Agreed, Failinis. Reaper or die.
“You will behave as I decreed, or I will have you bound and gagged, and present you on a platter to your betrothed.”
“Try it, old man. I dare yo?—”
Cian’s challenge was cut off as the heavy wooden doors, banded with iron and etched with runes, were flung open.
Tuireann, the leader of the Bear Clan, entered with a woman at his side. His broad shoulders were draped in a cloak of deep emerald, the fabric so rich it seemed out of place in the Rath of the Stags. No doubt it had been chosen as a subtle reminder of the wealth and power his family commanded.
In his head, Failinis snorted at the pageantry of the entrance, then sneered when he caught sight of the woman.
Which daughter is it?
No clue. Does it matter?
No.
Her eyeslocked onto Cian the moment she crossed the threshold, and the smile that curved her lips was a thing of practiced perfection, as carefully crafted as the jewels adorning her fingers.
Cian’s stomach twisted with a revulsion as he caught the sickly sweet and cloying scent of her, so hard it threatened to choke him. He met her gaze with a glare so cold it could have frozen the fires of the hearth behind him.
She has the eyes of a serpent.
Smells like one, too,Failinis added.If she touches us, I will bite off her fingers.
Don’t do that, brother wolf. We do not want you poisoned.
He could almost feel the Grá Croí mark on his arm bristling as if it too was aware of the danger the bond was in. His skin ached and tingled as it climbed farther up his arm. Cian bristled, and he knew deep inside him Failinis’s hackles were raised. There was a stark truth to what his heart and soul already knew. He and Failinis belonged to Reaper; the thought of anyone trying to claim what was not theirs made his vision swim with the red haze of rage.
The woman’s lips parted, her voice smooth as poisoned honey. “It’s been too long, Cian,” she murmured, “I am Danu. Do you remember me?”
I don’t care who you are.
I am not yours, and I will never be.
I belong to the warrior named Reaper.
The words Failinisspat in Cian’s head, lodged in his throat, and he swallowed down the bile that rose in the back of his throat. He ignored the woman and turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto his father. Dian Cecht stood near the high table, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back. The torchlight carved deep shadows into the lines of his face, making him look more like a statue than a man.
“If you think for one second,” Cian’s voice was a low, dangerous growl, the sound of a predator barely leashed, “that I will let you break what the fates have bound, you’ve lost your mind.”
A muscle twitched in Dian Cecht’s jaw, the only sign that Cian’s words had struck a nerve. “We have ways of unraveling even the strongest bonds,” he said, his voice measured, as if he were discussing the treatment of a stubborn wound rather than the destruction of his son’s soul. “You will be cleansed of this… distraction.”
Cian’s laughter tore from his throat, “Distraction?” He jerked against the ropes, the pain a distant ache compared to the rage boiling in his chest. “You think this is some passing fancy?” His voice dropped to a snarl, the words dripping with venom. “That I’ll just forget the man who is mine?” His teeth bared, his canines lengthening as Failinis, his other half, surged forward, sending him strength and lending him feral rage. “If you or anyone else lays a hand on me to break this bond, I swear to the gods, I will kill her.” His gaze flicked to Danu, cold and unyielding as the ice that came with the winter snows. “I will rip her throat out before I let her touch what isn’t hers.”
Danu’s smile faltered for the briefest of moments, her composure slipping like a maskpoorly glued to her face. But she recovered quickly, her laughter light and mocking, the sound of it grating against Cian’s nerves. “Oh, Cian,” she chided, stepping closer, her skirts whispering against the stone floor, the sound reminded him of the serpent’s hiss. “Always so dramatic.” She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from his arm, close enough that he could feel the heat of her skin and the pulse of her magic. “But you will be mine, and when you are, our children will rule this land. The Tuatha Dé Danann will rise again, stronger than ever.”
Cian’s lip curled in a sneer, his body trembling with the sheer force of his defiance. “You think I want that?” His laughter this time was wild, hysterical, the sound of a man standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to leap into the abyss. “I will never be king.” He shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes, the strands clinging to his skin like shadows. “I won’t be king.” His voice dropped to a raw, broken whisper as the words were torn from somewhere deep inside him. “I will have the hunt, the battles, and the freedom of the Fianna.” His breath hitched, “and I will have my Grá Croí or I will die.” He pinned her with a glare. “Should my Grá Croí suffer a moment’s distress or die, you will also die.”
Danu’s eyes flashed, her fingers twitching at her sides as if she were fighting the urge to slap him, to mark him as hers by force. “You’ll forget him.” Her voice was filled with the hiss of a serpent’s whisper. “The magic will make you.”
Cian could feel the magic in the air, the ancient power of his people humming around him, coiled and ready to strike. His father’s hand rose,his fingers weaving through the air in intricate patterns, the first whispers of a spell forming on his lips. The torchlight flickered, casting long, twisting shadows across the walls, the flames bending as if caught in an unseen wind.
No.
The word was a roar in his mind, a primal denial that shook him to his core. He closed his eyes, reaching deep into the well of power that had always been as much a part of him as Failinis. The words came to him in the memory of a chant his mother had once whispered to him as a child, a warning of what could be done when all else was lost. He had never thought he would use them. He’d never thought he would have to use them. Yet, here he was, and he would rather be nothing than live one moment in a dimension, time, or place without his Grá Croí.
“Ní éilím aon oidhreacht ach amháin le mo Ghrá Croí ghrámhar.I claim no inheritance but my Heart Love.”
