The druid pursed his lips, squirming in place, but the man did not yield. His nightgown was forced up. He pressed his thighs together in response, his free hand pushed against the man’s open chest, his nails scratching at the flesh, drawing blood.
The man laughed. “Yer pretty,” he said. “Why dontcha scream?”
The druid’s heart pounded. What choice did he have? And yet, if he cried out… who would come? His lips parted, and the man took the invitation, covering them with his own. The druid’s stomach surged with sick. The man’s hand forced its way between his legs and no matter how hard he fought, his size was too overwhelming. The druid’s wrists were restrained and the man chuckled against his mouth.
“Not a lassie…” he muttered. “Well, thas alright. Any pit’s a pit, innit?”
“Get off me,” the druid growled.
Another laugh. “Go on,” the man said again, his tongue tracing the druid’s lips. “Scream.”
He pressed his eyes closed, willing his voice up, but it wouldn’t come. It had never known how to make that sound, and even now, he could not force it out. But there came another—the sound of the tent flap parting once more.
Everything drew still.
The druid’s eyes opened, gazing upwards at a familiar form. Raven hair… and molten eyes.
The Vaich’s expression was reserved as he took in the scene. The druid’s nails dug into his skin, drawing more blood.
“Korv,” the Vaich muttered. “You graceless fuck.”
The man, Korv, straightened, looking between the druid and the king. “Aye… seems I’ve made a mistake, m’laird. It’s not my tent, ken.”
“It isn’t,” agreed the Vaich, gripping his collar and yanking him off. “Why don’t you go on and leave my things where they lay.”
“Aye,” Korv nodded, stumbling towards the door.
The druid used his newfound liberation to cover himself and rolled to his side, sliding the dagger back beneath the pelt. His fingertips lingeredagainst it a moment longer, as his breath reluctantly returned. He gazed up at the Vaich, and they watched each other in the silence.
Something passed between them. Knowing. Fear. A sense of great resent.
Neither spoke. The silence stretched. And in it was the chasm they had dug between them with their own bare hands.
The Vaich turned and departed as unceremoniously as he had come. And the druid lay still but the shivering over which he had no control.
Chapter forty-one
The Forest
Skyre hadn’t slept.
His fingers smelled of ale. His stomach twisted. It wasn’t usual for him to be ill after drink, regardless of its measure. A gift, he’d been told.
That morning, it felt like a curse.
He sat on a wooden stool beside his tent, lacing up his boots. The camp was busy as the Féin rose. The king kept his head down. His chest bare against the chill. It snapped at him. He let it.
“Mirín?”
He didn’t glance up.
“You look pale.” Medhin knelt beside him, reaching up to feel his forehead.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“No fever,” she said. “What is the matter? Did you sleep poorly?”
“I said I’m fine.” He pushed her hand away. He saw the concern hedged in her frown. It only annoyed him more. “Where is breakfast?” he barked, getting to his feet. He strapped his kit upon his waist, the leather digging hard into his skin.
