He’s the owner, right?”

“He surely is, but he doesn’t receive guests at work most days.” Her smile faltered slightly. “You’re not a reporter or anything like that, are you?”

“No,” Elowen said, hesitant to reveal too much. “Just a friend of a friend.”

“Of course, dear.” The woman’s smile returned. “And your name?”

Elowen hesitated, then relented. “Elowen.”

“Lovely name.” The woman beamed. “I’ll see if I can find him.”

Moments after she disappeared into what Elowen assumed was the workshop, a burly man stormed down the hallway. He froze, staring at her, his mouth falling open. So did hers. “Thorne?”

He wasn’t Thorne. She knew it instantly, but the resemblance was uncanny. This man was rougher, his reddish-brown hair shorter, a thick beard framing his face—something Thorne couldn’t have grown in mere weeks. His green eyes, identical to Thorne’s, glared at her, and his shoulders were broad with muscle, his arms massive from labor.

Gareth Murray wasn’t just Thorne’s brother. He was his identical twin.

“You.” His voice was low, rough. “How—”

“I’m Elowen Morgan.” She thrust out her hand, bold despite the tremor in her chest. “I’m Thorne’s girlfriend from California, and I need you to tell me where the hell your brother is.”

His blank expression morphed into a scowl. “Out.”

*Nice to meet you too, Gareth Asshole Murray.*

Elowen glared back. “Excuse me?”

“Not excused.” He pointed to the door. “Out.”

“Not until you tell me what happened to—”

“Outside,” he bellowed, stalking toward her, herding her toward the door. “Out. Now.”

The office manager, Fiona, followed, wringing her hands. “Gareth, I didn’t mean to—”

“Fiona, you’re fine. Elowen, I will talk to you. *Outside*.”

He held the door until she stepped through, leaving the cozy warmth of the office for the frosty yard. She strode toward her car, fighting the irrational urge to hug him. He looked so much like Thorne, sounded like him. But his glare was pure venom, as if she’d personally wronged him.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I’m sorry for showing up like this, but you wouldn’t return my calls. Thorne’s phone went dead and—”

“For good reason.”

She gaped. “What?”

“You’ve no right to come here.” Gareth crossed his massive arms, his scathing gaze raking her from head to toe, lingering on her sturdy walking shoes. “Thorne always had a habit of picking the wrong sort to trust.”

Elowen blinked, stung. “Wh-what?”

Was this a misunderstanding? Sure, Thorne and Gareth could be poster boys for Scottish tourism, but did he have to be so cruel? She was an assistant professor, owned her own home. She wasn’t a supermodel, but she liked her long brown hair—wavy or curly depending on the day—and her father’s blue eyes. She wasn’t an ogre, damn it.

“Thorne left you,” Gareth said coldly. “It’s a shit situation, but relationships end every day.”

Her anger flared. She’d lectured herself on staying calm, but his words cut deep. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t know why not. You weren’t together long.”

“Are you saying your brother travels the world, makes women fall for him, then leaves without a word, abandoning his car in their driveway?”

Gareth opened his mouth, then shut it. A flicker of guilt crossed his face, gone in an instant.

“Do you know where Thorne is?” she pressed. “Is he okay?”

“Yes,” he forced out. “And… yes. I believe he is fine.”

Elowen squared her shoulders. “I want to talk to him.”

“You can’t.”

“Is he here?” She scanned the empty yard, the air biting with cold, clouds dense overhead. Maybe someone else knew something.

“Elowen.” Gareth’s tone softened, just a fraction. “Thorne did tell me about you. He has responsibilities here. You shouldn’t have come.”

“He left everything in California. His car. His passport. His bank card. Books. Things his wife gave him before she died. No one would leave those behind, Gareth.”

He said nothing, his jaw tight.

“Did your family…” It seemed absurd to even think it. “Did your family *kidnap* him?”

“My family has nothing to do with it!” His tenuous patience snapped, his voice a shout. “Listen, there was a lot Thorne didn’t tell you. I didn’t call you back because I didn’t know how to explain. I thought you’d move on. My God.” He exhaled harshly. “Thorne said you’re a bright woman, a college professor. You have a wonderful life in California. You’ll be fine.”

Elowen was stunned by the unexpected compliments from this hostile man. “I… Thank you?” She shook her head. “That’s not the point. I *love* Thorne.”

Gareth stepped closer, his green eyes piercing. “Do you now?”

“Yes.” Weeks of reflection had solidified it—every moment with Thorne replayed in her mind. “He made me feel alive after a horrible time. He was kind, generous. He *saw* me. I love him, and I’m not leaving until I know what happened, because I know you’re not telling the truth.”

