40. 40.
40.
R elief hiked Folke’s inhale with a sob. Even as he moved his fingers over the textured grooves of a tooth the length of a man. Lowered to what had to be a colossal claw, gentle in the way it held him aloft. Chilly like his bed at night. Its scales larger and more land-worn, the monolithic nail resting across his chest tacky with mud. A twig jabbed Folke’s searching palms. He plucked it from its bed of dirt and crumpled into the all-encompassing cradle. He croaked Darach’s name.
A responding growl. Resonant, vibrating through his soul. Reminiscent of the earth shifting with collapse. It should have terrified him. Instead, Folke longed to confess his devotion. Weep with gratitude, his life saved once more.
His stomach flipped upside down as wind erupted past his ears. Beithir’s touch slid out from under him, replaced by the soaked ground. Folke laboured to sit, wrapping his arm around his ribs as claws that were surely the size of lakes sent waves of rainwater and mud crashing around him.
Someone yelped in pain. Loud splashes followed.
Folke flew upright. Hobbled through squelching grass.
“You fucking bastard.” Finlay’s snarl penetrated the storm. As did a sickening smack. And a heartbroken wail. “You conniving, fucking bastard !”
“Stop,” Folke quavered.
“I asked you to help me look after him!” Another stomach-churning smack. “You swore you would!”
And another, accompanied by a crack. Thomas’ pleadings for Finlay to stop tore past Folke on the wind.
“Stop!”
He dropped to his knees. Ignored the agony in his chest and crawled until his searching fingers connected with a body, trembling with sobs. Icy hands clasped his face. Roughly pulled him into a kiss despite his pained grunt, desperate. Ragged breaths pelted droplets against him upon release.
“Fuck, I’m sorry—” Finlay left no room for a response. He vanished from Folke’s reach with a ferocious, growled curse. Thomas cried out again .
Folke flung himself sideways. Landed across a faintly struggling body.
Over the gales, Finlay bellowed for him to move, his voice marred by the rage of a man prepared to kill.
Folke moved only to better shield Thomas. “He’s fifteen !”
A choked pause. Then, “He’s old enough to know better!”
“He’s a goddamned child!”
One who had walked away from his family too soon. Who had seen too much and done unspeakable things in a war he should have been protected from. Who had likely lost those whom he loved and no home to return to. Thomas was a product of everything Folke despised about people.
“So what, he gets a pass?”
“No,” Folke barked, nerves frayed and chest seizing around affliction, “but you don’t punish a child with fists.”
“He tried to kill you!”
Folke strained around a cough. His throat burned. From shouting. The agonising draw of breath. From the truth that Thomas had attempted to murder him. Would have succeeded were it not for Darach and, in all likelihood, Finlay’s superior senses. But whatever Thomas’ reasons for the attempt, Folke wouldn’t stand by and allow any man to hurt another, least of all one so young.
“I know,” he managed, face twisting with exertion. “We’ll deal with it, but not by committing another wrong. Please , Fin.”
“Fuck!” An angered splash joined the glacial downpour to douse him further. Boggy grass squelched under feet. “Come here.”
A powerful grip around Folke’s biceps hoisted him off Thomas, motionless but for the uneven weeping. Wide shoulders ducked under his arm and a hold secured around his waist. Folke grit his teeth. Stumbled along. Unsure where Finlay led him until he felt the great shift of an even greater being vibrate into his bones.
Folke would have wept with the absurdity of it all, had he not regressed into numbness.
Guided to support himself, he splayed his fingers against patterned glaze as cold as the rain. It shifted under him. A fluid movement undoubtedly marginal to Darach, but had Folke swaying forward to maintain contact despite the searing misery in his ribs.
He pressed his quivering lips to what he thought to be a limb. Held on, even as scales rippled and sinew writhed and bones snapped, Beithir’s agonised bellow like thunder rending the skies. Dwindling into the pained grunts of a man whom Folke could embrace. Whose laboured inhales tore at his heart in ways he’d never thought possible.
Musclebound arms wrapped around his shoulders. A hand cradled the back of his head. “Are ye alright, mo leannan?”
Fine, now.
He ought to ask Darach the same.
Words that refused to emerge. Instead, “My Garments—”
Behind him, Finlay sounded yet more irate. “That’s how he got you out here? I can’t see or hear them.”
As arms slid down, mindful in the way they folded around his legs, Folke could only hope that Thomas had been lying. That Shawl and Socks remained safely tucked away in their barn.
Lifted against a bare chest, he suppressed the need to protest. He could walk fine, but favoured the steady thrum of Darach’s heartbeat against his ear. The feel of storm-soaked skin, and the timid warmth building between them.
Folke mumbled, “You’re naked.”
