Tiernan leans forward, his elbows on the table, watching the exchange with quiet amusement before turning to me. "Ignore them. They’ve been at this all day. It’s exhausting."
"Exhausting to be around," Lochan mutters, barely looking up from his plate. His deep voice rumbles low enough that I almost miss it, but the dry humor isn’t lost on me.
"Honestly, how do you all put up with each other?" I ask, shaking my head. The warmth I’m feeling now softens the edges of my earlier tension. The knot in my chest loosens, just a little.
"Sheer endurance, I’d imagine" Marius says suddenly. He’s been quiet until now, sitting at the edge of the table with that sharp expression he always wears, but there’s a something lighter in his tone this time. "Or maybe masochism. Haven’t decided yet."
Rory snorts, leaning back in his chair.
For some reason, that small hint of humor from him makes the whole group laugh louder than anything Rory or Callen said. It’s unexpected, like seeing cracks form in armor you thought was impenetrable. I find myself laughing too—actual laughter, not the polite kind I force sometimes to smooth over awkward moments.
"Didn’t think you had it in you," Tiernan says, shaking his head at Marius.
"Neither did I," I add, glancing at Marius. His eyes meet mine briefly, and for a minute, they don’t feel so heavy.
The moment passes quickly as Lochan mutters something about needing earplugs for future meals. It’s easy to get swept up in their energy, their ridiculousness. For a while, I let myself. I let the noise drown out everything else, the tension, the stares from across the room, the hollowness that Eira and Laria left behind.
But only for a while.
Chapter Twenty Three
Brigid
It doesn’t take much for my thoughts to drift. They always do, even when I don’t want them to. There’s a shadow in my mind that never fully leaves, lingering at the edges of my awareness. The Morrigan. Her name isn’t spoken here, not aloud, but I can feel her presence, always. She’s quieter now, less oppressive since I fought to reclaim myself, but she’s still there. Watching. Waiting.
"Brigid?" Callen’s voice pulls me back before I sink too far. He’s leaning toward me, one brow raised in question. "You’re zoning out again. Thinking about how devastatingly handsome I look today?"
"Hardly," I say, rolling my eyes. But I smile, because that’s what Callen does—he makes me smile. He grounds me, keeps me tethered when I start to drift. They all do, in their own ways. Even Marius, though his version of comfort is more... complicated.
"She’s probably planning her escape," Rory teases, nudging my shoulder with his. "Can’t blame her, being stuck with us."
"Maybe she likes being stuck with us," Lochan counters, surprising me. He’s not usually the type to weigh in on these conversations, but there’s a calm certainty in his words that makes something in my chest tighten.
"Maybe," I admit quietly, focusing on my plate rather than the faces watching me. It’s easier to say things like that when I’m not looking at them.
Their laughter picks up again, light and easy, and I try to stay present, to hold on to this fleeting sense of normalcy. It’s fragile, like glass that could shatter under the slightest pressure.
Marius shifts. He’s not laughing with the others. "Something on your mind?" he asks, low so only I hear it.
"Nothing important," I say, matching his tone, but there’s a hesitation in my voice that betrays me. He doesn’t miss it.
"Sure about that?"
"Positive," I insist, though my fingers tighten around the edge of the table. For some reason, lying to him feels like a waste of effort. Maybe because he doesn’t believe me, anyway.
"Fine," he says after a beat, leaning back and letting his attention drift to Rory’s latest ridiculous story. But before he fully disengages, his hand brushes against mine under the table, just barely, just enough to send a ripple through my chest.
I glance at him, but he’s already acting like nothing happened. The bond between us hums quietly.
I take a breath, forcing myself to focus on the laughter. It’s easier now to settle back into the rhythm of the group, to let their voices and easy camaraderie act as a buffer against the dirty looks and vicious whispers.
The meal drags on, and for a while, things almost feel normal. Callen tosses another joke my way, Tiernan throws in something surprisingly funny, Lochan adds a rare but welcome comment, and Rory’s over-the-top antics keep everyone grinning. Even Marius joins in here and there, his sarcasm sharp but oddly fitting.
It’s good. It’s safe. Or at least, it feels that way until the sensation hits me.
It starts as a faint throb, deep in my chest, then spreads outward like a gasoline-fueled firestorm. Heat rushes through me, tingling down every nerve, every vein, until I have to grip the edge of the chair to steady myself.
"Brigid?" Lochan notices first, his brow furrowing.
