Somewhere near the back of the feasting hall, Kazan ‘Kaze’ Black was already well on the way to being drunk, but Zane ‘Zero’ Morgan was the exact opposite, sober as a judge and tucked into a corner, rolling something similar to dice with a couple of warriors, because of course he was. Juice and Trace were curled together on a bench near the fire with their fingers tangled together, their heads leaned toward each other like freaking magnet and iron who just couldn’t stay apart.
I’m the odd one out again.
He should be used to that by now…but he wasn’t. He exhaled through his nose and took another swallow of his drink. The liquor burned, but it was better than standing here, feeling like the only man in the room who didn’t belong.
Damn that shit is strong.
A hand landed on his shoulder, and he barely managed to keep the un-SEAL-like squeak behind his teeth. He glared at the hand on his shoulder because he didn’t do touch anymore, not unless it was necessary, then raised his eyebrows, shifted his gaze to the man it belonged to, and froze.
Dayum. I’d tap that.
Taller than his own six foot one, built like a damn mountain, the warrior made for one hell of a view, especially when it was combined with dark hair braided back from a face that looked like it had been carved from stone. He’d considertouchsomething he could get on board with if it was that man he was touching. His high, angled cheekbones wouldn’t have looked out of place on a model, but it was the eyes that got him, because—fuck—eyes the color of moss after a storm were his weakness.
He stepped to one side so the man’s hand slipped off his shoulder. There would never come a time when he’d admit that he missed the warmth of it almost immediately.
“You’re of our new band of brothers,” the man said, his voice somehow both rough and lilting at the same time.
Holy shit, that’s the oddest combination, but shitballs, it’s sexy as fuck.
“I’m one of them. Which one are you looking for?”
The warrior’s lips quirked, just a little, like he found that amusing. “The one who doesn’t know what he is.”
Reaper’s spine went rigid. He didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. “And you are?”
“Cian.” The name rolled off his tongue like a weird combination of challenge and promise. “Of the Stag Clan.”
Reaper took another sip of his drink. He’d learned a long time ago that most people couldn’t handle quiet. They filled it with things they shouldn’t. Things they didn’t mean to say, and Cian didn’t disappoint.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Cian’s fingers reached for his shoulder, but Reaper moved out of the way before contact was made. “The pull. The knowing there is something coming.”
How the fuck does he know that?
Magic, dumbass. Magic realm and all that shit.
Reaper set his cup down on the nearest table with enough force to slosh some uisce beatha over the rim. The wooden surface darkened where it spilled, but he’d clean it up later if someone had a problem with it. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Cian’s grin morphed into something feral. “Liar.”
The music swelled around them, the crowd’s roar rising with it, but Reaper barely heard it. His pulse was a drumbeat in his throat, and his skin too tight, as if he was standing too close to a fire. He stepped forward, crowding into Cian’s space, because if there was one thing Reaper knew, it was how to make a man back the fuck down. He wasn’t short, but Cian had a good three inches on him. Didn’t matter. He’d faced down bigger threats with less warning.
“You got the wrong guy, buddy. Back the fuck off.”
Cian’s gaze dropped to Reaper’s mouth, lingered there like he was memorized by it. “No. I don’t think I will because I don’t think I do have the wrong guy.”
The air between them crackled with the violence similar to the split second before a storm broke. Reaper’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He wasn’t interested in traveling a road that was lined with IEDs, even mental ones. He’d spend too many years traveling along Route Irish between Baghdad and the airport to ever want to spend his time dodging broken promises and harsh hands.
Fuck no.
Give him missions, weapons, and explosions. Those he could do. Anything else this dude was selling could just stay on the damn shelf. “This some kind of joke?” he demanded. “Because I ain’t laughing.”
Cian’s expression darkened, the green of his eyes going stormy. “You think I’d joke about this?”
“Hell if I know.” Reaper’s voice was a growl now, his patience thinning. “I don’t even know whatthisis that you’re on about.” There wasn’t a hope in hell he’d ever admit that after seeing both Trace and Juice, and most recently Viper and Ward, he could see the damn signpost in his head, and it was flashing in neon red, warning him to have nothing to do with whateverthiswas.
“You warrior, are Grá Croí,” Cian said. “My heart love. Do you deny me?”
Reaper’s molars ground together. He didn’t believe in that shit. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that magical bullshit. He believed in bullets and blades and the cold, hard truth that the only person you could count on was yourself.
