A muscle in Dian Cecht’s jaw jumped. His laugh, when it came, was bordering on a hysterical cackle. “Belongs to you?” He spread his hands wide. “Cian is betrothed. The bond will be broken, and he will take his rightful place among the Tuatha Dé Danann.” His voice hardened, the words cutting through the tension like a whip. “There is nothing for you or the one who says he is my son’s Grá Croí here.”
Reaper’s vision narrowed, the edges bleeding to black as if he were staring down the barrel of a rifle.
Betrothed.
Absolutely fucking not.
The word hit him like a high-caliber round, leaving a gaping, bleeding wound in its wake. His hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms and the mating mark on his arm showed its distress by growing farther up his arm, the pain so intense it stole his breath, and sent his pulse roaring in his ears.
No. Fuck no.
He is MINE!
A snarl ripped from his throat before he even realized he was moving. He kicked his horse forward, his body acting on pure, white-hot rage. “Like hell he is!” he roared.
Viper and Trace were on him in an instant, dragging him off the horse. Their hands locked around his arms like vises, hauling him back with a force that would have snapped a lesser man’s bones. Reaper thrashed against them, every instinct screaming at him to fight, to tear, to destroy anything that stood between him and Cian.
“Easy, brother,” Viper growled in his ear. Even though his voice was rough with the effort of restraining him, his grip remained unyielding. “This isn’t over.”
“He’s baiting you.” Trace’s breath was hot against Reaper’s neck, his voice a low, urgent rumble. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
Reaper’s chest heaved. His lungs burned as he forced air in and out, trying to rein in his temper. The mark on his arm pulsed in time with his heartbeat, each throb a fresh wave of agony, a reminder of the bond that tied him to Cian. Of the man who was his, who was in there where he could not reach him. The man who had been taken from him. He could feel Cian’s fury, his desperation, and the raw, animalistic need of the wolf to break free. It was almost a living thing inside him, clawing at his ribs, gnawing at his gut, demanding he act, that he move, that he burn this whole fucking place to the ground if that’s what it took to get him back.
Dian Cecht’s gaze flicked to Trace, and something like shock flickered across his features. His composure slipped just enough to reveal the disbelief beneath. “You,” he sounded almost disbelieving. “The Hound who stayed behind.” His lips twisted into a sneer. “I thought you’d have rotted in the human realm by now.”
Trace’s laugh was dark and terrifying, “Disappointed?”
Fionn moved his horse forward, and the very air seemed to shift with his movement. His voice was calm, but the power behind it was dark and foreboding. “You will return my hound to me, Dian Cecht.” The power of the Fianna rose around him like a tempest, swirling in the air and raising the hairs on the back of the SEALs’ necks. “You will do it now.” Threat filled his voice. “Or I swear on the old gods, if either Cian or his Grá Croí die, the Fianna will hunt the Tuatha Dé Danann to the ends of every time and every realm.” His words were a vow and a promise of annihilation. “We will wipe you from history, we will erase you from memory, and when we are done, we will salt the earth where your halls now stand.”
The threat hung in the air, and Dian Cecht’s face darkened, his jaw clenching so tight Reaper could see the tendons standing out in his neck. For a long, stretched moment, no one moved orbreathed. Until with a sharp, abrupt gesture, Dian Cecht turned on his heel and vanished from the walls.
The Fianna didn’t relax. If anything, the tension among them ratcheted higher, their bodies humming with restrained violence. Fionn motioned to Caílte and Oisín, his voice low but carrying easily in the charged silence. “Set up the war council. We move before dawn.”
Within the hour, the war camp was a hive of controlled chaos. Warriors moved with purpose, sharpening blades on whetstones, checking the fit of armor, their voices a low and steady murmur of strategy and tension. The scent of steel and oil hung in the air, mixing with the earthy aroma of damp leaves and the faint, metallic tang of blood that seemed to cling to everything. Reaper paced the perimeter like a caged wolf, his fingers twitching at his sides, his mind a whirlwind of fury and fear. He couldn’t sit still, he could barely remember how to breathe, never mind do anything else. His entire being focused on the fact that Cian was in that hall, so close, yet also so far.
Viper leaned against the gnarled trunk of an oak, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes tracking his restless movements. The torchlight flickered across his CO’s face, casting deep shadows that made his expression unreadable.
“We need more men,” Reaper bit out, stopping in front of him, his voice a low, rough growl. “Even I know we can’t take that hall with what we’ve got.”
Fionn didn’t even look up from the map spread out on the slab of rough-hewn wood propped up on barrels that doubled as a makeshift table. His fingers traced the lines of themap, his touch sure and his focus absolute. “They’re already coming.”
Reaper’s pulse spiked with excitement, and his head snapped toward Fionn. “What?”
“The Dord Fiann sounded.” Fionn’s voice was quiet, the inevitability of how a tide will always fall upon a shore. “The Fianna answer.”
A muscle in Reaper’s jaw jumped. He wanted to scream that it wasn’t enough, that they needed the warriors now, not later. But the Operator he’d been trained to be knew that ‘hurry up and wait’ was a fact of his existence, even now.
He turned away, his gaze fixed on the rath looming in the distance. He could feel the pulse of magic, the weight of ancient power… and the presence of the man who was his. Cian.“Is it meant to make me insane that I can feel him?” So fucking close, but just beyond his reach.
“It takes getting used to,” Viper replied. “Soon you won’t remember a time when his voice wasn’t in the back of your mind, and when your soul and his were not intertwined.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Reaper caught a slight shimmer, and he spun toward it. One second, there was nothing but the torchlit darkness, the rustle of leaves, and the murmur of voices. The next, a figure stood at the edge of the camp, his hands raised in surrender, and his eyes wide and wary. A Fianna warrior was on him in an instant, pressing steel to his throat. The boy didn’t fight or even flinch. He stood there with his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his gaze darting between the warriors surrounding him. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I seek my brother’s Grá Croí.”
Drawn by the commotion, Fionn’s head snapped up. “Miach, what are you doing here?”
“I’m not here to fight.” Miach’s voice was low and steady, though his hands trembled slightly at his sides. “I seek the Grá Croí of Cian.”
“Why?” Caílte snarled, pressing the tip of his dagger harder against Miach’s throat. A bead of blood welled and trickled down the pale column of his neck.
