Did he understand the bond? Or any part of the entire situation he’d found himself in?
No.
Not at all.
Was it weird?
Fuck yes.
But was he scared? No. Was he grossed out? No. But he was curious, of course.
His rational brain knew the bond with Ciaran wasn’t reasonable, and although they’d said he did have a choice in the matter, Sawyer wasn’t sure he had a choice at all.
He was going to choose Ciaran. He knew he was. He couldn’t fathom not choosing him. Sure, Sawyer could leave right now, go back to Hobart and bury himself in work until the pain subsided, but he’d rather cut off his right arm than ever see Ciaran sad again.
The idea of being the cause of Ciaran’s pain was unfathomable.
And they hadn’t even performed the ritual yet.
God, and now he knew how it would happen—the biochemical exchange, as Kellan had eloquently put it. Or rawdogging it, as Fray had helpfully added—well, now Sawyer was certain he wanted it.
The idea of having Ciaran geneticallycodedwith him, whatever that meant, made Sawyer feel things he’d never dreamed of feeling. Better than a declaration of love, better than a vow, better than spoken promise.
He wanted that.
“Sawyer,” Kellan said, snapping Sawyer back to reality.
He had to drag his gaze from Ciaran’s, not even aware he’d been staring.
Right.
Room full of people, all of them watching.
What were they doing?
Oh, right.
Questions...
“Yes, sorry,” he said. “Questions. Um, I guess I should start at the beginning.” He saw a familiar face on the cot in the jail cell. “Hello again.”
Dylan flinched. “Hello. I’m sorry.” But then he looked at Ciaran. “What I did was reckless. I should have had better control. And I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Dyl,” Ciaran murmured.
“I panicked and put us all at risk,” he said.
“We can talk about that later,” Ciaran said. “About the Bass Strait consortium. What they said.”
The Bass Strait...
Wait.
Sawyer did a double-take. “There’s another consortium?”
Ciaran gave him a nod. “Yes.”
“How many are there?”
