Reaper’s gaze flicked up, meeting Cian’s. The raw edge in the man’s voice cut through the noise in his head. For the first time, he really looked at him, not as just the warrior, a myth, or the problem, but as the man standing in front of him, with his expression tight, his jaw set, and pain in his eyes. There was something there, beneath the surface. Something that looked a hell of a lot like frustration.
Cian’s fingers flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach out. “I’ve spent thousands of years waiting for my Grá Croí. Thousands of years, watching my brothers, my kin, live their lives while I stood guard.” His voice was a raw whisper. “Now I’m told I have to bind myself to a man who’d rather die than look at me.”
The words knocked the wind out of him. He hadn’t—fuck. He hadn’t thought about it like that, or considered that Cian might be just as trapped in this as he was.
Cian’s eyes burned into him. “You’re not the only one who didn’t ask for this, a stór.”
The endearment was a whisper, barely there, but it sent a jolt through Reaper’s system. He didn’t do pet names, but the way Cian said it made something in his chest tighten.
He looked away, his gaze landing on the standing stones and the pool.
Do it.
Take a fucking leap of faith.
You asked him to let you help him; maybe it’s your turn to take a Hail Mary shot on him.
His fingers twitched as the mark on his arm pulsated in time with his heartbeat. He could feel the bond, the magic, and the inevitability of it all. It was like standing in the open door of a helicopter, with the wind howling in his ears and a drop yawning beneath his feet. He could turn around, walk away, and let the bond kill him before he let himself be chained again.
But then what?
He’d die, and Cian would die with him.
I don’t want him to die.
He wasn’t a hero, and he damn sure wasn’t a saint. He’d done plenty of shitty things in his life, things that haunted him in the dark. But this? Letting someone else die because he was too stubborn and scared to take a leap of fate?
His exhale was sharp, fogging in the cold air. “Fuck.” He dragged a hand over his face, his palm rough against the stubble on his jaw. He was tired…so goddamn tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of running. Tired of pretending he was in control when the truth was, he never had been. Not really, not when it came to this. Fate was running this shitshow, and he and Cian were just along for the ride.
At least Fate picked someone I like as a man, and maybe even in a couple of decades or two, learn to love.
10
The air between them crackled,thick with the weight of unspoken words and the pulse of the bond. Cian didn’t move or breathe. Waiting for his Grá Croí to make the decision was killing him.
He doesn’t want us.
Our mate is afraid of us.
He refused to allow himself to mirror the despair of Failinis.
He has been hurt by someone he trusted, Failinis. It is not us he is afraid of, but himself and his own judgment.
He could feel the anticipation from his wolf brother as they watched Reaper’s shoulders tense and the muscle in his jaw tick.
Bite him.
No, Failinis. It must be his choice.
The wait was killing them both. With every passing moment, Reaper wrestled with his demons, and both Cian and Failinis’s hope fell.
When Reaper turned and strode toward the pool at the center of the stones, their heart jumped.
Does he know what the pool means to a wolf shifterof the Tuatha Dé Danann?
I don’t know, Failinis. Should I tell him?
Cian trailed behind Reaper, every step sent a jolt through the mark on his arm, and the bond thrummed like the strings of a music box.
