The pain was evident, but so was his resolve.
I watched him closely.
Lucian had always been one to resist control. But under fire—he stood his ground. There was something deeper there. Loyalty, maybe. Or perhaps he was just a man tired of running from another sort of pain.
Luca moved on to Lachlan.
“Saint Columba,” he said. “From the green fields of Ireland, a man of fierce temper and iron will. He commanded legions of monks, bent kings to his will, and wherever he walked, power followed.”
With no hesitation, Lachlan extended his hand.
The blade sliced.
He didn’t flinch. There was a subtle tightening of his jaw but nothing else.
He clasped Luca’s hand, palm to palm, their blood mixing. Then his grip locked around mine, solid as steel.
When the card touched down and the flame surged, Lachlan didn’t make a sound.
But sweat rolled down his spine, darkening the fabric of his shirt.
That was his only tell.
The man was steel on the surface—but this fire pushed everyone to their limits.
I nodded, impressed.
Lachlan could handle the pressure. But he would do it in silence, bury it deep, and let it rot him from the inside if he had to.
Luca stepped up to Gabriel next, giving him a wry smile. “The Archangel Gabriel. The messenger. A voice of truth, even when no one wants to hear it.”
Gabriel held out his hand. “The messenger, huh? Figures I’d get stuck with the talking gig.”
The knife slashed. He winced hard.
“Jesus, you trying to carve a sermon into my palm?”
Gabriel squirmed but kept his hand out.
“Motherfucker—did you have to go that deep?”
Gabriel sealed the oath with Luca, then turned to me, gripping my hand with a grimace. “Well, Nik, guess we’ve got matching scars now. How romantic.”
I didn’t laugh, but a smirk slipped through.
Luca chuckled and lit the card.
Gabriel gritted through the burn. “Truth-teller. I can work with that. Hope you like hearing it too, because this is one sick-as-fuck ritual.”
As the flames consumed the card, he growled and locked eyes with Luca. “I’ve got a feeling you and I are gonna have some long talks.”
The smell of charred flesh filled the air.
But Gabriel didn’t pull away.
He stood his ground, pain written all over his features, but his humor never broke.
It was a shield. I’d seen that before. Men who joked their way through trauma never get around to healing.
