You speak of treason, brother.
He should turn away, he told himself. He should give Reaper his space, grant him the dignity of processing his thoughts and emotions alone, as any proud warrior would desire. But the bond that connected them was a powerful current, and right now, it urged him forward, drawing him closer to the Fianna door and to where Reaper grappled with his turmoil.
Cian felt the rocks shift beneath his boots as he stood. With every step closer to the edge of the dolmen, the air shimmered like heat rising off the rocks. He could not cross over. But all that he was demanded, he did so. There was someone who had hurt his Grá Croí to slay.
We will rip them apartFailinis vowed.Shred them until they fade into the forgotten memories of their people’s people.
A warrior should never feel helpless, yet as he stepped close enough to see Reaper, sitting with his back to the dolmen stones, cast in shadows but unmistakably tormented, Cian could do nothing but silently rage at the unspoken grief on his Grá Croí’s face.
He needs us.
Yes, he does.
He could admit when he was wrong, and his wolf brother’s more feral, animalistic side was right. He raised his sword and slid it into the scabbard on his back. Fionn would just have to understand, because Reaper’s hands were braced against the dirt, as if he were trying to anchor himself to the earth and keep himself from flying apart into a million shattered pieces. His fingers were white-knuckled, his head hung low, and the sight made something dark and primal stir deep within Cian’s chest.
Mine.
Ours.
The thought erupted, a feral growl that echoed in his mind, as within him, Failinis stirred restlessly, coiled beneath his skin, demanding release. The hound was eager to hunt, not only for the blood of his Grá Croí’s enemies, but for the man who belonged to him. The man, who was hurting and desperate for connection, whether he realized it or not.
Cian crouched down and pressed one hand against the cool, ancient surface of the dolmen. Immediately, the magic zapped his palm, and sparks flew. The fairy magic knew the truth of his bond with Reaper as well; there was no hiding from that ancient power, but it also knew of the laws of their people. Cian pressed harder, and the magic responded. He flew backward, landing on his arse six feet away.
“Damn you, Gods, we need to comfort him. I beg of you, let him hear my words, and know the comfort a Grá Croí deserves!”
He scrambled to his feet, and this time he didn’t even get to touch the portal before the magic sent out its warning sparks.
“Forgive my impulsiveness.” He whispered the apology to the gods and the magic. “I will go ask Fionn for permission to cross.”
For long moments, he thought the magic wouldn’t grant his wish, but eventually the sparks faded, and he dared approach the portal again. Both he and Failinis heaved a breath of relief to see Reaper still sitting where he had been, although he was now eyeing the portal as if he, too, had felt the magic’s wrath for Cian’s stupidity.
“You’re not alone,” he murmured softly, his words low and intimate, meant only for Reaper’s ears. He willed his Grá Croí to hear him, to draw upon the comfort that he offered.
Reaper’s head snapped up as if he heard the sound of his voice. His body went rigid in an instant. He didn’t turn to acknowledge Cian—no acknowledgment came in the form of words—but Cian felt a palpable shift in the air around them, a crackling tension that surged as Reaper’s muscles locked up tight, prepared either to bolt or to fight. There was strength in that readiness, a determination that Cian both respected, admired, and desired.
Good. Let him be ready.
Soon we will be together.
Soon, our Grá Croí, you will be ours, and we will be yours.
Despite the magic’s fury of moments before, Cian instinctively knew that, this time, as he wasn’t attempting to enter the portal, he would be allowed to touch it. He skimmed his fingers along the carved symbols etched into the stone, tracing the glyphs and words. On his arm, his mating mark itched its way higher, tightening his skin, drawing its symbols. Soon, he would succumb to its mating sickness and fade deep into slumber, then if his warrior did not fight for them, after more than five thousand years, on the night of the next full moon, when the mating spirals sank their teeth into his heart, Cian, son of Dian Cecht, would be no more.
The magic thrummed beneath his touch, responding to his presence, and to the Grá Croí bond between Reaper, Failinis, and him. There was an intimacy in that connection that both excited and scared him.
“Run, if you need to.” Even though he knew Reaper couldn’t hear him, he projected his voice just a touch louder, adding a hint of challenge, a vow to his mate. “We’ll give you a head start, then we will hunt you, we will claim you, and you will be ours.” His words hung suspended in the air, charged with meaning, an open invitation layered with promise. A challenge meant to awaken something dormant within Reaper, something lost among shadows and fears, if only he could hear him through the portal of the Fianna Door.
He blinked in confusion as a shudder ran through Reaper’s frame, as if in visible reaction to his voice. Cian could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched in his throat, catching on the very edge of turmoil.
Come on, warrior.
Fight for us.
Fight for our bond.
Call for us to come to you.
But Reaper didn’t move. He didn’t bolt or respond; he remained frozen, entrapped within himself, paralyzed by the waves of emotion that cascaded through the portal.
