“No.” Cian’s grip on his face tightened, just shy of painful. “You are mine. Mine and Failinis’s. No one—no one—hurts what’s ours and lives.”
The ferocity in his voice sent a shiver down his spine. He should argue. Or maybe even tell him to stand down, that Derek wasn’t worth it, that he’d handled it. But the words died in his throat, because the truth was, he hadn’t handled it. Not really. Deep inside the part of him that had spent years swallowing his rage, his fear, his shame—that part wanted to let Cian set a match to the kindling of Derek’s world and burn the whole damn thing down for him.
Cian’s thumbs stroked his cheekbones, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re strong, a stór.Stronger than you know. But you don’t have to be strong alone anymore.”
His vision blurred. He blinked hard, but the sting in his eyes didn’t fade. “I—I don’t know how to be anything other than who I am.”
“You don’t have to.” Cian pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his temple, his lips lingering against his skin. “Just let me in. Let Failinis and me see you. Just as you are.”
That I can do.
His breath hitched. He nodded, the movement jerky, but Cian seemed to understand. The warrior’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, and he let himself be held, his face pressed against Cian’s chest. The steady thump of his heart counted out the seconds until his own pulse slowed, until the trembling in his limbs eased.
They stayed like that for a long time. His fingers traced the ink on Cian’s skin, the swirls and knots of his tattoos, the mating mark that mirrored his own.
Cian’s hand slid down his back, his touch firm. “You’re mine,” he murmured again, like a vow. “I’m yours. No more hiding. No more running.”
Reaper swallowed. “No more running.”
Cian’s lips found his again, slower this time, and oh so much deeper. The kiss was a promise, a seal on words that couldn’t be unsaid. When they parted, Cian’s eyes were dark, his voice rough with need. “Let me show you.”
16
The morning lightslanted through the trees, and Cian stood motionless, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his dagger, the blade already notched with imaginary cuts. His jaw ached from clenching it, the muscles in his neck coiled tight as bowstrings. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the pale, jagged lines marring Reaper’s skin, remembering the way his voice had gone hollow when he’d spoken of them.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder. He whirled, blade flashing, before he registered Trace’s scent. “Shite, sorry.”
Trace didn’t even flinch. “You’re vibrating.”
Cian exhaled through his nose, forcing the dagger back into its sheath. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” Trace jerked his chin toward the tree line. “I’m about to do a perimeter run. Want to come so you know the boundaries?”
The need to move, to do something, was driving him mad. “Yes, good idea.”
They fell into an easy lope, the forest swallowing their footsteps. The air was crisp and clean. It should’ve cleared his head… It didn’t.
“Want to talk about it?” Trace asked.
Yes.
No.
I can’t break Reaper’s trust.
Shite.
He ground his molars together as he tried to figure out what to do in this time and place. In Tír na nÓg, he’d just take care of the problem. But Trace had warned him not to kill anyone. “If there is someone Failinis and I must kill, how do we do it?”
“Not allowed.” Trace’s voice was unyielding. “On this side of the Fianna door, it is not allowed to kill someone.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Trace skidded to a halt and grabbed his arm. “What happened?” His grip was like iron. “Who is it you want to kill?”
Cian bared his teeth. “I am just asking the question.”
“Somehow, brother, I think you are not telling me all of the truth.” Trace’s voice dropped lower. “This is my den. This whole place is my Dún Fianna. Here, we do not kill people, even if they deserve it. This time’s laws do not allow it.”
