Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Three weeks. That was how long it had taken to get twenty-nine traumatized, exhausted, and in some cases barely functional dragon omegas from the Arctic Circle of Sweden to the Hightower pack lands, and Fergal never wanted to do it again.
The journey had been a nightmare of logistics and endurance.
After the Dragon Council had imploded—the discovery of the red tent and how omegas were abused there, King Ennis dissolving the Murphy clan, Cladhaire and Baoth stripped of everything, omegas from three different clans declaring they wanted to follow the White Dragon, and Erwan suddenly rushing home after sensing his mother was dying—Fergal and Gregor had volunteered to escort the omegas to their new home.
It had seemed like the obvious choice. They had the most direct route through Canada, and Fergal refused to let a group of vulnerable omegas travel with only strangers for protection.
He’d underestimated how brutal the journey would be.
They’d flown the island-hopping route Rhene had suggested before his disappearance—Norway to the Faroe Islands to Iceland to Greenland—traveling at night to avoid detection, in temperatures so far below freezing that even dragon fire couldn’t fully compensate.
Several of the omegas had never flown long distances.
Two had been so weak from malnutrition that they’d had to be teleported in stages.
One had experienced a panic attack mid-flight over the North Atlantic and had to be talked down by Zacharias, the fierce O’Connor omega who’d emerged as the group’s unofficial leader with a natural authority that made Fergal almost envious.
They’d stopped at the Fitzgerald compound first. Standing in the great hall where he’d grown up, Fergal had gathered every omega in his clan and told them the truth—that the True Doyle clan was offering sanctuary, that he wouldn’t force anyone to stay, and that those who wanted to leave had his blessing.
Ten had chosen to go. Fergal had watched them pack their meager belongings and join the growing group, and even though he’d known it was the right thing, even though he’d argued passionately for this exact principle at the Dragon Council, watching his own people leave had carved out a piece of his chest that might never grow back.
“I refuse to hold them against their will, even if they wouldn’t know any better,” he’d told Gregor that night, repeating the words he’d said in the camp. They’d still tasted like broken glass. Gregor had held him and said nothing because Gregor always knew when words weren’t what Fergal needed.
They’d arrived at the Hightower pack lands yesterday, only to discover that Rhene hadn’t made it home.
That piece of information—delivered by Rhene’s second-in-command, a frighteningly competent omega named Sivney who seemed to be holding an entire pack together through sheer force of will—had settled over the group like a frost. Erwan had looked haunted, his eyes hollow and his complexion pale.
But the welcome had been warm despite the worry.
Cabins had been prepared. Food had been waiting.
A wolf omega named Yitro had organized a small army of volunteers to help the newcomers settle in, and a wolf beta named Lucan had coordinated medical assessments for those who needed immediate care.
The efficiency was staggering, even more because it felt warm and yet practiced, like a community that had done this before and had gotten good at it.
Now Fergal lay in an actual bed, staring at the ceiling of the small cabin Sivney had assigned them, and tried to remember what it felt like to not be exhausted. He’d slept fitfully, his mind still catching up in processing everything that had happened.
Beside him, Gregor was already up. The man’s internal clock was set to military precision regardless of time zone, sleep deprivation, or the fact that they’d crossed an ocean yesterday.
Fergal could hear him in the kitchen—the quiet clink of a kettle, the soft pad of bare feet on wood floors, the familiar ritual of tea preparation that Gregor performed with the same reverence other men reserved for prayer.
Fergal smiled into his pillow. Some things didn’t change, no matter the continent.
He dragged himself upright, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders and back. Three weeks of flying too much, of sleeping on frozen ground and in cramped tents had done his body no favors, and the blissfully soft bed had apparently caused his muscles to lock up in protest at the sudden luxury.
The cabin was small. One bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, a modest living area.
Sivney had assigned them the cabin together without a question, without a raised eyebrow, without any of the careful diplomatic maneuvering that would’ve been necessary at the Fitzgerald compound to explain why the king and his commander—both alphas—required shared quarters.
The casualness of the acceptance made Fergal’s throat tight in a way he hadn’t expected.