That eminent chest heaved with amusement. “Aye.”
Many things needed to be said. Asked about. Not knowing where to possibly begin kept him silent. His body jostled along the ascent of a hill, his silence maintained despite the pain, despite Darach’s grunts of effort and Finlay’s snarled commands. Perhaps dragging Thomas along, the inelegant splash of his footfalls trailing behind.
The downpour remained relentless, otherworldly howls continuing to accompany the gales. Still, Folke couldn’t bring himself to speak and still he couldn’t stop shivering. Any warmth between him and Darach dwindled as soon as it sparked.
Only when lowered to the front porch and struggling to keep the weight off his ankle did he ask, “Are you both alright?”
Because both his lovers had been betrayed by someone meant to be their ally. Who claimed to love them like fathers, but had allowed puerile resentment to poison his heart. And by doing so, likely eradicated what paternal love the men held for him. There’d been so little to begin with.
“Get inside,” Finlay growled.
Thomas blundered past, sniffling. At least he’d stopped weeping with what had sounded an awful lot like remorse.
Remorse for being caught, or for what he’d attempted?
“Ye’ll be alright once Finlay sees to ye and with a brew to warm yer belly.” Darach’s large hand rounded Folke’s elbow to guide him inside. His sonorous rumble dully echoed through the hallway, continuing, “Or maybe this calls for a dram. Did ye no’ say ye have whisky?”
“It’s likely expired—” With a frustrated huff, Folke paused in his limping to swipe hair sticking to his forehead, the source of a rivulet trailing down his face. Sibilated at the sharp pain the movement caused. Demanded, “How are you this composed?”
Sudden panic vaulted upward into his throat, threatening to topple him over. He caught himself on Darach’s forearms. “The Barghests and—Why haven’t you closed the door? Where are your clothes ?”
“I dinnae ken. Somewhere out in the hills.”
Said with such playful nonchalance, Folke wondered, for the first time, if Darach’s jocular demeanor was a front. Carefully built and braced so as not to collapse, lest he tore all asunder.
God.
His lover was a dragon the size of Wales, with the might of thunderstorms, and a vengeful rage to match Finlay’s, only better guarded.
A guard that dropped, briefly, in the way Darach uttered, “Take care o’ him. And Thomas, ye will get what’s coming to ye.”
Folke couldn’t react when a swift kiss dropped to his mouth. Only as he heard Darach’s bare feet slap wet stone and splashed away did he take a careless step forward. He hissed through his clenched teeth against the agony in his ribs, his ankle.
“That’s too tight,” Thomas whinged from the front room, his voice claggy.
With barely contained rage, Finlay snarled, “One more word. Go-the-fuck on, Thomas. Give me an excuse.”
No more words forthcoming. Only a loud snort and a snot-heavy gasp for air.
Sodden boots spattered the flagstone toward Folke, and a damp touch curled around his nape. Gently, as if Finlay was afraid he’d startle.
“Socks and Shawl—”
“In the barn. I can hear them.”
The response slammed his heart to a halt with anger, swelling into the urge to retaliate. With the sudden, ugly wish that he hadn’t stopped Finlay so soon from beating Thomas into the ground.
A plan, then. Set in place once opportunity presented itself. Likely concocted for the past few days, if not since the first time they’d met.
The snap of metal and Finlay’s words of, “Get rid of him,” on that day struck Folke like lightning.
He steadied himself on the door frame, fingernails digging into its woodwork.
Would they have killed him out on the hill, were he not blind? He remembered too well Darach’s answer, when he’d asked that same evening if they planned on taking his life.
Naw, Shepherd.
The response of someone who had considered it and decided against it. Folke had realised it then but only now comprehended the weight of it.
“Why?” he heard himself ask. “What harm could it possibly do if one wayward person knows the truth?”
“Sit.”
“No!” He smacked the hand away from his nape with a forearm. Leant against the nearest wall to ease the pressure on his injuries. “Would you have killed me if I’d witnessed whatever you were doing out on that hill a week ago?”
“Are you asking because you want me to deny the truth for you?”
Anger churned into a rage. Folke trembled where he stood, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from spewing with a cruelty he couldn’t take back.
“What difference does it make?” Finlay said. “You’re here and alive.”
That was all Finlay cared about, just then.
Folke wasn’t sure how he knew. Only understood that his life could have ended on that hill seven days ago. In a manner that might have been worse than falling into a sinkhole inhabited by creatures of lore. He could have been killed at the hands of these men, left to rot in the grass for his aunt to find.
Yet they hadn’t, and had become lovers instead. He ought to be thankful for that, at least. And now, he could take comfort in knowing that he was safe and protected. That Finlay and Darach would do everything in their power to ensure he’d stay that way.
