Their story had an end.
D’Artangnan had fallen in love with someone else, and truly had forgotten him.
As the bathroom door slammed, Michael heard him puking.
And he didn’t know if it was the booze from the previous night, or what he’d just told him.
Because apparently, when it came to fidelity and keeping a promise, Saint Michael of the little faith had dropped the ball.
Yeah, he was no saint.
It was ironic that he’d always believed he was.
Now, the truth was out.
He was the sinner.
Oh, and he’d been a big one.
* * * The Ravensmire Castle * * *
The Jet
Landing Soon
Above Scotland
Gryphen wasn’t the one that was jazzed about coming back to Scotland.
No.
While he’d loved it here, and they were getting married here, his joy was clouded with worry over Graham—his friend.
After speaking to Michael, all he could think about was how Graham was teetering on the edge. Oh, and all soldiers were there at some point.
When you went away to war, you came back a little fucked in the head. So, while Ian was chattering away on the jet beside him, he was worried.
Ian must have been talking to him because when he didn’t answer, the man put his hand on his arm.
And it pulled him from his thoughts.
“You’re worried.”
Gryphen nodded, and palmed Ian’s cheek with his much bigger hand.
“Yeah, I am. Graham is on the edge, my love. I don’t know if we can save him. I’m scared I’m going to another funeral for a friend who was a soldier. There have been far too many.”
Ian kissed him on the cheek. He’d been chattering away trying to distract his fiancé, and it was clear that wasn’t going to work.
“We’ll save him.”
God.
Gryphen hoped.
“Then, there’s Michael,” he admitted. “I’m worried about him too. He’s been kicked around by that piece of shit reporter.”
Oh, they all wanted to go to Riley Cunningham’s home, and beat the hell out of him—Ian included.