Gareth moved nearer, the heat of his body cutting through the chill. “He wasn’t honest with you, Elowen.”

Her stomach dropped. “Is… is he married? Did his wife not really die?”

“No.” His answer was sharp. “That wasn’t a lie. Thorne was widowed two years ago. Seren was…” He paused, his gaze distant. “It was hard for all of us, but Thorne was wrecked.”

“It’s been two years.” Around the time her own depression had been diagnosed, a shared grief that bonded them fast. “Is it so wrong he doesn’t want to be alone? Is that the problem? Your family doesn’t want him to—”

“Elowen.” Gareth’s voice was harsh. “Thorne has responsibilities here. He was on holiday, and he took things too far.”

“Too far? We were together four months. He was working on a visa. We were going to—”

“It was never going to happen,” Gareth cut in. “It’s not possible.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I want to talk to Thorne. If he’s here, I want to see him.” She scanned the yard again. “Where is he?”

“He’s here, but not *right* here.”

“So how do you know he’s okay?”

Gareth shook his head. “I know *where* he is, but I can’t take you—”

“Why the hell not?” Elowen felt the edge of desperation creeping in. Gareth acted like this was a simple breakup, but nothing about Thorne’s disappearance was normal. “I’m not leaving Scotland without talking to him.”

“Well, good luck.” He offered a tight smile. “Ask around, but no one will help you.”

“What does that mean?”

The office door popped open. “Can I get you a cup of tea, dear?”

Gareth’s head swung to Fiona. “She’s not staying.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

“Don’t be a bully,” Elowen snapped, her timidity replaced by fury. “Why are you acting like everything about this is normal? It’s not! I know Thorne, and he wouldn’t just—”

“You knew a part of Thorne,” Gareth said quietly. “And that’s all any of us knows in this world.” He stepped back. “Go home, Elowen Morgan. Live your life. Leave my brother in your memories, because that’s all he’ll ever be.”

“I’m not done with this.” She opened her car door, seething. “Don’t think for a second I’m leaving this country without talking to him.”

Gareth said nothing, walking back into the office and shutting the door behind him. Elowen glanced up, over the barn, where a hill rose sharply, dotted with dark grey crags. A bright red fox perched on a boulder, watching her. When she straightened, it darted away.

Hours later, after a fruitless drive back to town, Elowen sought solace in the Four Crowns public house next to her hotel. She was drunk—rare for her—but the whiskey had seemed like a good idea at three in the afternoon to dull the raw edge of her anger. Now, she was very, very calm.

“Can I get you another, dove?” The bartender, a striking man with an angular face and brilliant blue eyes, leaned across the bar. His dark hair fell over one side of his face like a golden-brown waterfall, a line of gold rings climbing his left ear. His gaze seemed to pierce right through her.

Elowen squinted. “Is everyone in this country attractive?”

He flashed a wicked smile. “I guarantee you no.”

As if on cue, three old men with overgrown beards stumbled in, laughing raucously and shouting for pints, proving his point. She raised her empty glass with a small smile. “Fair enough.”

“You’re visiting from America.” He narrowed his eyes, leaning closer, his mouth falling open slightly as he studied her. “But you *aren’t* American, are you?”

She frowned, glancing at her shirt for a spill. “I think I know where I’m from.”

“But you were born on this side of the ocean, weren’t you? In Cymru.” His tone was certain.

“Wales,” she corrected, blinking. A chill crept up her spine, unrelated to the whiskey. “I was born in Wales. How did you know—”

“Oh yes, *Wales*.” His shock melted into a glorious smile. “So you’re visiting this side of the waters. Isn’t this delicious?”

“Visiting?” Elowen sighed. “Not exactly a vacation.”

The long-legged man slid into the booth across from her, the flickering lanterns of the pub casting shadows across his high cheekbones. “Do you mind? I love a good story.” He leaned forward, blue eyes glinting under arching black brows. “In fact, I *live* for them.”

A wave of disorientation hit her, the murmur of Gaelic from other patrons fading into a distant hum. She tasted a phantom burst of blackberry juice on her tongue, tart and sweet, as she stared at his full red lips. She shook her head. “I should probably get a coffee, not another whiskey.”

“Should you?” He produced a whiskey bottle seemingly from nowhere, refilling her glass and one that appeared before him. “Why did you come to Elderglen?”

Elderglen. Thorne’s hometown, where he’d told her stories of running through dense pine forests, hunting deer with his father, learning to ride horses. But the reality was different—sparse, leafless trees, more sheep than deer. It felt less like the fairy tales she taught and more like a riddle she couldn’t solve.

