The truth reverberated through him. He had to find a way to figure out what was a threat and what wasn’t, and he had to do it fast. Destroying the den of the Hound of the King was not an option.
Failinis snuffled at the edges of his consciousness, ensuring their surroundings were secure despite the strangeness. The tension eased, crumbling away as softly as a hearth settling into the embers of night.
Strange.This place is strange.
It is Reaper’s home. We will get used to it…eventually.
He knew Reaper and the others were accustomed to it in ways he may never understand. Yet, the bond hinted that his Grá Croí was softer here, as if in this strange place Reaper felt safe. Any place his mate felt safe was a place where he would learn to live. He just hoped that he and Failinis, despite everything, might find they could belong here, too.
Reaper’s fingers brushed his, the contact steadying. “Relax. We’ll navigate this together.”
Cian exhaled slowly. “I trust you.” In trusting Reaper, he would trust these unknown lands, this new time, a future given birth from remnants of the magic the Fianna had left behind when they’d crossed the veil.
15
Steam curledup from the plates. Trace leaned back in his chair. “Dig in.”
Reaper grabbed a serving spoon and nudged a dish toward Cian. “You’re gonna like this one.”
Cian’s moss-green eyes darted between the dishes, curiosity flickering beneath the warrior’s restraint. “Why is the food…pretty?”
“Ward likes to cook,” Reaper teased, “and to play with food. We let him, because it ends up tasting awesome.”
“You’ve got to try this, it’s called chicken parmesan,” Zero coaxed from the other side of Reaper. “It’s good.”
He hid his smile behind his glass, his chest tight with amusement at Cian’s thorough examination as he turned the breaded fillet over as though inspecting a foreign animal. It was these simple moments, the ones devoid of battles and prophecies, that he found Cian becoming somehow even more formidable, yet more irresistible.
“Par-mi-gian?” Cian’s tongue tripped over the syllables, his accent somehow bending the vowels into a melody of its own.
“Close enough.” Reaper grinned. The comfort of the meal wrapped around him, anchoring him in a world that now spun with new norms simply because it included someone like Cian within its orbit.
Viper leaned in, curiosity lighting his gaze. “You haven’t killed any more TVs, have you, Cian?”
Cian swallowed a bite and shook his head as he wiped his lips. “Reaper made me leave my swords in the room with his bed.” He lifted one shoulder. “Even the magic of Tír na nÓg could not have prepared me for this realm.”
Juice chuckled beside Trace. “It isn’t quite as daunting as it seems, trust me. Once you break a few more appliances, you’ll be completely adapted.”
That earned him a glare from Cian, one softened only by Reaper’s comforting hand on his knee. When laughter followed, it was unrestrained, bridging the gap between the shores of old and this present kitchen haven.
As topics turned from mundane adjustments to mysteries of the past, Cian leaned in closer, visibly curious. “These stories you share,” he motioned across the table, “of human wars and battles, you sing of your warriors in this time, too?”
Ward nodded, the scholar within eager to connect threads of history. “Every era leaves its mark, Cian. You’re now a part of ours.”
Reaper listened. Here, in this room filled with people who mattered most to him, he found solace. It wasn’t just Cian adjusting to the presence of modern wonders, but rather, all of them discovering the intricacies of accommodating time’s oddities in unison.
“Sometimes I think we take a lot for granted,” Juice mused, spearing a piece of broccoli. “Reminds me why these shared meals matter.”
Trace nodded solemnly, lifting his drink in a gesture that rang with acceptance. “To united fronts. To the pasts that haunt us, the present that feeds our souls, and futures unknown. Until Valhalla. Long Live The Brotherhood.”
“Long Live The Brotherhood.” He repeated the phrase in unison with his teammates.
“This is a motto?”
“Yeah.” Reaper took a sip of his drink. “It means that we conduct ourselves in a manner that would make the Frogmen who came before us proud, because many of them died to clear our path. We honor and remember those men. We, too, would go to our graves for our flag, our country, and most of all our chosen brothers. We remember and honor our fallen brothers in the hopes that the others after us will do the same when it’s their turn.”
“Well said.”
“Frogmen?” Cian’s eyebrows had shot up.