A quivering exhale whisked past his lips, taking with it some of the tension that had hardened like clay. Enough for Finlay to guide him to the settee without a fight.
Folke choked on pain while helped out of his jumper and shirt, sticking to him like sloughing skin weighted by mud. Cursed in a hiss, despite the gentleness of fingertips traversing his ribs.
“One’s broken, I think.” Finlay trailed his fingers lower. “Fractured, if we’re lucky. How’s your breathing?”
Each inhale like being tackled by a ram.
“A little difficult,” Folke ground out.
“We need to get you washed before I can tend to your injuries.”
Folke gladly took the opportunity to leave, no longer able to stand the noise of Thomas huffing around snot, or to be in his presence. Finlay left his side only to shut the front door before helping him up the staircase.
The feel of a heavy boot slamming into his knee resonated with each step Folke climbed. The cannonade of water as it filled the bathtub echoed like rainfall cascading into a sinkhole. Wet snarls and wheezing and the touch of fingers worn down to stubs sent tremors through him as he eased into hot water. Wind barraging the narrow window, whistling through its age-worn seams, twisted into haunting shrieks.
Thunder rumbled, far-flung.
Darach hadn’t yet returned.
Anxiousness pitched Folke’s breaths into a frenzy. Darach was out there alone, naked. The storm had not yet abated, and the reason behind that terrified him. He grimaced with the effort to get back out of the bathtub.
“Stay put.” Gently commanded as hands rinsed his chest with care.
“Darach—”
“Will be fine for now.”
More thunder, as though Darach sensed his fretful thoughts.
“Where did he go?”
Palms drifted along Folke’s clavicles, the scratch of grit across his skin unpleasant. “Job’s not done yet.”
He reeled with sudden realisation. “In the sinkhole, I think I was attacked by the Ruck. Are we going to disappear into the earth? I have to—I have to tell my aunt. Bollocks ! I should’ve gotten a telephone. She’s been hounding me for years to get one—I’m never going to make it on foot!”
Finlay couldn’t drive him. He’d said Darach was fine, for now . He’d need to join Darach’s side sooner rather than later. And could he really leave, knowing his lovers were fighting to save everyone?
“Calm down. ”
Whether it was the comforting caress across his back or the soft way Finlay spoke, the squall of terror dwindled into a more manageable flurry.
“First thing’s first,” Finlay murmured. “We’ll get cleaned up and dry, have a stiff drink, then figure out what to do with that shit-sack.”
Comforting to know that there would be time for all of that, at least.
Maybe he was underestimating Darach, mighty Beithir.
Folke swallowed around the burr in his throat. A permanent fixture, now. His face absorbed the heat of his water-warmed palm, brought up to scrub his forehead. “I can’t believe this is all real.”
Cold and slick, a bar of soap slid over his shoulders. “Can’t you?”
“Not that I doubted you before. Only, now it’s. . . real .” He let his hand splash back down into the water. “Am I going to get people knocking on my door, asking about a dragon?”
“You forget how rural you are? No,” Finlay continued, “Darach blends in with the hills.”
“Why didn’t you tell Thomas that I knew about everything?”
It might have spared him all this misery.
Almost sheepishly, “I told you that he’s a stickler for the rules. Being forced to turn a blind eye while we have our fun is one thing. . .We thought he’d try to kill you if he got wind of you knowing what you shouldn’t.”
Folke scoffed. Bitterly said, “And where were your superior senses while he was plotting my demise, regardless?”
He wasn’t convinced Thomas’ only issue was rule-breaking. Jealousy had to have played some part in his motives.
The hand clutching soap against his side stilled. “It doesn’t work like that with people I don’t give a shit about. Luckily, I give a shit about you, or I wouldn’t have realised something was wrong.”
Folke only suspired with exhaustion. “Christ, Fin. He tried to kill me.”
Had tried to make it look like an accident, too.
That bloody bastard, he wanted to add.
Only a child, he needed to remind himself.
Spiteful and deplorable.
With confirmed kills.
But only a child.
“I’m not sure what to do with him,” Finlay said.
“Did you not know?”
“That he’s not eighteen? No.”
Rather than ask how, Folke said, “He’s certainly too young to stay in the military.”
“And won’t be back, if I have anything to say about it. That’s not what I meant though.”
“Huh?”
“He’s running away right now.”
Folke regretted moving the instant he did. Settled back against the tepid enamel with a groan of irritation. To Hell with Thomas, he’d hurt him enough for one day. “Didn’t you tie him up?”
“Sure, his hands. I’ve underestimated the balls on that shit.”
“Where is he going to go?”
“Somewhere that’s not our problem, hopefully.”
Hopefully, indeed.