“My dove?” His voice softened. “Why did you come here?”

“I’m looking for someone.” Her head spun, the room tilting.

“Who?” He took a sip, watching her intently.

“Thorne Murray.” She blinked up into his uncanny blue eyes. “Do you know him?”

His mouth formed a small *o*, quickly hidden behind a cocky grin. “Thorne of Moray? Oh aye, I know that name. Now that’s a tale worth hearing twice.”

“It’s Murray, not…” She paused, catching his accent. “You’re not Scottish.”

His smile curved slowly. “No, I’m not. In your way of thinking, I’d be called Irish, I suppose.”

“So is this an Irish pub or a Scottish one if the bartender is Irish?”

“It’s my pub.” His grin widened. “Do you want to know my name?”

She glanced around; the pub was strangely quiet, voices muffled except for his. “I’m looking for Thorne. I *love* him. And he loves me. That’s why none of this makes sense.”

He sighed softly. “Oh, it makes too much sense, doesn’t it?”

“What makes sense?”

“The distances we travel for love.” His glittering eyes softened.

“Yes.” She reached for her glass, finding it empty. Had she drunk it already? “You understand. I came here because I love him. I need to know what happened.”

*Do you?* A teasing voice, her mother’s, whispered in her mind. *Curiosity, my Elowen. You’ll follow the rabbit into the forest, never seeing the wolf at your back.*

She focused on the man, unease prickling her skin. “How do you know Thorne?”

He leaned back, lifting the bottle. “How about another drink?”

A gust of cold wind dusted her shoulder as the pub door opened, making her shiver. “I don’t want more whiskey.”

“It warms the blood.” He looked amused. “But I suppose it depends on what kind of blood you have.”

His dark hair reminded her of the polished maple whorls her father loved. “He made my mother a drawing table from that wood,” she mumbled, her head spinning.

He narrowed his eyes. “What wood? Who made a table?”

She was really drunk. Memories flooded in—of Redvale, standing behind her house on the forest’s edge, peering into shadowed trunks where light danced like fireflies. Her parents weren’t gone in this memory, not lost to a car crash in the wilderness. Her mother painted in her studio, her father polished wood in the barn. *Don’t be curious, my Elowen,* her mother’s voice warned. *Leave the rabbit to the wolf. Never follow the lights. They want to lead you away from me.*

“Gareth Murray. Here to collect your American friend?”

Elowen opened her eyes to see Gareth standing over the booth, arms crossed. He nodded at the bartender. “Dru.”

She squinted up at him. “You.”

Dru smiled. “I was just about to ask your friend her name. Perhaps you can tell me.”

“Out of the booth, Dru,” Gareth growled. “You don’t need her name.”

“But I’m fairly sure I know one of them.” Dru’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t you want to tell me the other, my dove?”

Elowen tasted that sweet berry burst again. “Nothing you say makes sense.”

“Not now, but wait.” Dru winked, sliding out. “Your seat, Gareth?”

“And a glass,” Gareth said. “Leave the bottle unless it’s one of yours.”

Dru flipped the bottle’s neck, and it vanished. “I’ll bring you another.”

Gareth slid into the booth across from her. “Of all the pubs, it had to be this one.”

She pointed over her shoulder. “It’s next to my hotel.”

“Of course it is.” He folded, then unfolded his hands. “Listen, I’m sorry I was rude today. You surprised me and—”

“You shouldn’t have been surprised. I called you a dozen times after Thorne went missing.” She was too drunk for politeness. “What did you think would happen when his phone pinged in Scotland five hours after being at Mad Creek Bridge?”

His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell me that part.”

“You didn’t give me a chance.” She sighed, weary of retelling the story. “He went for a hike in the forest behind my house. We know how to be safe. We don’t hike after dark. We take water, protein bars, a compass—cell service is shit in the hills.”

“What’s in the woods?” Gareth scratched his beard.

“What do you mean? Trees. Bears. Poison oak. He knew all that. He’d been around four months.”

“When he was in Redvale, did anyone come looking for him? Anything strange?”

“No. I would’ve told the police. Search and Rescue looked for four hours at Mad Creek, but by then some of his stuff was gone from my house. His phone was in Edinburgh. And his boots—someone took his good ones, left the old muddy pair by my door. So the police think he took off.”

“But you don’t.”

“Of course not. He left his passport, his car. That’s not a normal breakup.”

“No,” Gareth muttered, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “I can see why you’re confused.”

“You’ve talked to him, right? You said he’s fine.”

