“I don’t believe in that shit.”
Cian’s voice dropped to a growl, and the rumble of distant thunder sounded over the music. “You don’t have to believe in the wind to feel it on your skin.”
The music hit a crescendo, the crowd surging around them like a living, breathing thing, but everything around Reaper faded except the man in front of him. His pulse hammered in his throat, and his breath came too fast. He could end this. Right now. One punch. One well-placed strike to the throat. He’d done it before. He’d do it again. But something held him back. Maybe it was the way Cian’s breath hitched, the way his pupils blew wide, dark, and hungry, like he craved the fight. Like he wanted him to throw the first punch just so he could throw one back.
Like he wanted him, period.
The realization hit like a gut punch, knocking the air out of him. He didn’t do this. He didn’t feel this. He didn’t stand in the middle of a feast hall, surrounded by warriors who’d probably think nothing of gutting a man for looking at them wrong, and let some stranger—some warrior—get under his skin like this.
“Run if you want. But you’ll only be running toward me.” Cian leaned in, his voice a whisper against Reaper’s ear. “But if you run, I will hunt you.” He snuffled along Reaper’s skin, on the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder, and inhaled deeply. “I can’t wait to chase you, warrior, because when I catch you, you are mine.”
Shit!
Before he could bring the word from his mind and get it out of his mouth, Cian was gone, swallowed bythe crowd, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding like a war-drum and his hands shaking like a SEAL pup on his first op. He grabbed his horn cup and drained it in one swallow, the liquor burning all the way down.
This isn’t happening.
He isn’t some fairy-tale hero.
And I’m sure as hell not anyone’s Grá Croí.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Fionn watching him, the High King’s expression unreadable.
Great. Just fucking great.
He didn’t need the legendary warrior king of Ireland sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Reaper broke eye contact with Fionn and scanned the hall for his team, because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was focus on the mission. Right now, the mission was not standing here like an idiot, reeling from whatever the hell the warrior, Cian, had just dropped on him.
He made eye contact with Zero and used his hands to silently tell him he was leaving. If he stayed here, he’d do something that would either piss someone off, insult them, or cause that international incident he’d been thinking about earlier. His best bet was to go back to the Crannóg, and get some sleep. He needed to get the hell out of this hall before he did something stupid, like find Cian again and either punch him or?—
Or what?
He didn’t have an answer for that and he refused to think too hard on it, because even he wasn’t a good enough liar to convince himself that he wouldn’t?—
Nope. No. Not even going to think about it.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring the laughter, the music, and the press of bodies. He needed out. Now. The doors to the hall were massive things, banded in iron, carved with the same swirling glyphs that covered everything in this damn place. He shoved one open, stepped out into the night, and sucked in a breath, then another until his pulse slowly steadied.
I’m not running. I’m strategically retreating.
A shadow moved at the edge of the torchlight, and his hand went to his knife before he even registered the thought. His fingers curled around the hilt, ready to draw, ready to strike?—
“Easy,Grá Croí.” Cian’s voice was a low rumble in the dark. “I’m not your enemy.”
Reaper’s teeth bared. “Fuck off.”
Cian stepped forward, just enough that the torchlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the green of his eyes gleaming like a predator’s in the dark. “Are you going to run?”
“I don’t run from jack shit.”
“You will.” Cian’s lips curved. “And when you do, I will chase you.”
His grip on the knife tightened. “You don’t know me.”
“I know exactly who you are.” Cian took another step closer, close enough that Reaper could see the start of a tattoo swirling up his left arm.
Well fuck.
He remembered watching Trace’s mating mark grow in a similar fashion as they exiled out of an outpost in Afghanistan last Halloween.
