“We do our best work in the water, but we can also come out of the water and onto the land, kinda like a frog can.” How did you explain SEAL teams to someone who had never lived in this time? “We are the best of the best. Our country’s tip of the spear.”
“You are the Hounds of your country.” Cian went back to his food.
“Hell no,” Kaze deadpanned, “we ain’t no devil dogs. We’re Frogmen and damn proud of it.”
Reaper took in the faces and sounds around him. Each voice a thread, every story a tapestry interwoven with the understanding that, whatever adjustments or challenges lay ahead, they would face them together. As their glasses clinked, he watched Cian. A connection, as fierce as it was undeniable, threaded between them.
The clatter of forks against plates faded as the last of the meal disappeared, the dishes were done, and the banter around the table was replaced by the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Reaper leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, his fingers brushing against Cian’s shoulder. The contact was casual, but the heat of it seared down their bond as if offering him a silent promise of what was to come… if only he’d allow it.
Trace pushed back from the table first, stretching his arms overhead with a groan. “Alright, if we’re done eating, I’ve got a patrol to run. Juice, you coming?”
Juice stood. His eyes flicked to Reaper and Cian, a knowing glint in them. “Yeah. Try not to break anything else while we’re gone.”
Zero tossed his napkin onto his empty plate. “No promises needed. But if you do, make sure it’s something fun.”
Viper clapped Reaper on the back as he passed, his voice low. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Reaper smirked. “That leaves a lot of room for interpretation.”
Ward lingered for a moment, his gaze shifting between Reaper and Cian. “You know, if you need help figuring out any of the… modern amenities, just let me know.”
Cian’s brow furrowed. “Amenities?”
“Showers, sinks, toilets,” Ward clarified, grinning. “The fun stuff.”
Cian’s expression cleared, but his cheeks flushed just enough to betray his thoughts. Reaper bit back a laugh. “We’ll manage.”
One by one, the others filed out, leaving Reaper and Cian alone in the suddenly quiet room. The air between them thickened, charged with something raw and hungry. Reaper stood, his chair scraping against the floor, and held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Cian didn’t hesitate. His fingers closed around Reaper’s, and he let himself be pulled to his feet.
His room was at the end, the door slightly ajar. He pushed the door open wider, stepping inside and pulling Cian with him. The room was sparse but comfortable. It suited the man he was. A large bed draped in dark blankets, a dresser with a mirror above it, and a single chair tucked into the corner. “Come, let me show you something you’re gonna love.”
“Huh?” Cian asked.
“Warm water that flows from a pipe that we can wash up with.”
“You have a warm waterfall in a room?” He sounded thoroughly confused. “What kind of magic is this? I must bring the spell back to Tír na nÓg when we visit.”
Reaper chuckled. “We call it a shower. But I like your name better.”
He didn’t let go of Cian’s hand as he led him toward the bathroom, flipping on the light as they entered. The space was small but functional with gray tiles, a glass-door shower, and a sink with a mirror above it. He reached in and turned the knob, adjusting the temperature until the water ran hot, steam billowing up to fog the glass.
Cian stepped closer, his free hand reaching out to touch the glass door. His breath hitched as the heat of the water registered, his fingers tracing the condensation. “Magic,” he whispered.
“Science,” Reaper corrected, but his voice was thick, his gaze locked on the way Cian’s tunic clung to the broad expanse of his back, the fabric dampening slightly from the steam. “But yeah. Feels like science is just another name for magic sometimes.”
He turned, crowding Cian against the sink. His hands found the hem of the tunic and tugged it upward. Cian lifted his arms without protest, letting Reaper strip the fabric away, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the swirling ink of his tattoos, and the blue mark of their bond, which was more than a little fascinating when it was on Cian’s skin.
Man, the days I could spend driving him nuts by tracing that with my tongue.
His fingers trailed possessively and reverently over the mark. “Still can’t believe this is real.”
Cian’s hands found his waist, pulling him closer. “Believe it.”
The words were a command, and he met it with his mouth, crashing their lips together in a kiss that was all teeth and heat. Cian groaned into it, his hands sliding up his back, gripping the fabric of his shirt and yanking it free. The sound of tearing fabric was lost beneath the roar of the shower, the spray of water against the tiles.
Reaper broke the kiss only long enough to shove his shirt the rest of the way off, then his pants, kicking them aside until he stood naked before Cian. The warrior’s dark-green gaze raked over him hungrily before his own clothes followed, discarded in a heap on the floor.
