Magic.
This isn’t real.
Damn it, magic isn’t fucking real.
His brain tried to catalog the phenomenon, break it into logic, reason, science—but none of it fit or made sense to his academic mind.
Viper murmured again, his breath ghosting across the shell of Ward’s ear. The sound should’ve sent him bolting, but instead, it made something low in his chest unfurl. “Of course you’re muttering ancient Irish in your sleep,” Ward whispered to the dark. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
But even as the words left his mouth, his eyelids grew heavy again. The warmth of Viper’s body, the steady thrum of magic, and the quiet, unspoken gravity pulling them closer carried him back toward sleep. This time, he didn’t fight it.
When he blinked awake again, sunlight filtered through the narrow slats of the window, soft and golden, dancing across the carved oak branches that served as beams overhead. The light painted the room in warm amber and cool blue, where it caught the still-simmering fire in the hearth and the gentle ripples of the lake outside the crannóg.
He stretched, slow and stiff, only then realizing how deeply he’d slept. Bone-deep. No dreams. No panic. No ache in his chest from the constant state of adrenaline that had become normal over the past few days. He immediately missed the warmth at his back.
Did Viper leave?
He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, stripped to the waist, facing the fire pit. His tattoos and the mating mark on his arm caught the morning light like the ink was kissed by fire. His hair was messy, his face still shadowed with sleep, but his focus was razor sharp as he cradled something metal in his hand over the coals.
A tin.
Not some ancient relic or tribal offering, but an actual, honest-to-god metal tin with English writing printed on the side. Ward squinted. “Is that… coffee?”
Viper looked up, one brow cocked. “It’s only instant.” His voice was low and husky. “Gross as hell. But necessary for survival.”
Ward sat up slowly, dragging a fur with him as he leaned on one elbow. “You packed instant coffee, and you didn’t think to mention that you had it?”
“I pack it for every mission.” Viper poured some of the steaming liquid into a cracked clay mug, eyeing it like a man weighing his odds in a knife fight. “Because no matter where the fuck I end up—war zone, hostage op, or ancient mystical dimension—I refuse to face any of that shit without at least one daily dose of caffeine.”
Ward chuffed a sleepy laugh. “Right. The indomitable SEAL leader’s Achilles heel is shitty powdered coffee.”
“Damn straight.” Viper handed the mug over. “Drink it slow. It’ll burn the skin off your tongue if you’re not careful. Because I don’t know if the lake water is drinkable without treating it, and you can taste it in the coffee if I do.”
Ward’s fingers brushed Viper’s as he carefully took the mug. A faint pulse surged up his arm again, as if the freaking mating magic didn’t care that it was morning, or that his brain still hadn’t caught up with reality. He sipped the coffee and winced immediately. “This tastes like something that dripped out the ass end of a cat.”
Viper smirked. “And yet, you’re still drinking it.”
“It’s growing on me. Like a fungus.”
The silent beat that passed between them was comfortable. He was so damn relieved it wasn’t strained or awkward as he’d expected it to be. Just two men sitting in the space between myth and morning, caffeine and chaos.
Viper leaned back on one arm, eyes drifting to the lake outside. “Sleep okay?”
Ward didn’t answer immediately because the memory of his arm around him, the sound of ancient Irish murmured in dreams, and the pulse of tattoos dancing in moonlight slammed into him. “Yeah,” he said softly, watching steam curl up from the mug. “I think I actually did.” He could convince himself all day that everything was fine, but he knew he’d be lying to himself. Waking up in a house built on stilts above a lake, in a land pulled from the half-sung lines of myth, next to a man who could kill with a flick of his wrist and cradle Ward like he was something sacred… was normal, sort of. Maybe if he squinted hard enough, it could be classed as normal.
“Shall we go find the others?” Viper drained his coffee and placed the mug on a bench. He took Ward’s empty mug and put it with his. “I heard Zero’s voice a while ago. It sounded as if something was going on.”
Pleasure that Viper hadn’t taken off to see what the guys were doing and had waited for him to wake up warmed him from the inside out. “Sure.”
After quickly getting dressed, they stepped out of the crannóg. The early light poured across the water and cast long reflections that shimmered against the rope-bridged walkways. The air tasted richer, damp with dew and edged in the weight of too many stories breathing through the trees.
They walked side by side as they followed voices toward a ridge overlooking a wide, trampled clearing. Warriors moved below like restless storm clouds, their bare arms painted in slashes of blue and ochre, voices raised in challenge. It looked like they were preparing for battle, but none of them wore armor. Just kilts, belts, and reckless grins that usually preceded chaos.
Then someone pulled a stick from a nearby weapons rack and tossed it to another warrior, who caught it mid-spin and slammed a fist to his chest like he’d claimed a sword.
“What the hell are they doing?” Ward asked, frowning.
“Looks like sparring,” Viper muttered, squinting. “But that’s not a sword.”