He found Gregor in the kitchen, standing at the counter in his sleep clothes, watching the kettle. His hair was sleep-rumpled—one of Fergal’s favorite versions of Gregor, second only to the version whose hair was mussed because Fergal’s hands had been in it.
“Morning,” Fergal said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Coffee’s ready.” Gregor nodded toward a mug on the counter.
Gods bless him. Fergal picked up the mug and took a sip. Strong, black, perfect. “Did you sleep?”
“Some.”
Which meant three hours at most. Gregor had spent the first hour after they’d arrived checking the cabin’s wards, walking the perimeter of the property, and introducing himself to the night-shift security team.
Fergal had been too tired to argue with him about it and had fallen asleep to the sound of Gregor’s quiet conversation with a wolf guard named Bray, who had the build of a tank and the demeanor of a highly alert Rottweiler.
“What’s on the agenda today?” Fergal asked.
“Erwan wants to meet. Compare notes, share intelligence. He’s asked for his brothers and Emma to attend as well.”
“Good. The sooner we piece this together, the better.” He took another sip of coffee. “Any word on Rhene?”
Gregor shook his head. “Nothing. Erwan is barely holding it together.”
The weight of that settled over Fergal like a familiar yoke.
Another king carrying too much. If anything ever happened to Gregor—if Gregor disappeared the way Rhene had, vanished into the wilderness without a trace—Fergal would tear the world apart to find him.
He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t stop until he’d found him.
“Don’t,” Gregor said quietly, reading his expression. “I’m right here.”
Fergal exhaled. “I know. I just…”
“I know.” Gregor poured his tea and leaned against the counter beside Fergal, close enough that their shoulders touched. The warmth of that casual contact was everything.
They showered and dressed, and Fergal took a few minutes to explore the cabin properly.
The bedroom was cozy—a double bed with a thick quilt, a nightstand on each side, a wardrobe that Gregor had already organized with his four identical dark shirts on one side and Fergal’s considerably more varied collection on the other.
The bathroom was small but had decent water pressure, which, after three weeks of icy streams and borrowed showers, felt like the height of luxury.
The kitchen had everything they needed, and nothing they didn’t, and the living area held a worn couch, a bookshelf, and a wood-burning stove that Gregor had already stocked with kindling.
It was a home. Their first real home—a space that belonged to both of them equally, without the pretense that one was the king’s chambers and the other was a “security arrangement.”
Fergal stood in the middle of the living room and let that sink in.
“Ready?” Gregor appeared in the doorway, fully dressed now, his commander persona sliding into place.
“Ready.”
The Hightower pack lands were beautiful.
After months in the frozen north, the warmth of this southern green landscape felt almost tropical.
Rolling fields stretched in every direction, bordered by forests and higher mountains in the distance.
Horses and cows grazed in pastures, a couple of goats chased each other in a pen, and a few pigs lazily lounged in a muddy patch.
Chickens were walking around freely, and Fergal caught a big tomcat chasing what he assumed was a mouse.
But what struck him most wasn’t the landscape but the people in it.
Wolves and dragons moved through the compound with an ease that Fergal had never witnessed in any dragon community.
An omega carrying a basket of vegetables exchanged a joke with an alpha guard, who laughed and held a gate open for him.
Two dragon omegas sat on a porch, one knitting while the other read aloud from a book, their legs tangled together with casual intimacy.
A wolf beta crossed the yard carrying a toddler on his hip, pausing to exchange a few words with a dragon alpha who was repairing a fence.
No flinching. No bowing. No downcast eyes or fearful deference. People were living and working together as if equality between wolves and dragons, between alphas and betas and omegas, was as natural as breathing.
Gregor walked beside him, and Fergal didn’t miss the way his commander’s sharp eyes were cataloging the same things.
The subtle widening of his gaze when an omega playfully swatted an alpha’s arm.
The almost imperceptible tilt of his head when two dragon omegas walked past, holding hands.
The way his steps slowed for a few beats as they passed a cabin where a wolf omega sat on the front step feeding a baby a bottle while an alpha knelt beside him, adjusting a blanket with obvious tenderness.