“Uh…” He frowned. “Not exactly.”

“So how do you know he’s okay?”

“Because I know.” He sighed. “What can I do to convince you to leave this alone and go back to your life?”

“Nothing. The man I love is *missing*.” She downed the last of Dru’s whiskey, savoring its unmatched warmth. “This is better than any I’ve ever tasted.”

“Oh, I bet it is.” He snatched the glass. “Don’t drink that. Wait for the next bottle.”

“Why not?” She reached for it, but his scarred, callused hands—so unlike Thorne’s—moved too fast.

“Maybe I should go to the police here,” she said, voice rising. “I have the Redvale report, Thorne’s passport, screenshots of his phone in Edinburgh, his lawyer’s name—”

“Stop.” Gareth placed his hand over hers, voice low. “Elowen Morgan, you need to stop. Leave this be. Leave Thorne be.”

*Don’t follow the rabbit into the woods.* Her mother’s warning echoed, but Elowen knew she’d disappoint her. “I don’t believe you that he’s fine. I think someone forced him back here. Until I see him, I’m staying and making so much noise your life will never be peaceful again.”

Panic touched his green eyes. “Please.”

“Take me to see Thorne.”

Dru thunked a new bottle on the table, then walked away. Gareth watched him, then turned to Elowen. “You want to see Thorne? You *really* want me to take you to him?”

“Yes. I do.”

He downed a shot of whiskey in one gulp. “Fine.”

“Fine? Does that mean yes?”

“Yes. I’ll take you. And if anyone complains, I’m blaming my fucking brother.”

The next morning, Elowen woke with a massive hangover, squinting in the grey light at a note on her bedside table. Gareth’s surprisingly graceful handwriting read:

*Check out of your hotel and come to my house. Bring all your things. This may take some time.*

Below was an address—or what passed for one in Scotland. She’d need to ask the front desk for directions; her navigation skills had proven abysmal. She rolled back into bed, pressing fingers to her throbbing temples. The shadows of depression loomed like coastal fog, but she pushed them back with action, with anger. She wasn’t leaving without Thorne—or at least an explanation.

She called Kiersten, forgetting the time difference until it rang. Luckily, Kiersten, a night owl, picked up. “Hey! How did yesterday go?”

“Complicated. How’s home?”

“Good. No sign of Thorne yet?”

“No, but I met Gareth. They’re identical twins. That was… weird.”

“Whoa. Did Thorne ever mention that?”

“No. Gareth was rude as hell, but he agreed to take me to Thorne today.”

“I knew it,” Kiersten said, her true-crime obsession kicking in. “Family drama. I bet Thorne got roped into some toxic dynamic he was escaping. He’s kindhearted—dysfunctional people prey on that.”

“All I know is I’m worried and pissed. I get needing to sort family stuff, but there’s no excuse for not calling.”

“If they took his phone though…”

“There are other phones in Scotland, Kiersten.”

“Okay, but do you know anyone’s number anymore?”

Elowen fell silent. *Shit*. Good point.

“See? I can’t even remember Laura’s, and she’s had it for fifteen years.”

Elowen felt a flicker of doubt, but her anger held. “I’ll decide how I feel about Thorne when I see him. Right now, I just need to *find* him.” She grabbed the note. “And figure out how to get to… Avelar House.”

“That sounds fancy.”

“I doubt it’s fancy. His brother’s a blacksmith.”

“Still a cool job. Your dad would’ve loved that.”

“My dad was the kindest man alive,” Elowen said. “I don’t think he’d appreciate someone brushing me off when I’m just trying to find Thorne.”

“Still. Blacksmith or finance bro, this reeks of old money problems. Disapproving siblings, mysterious ‘responsibilities,’ extended travel. Who can afford to fly across the world for months on a blacksmith’s salary?”

*I’m a disgustingly wealthy prince who’s run away from home for a bit to enjoy being unemployed.* Thorne’s joking words echoed in her mind.

“Oh my God, I think you’re right.” Elowen closed her eyes, temples pounding. “Kiersten, maybe I should just leave.”

“Absolutely not! Thorne was happy with you. He was singing at the pub, even asked me about work at the mill before he disappeared.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“He asked me not to. He was building a life in California. If his family took that with lies or guilt, he needs you.”

Elowen sat up, resolve hardening. “You’re right. He needs me.” *And I need him.* “I’m showering, getting aspirin, and checking out. I’ll try to call later, but reception here is spotty.”

“Sounds good. Love you, Elowen.”

“Love you too.” She set her phone down, rubbed her face, and reached for the aspirin. Whiskey was dangerous.