Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
KELLAN
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, if it was ever even supposed to happen at all. But yeah, certainly not like this.
Not two. Not both.
When Kellan had initially realised what was going on with Ciaran and Sawyer, he’d studied and researched everything he could find.
He’d called Marten in Norway, who was far more learned than he could ever hope to be, and when they’d arrived in Tenebrae, Kellan had been so excited to speak with them in person, to listen and to learn.
They knew of the old ways, the stories older than time itself, and the lore and laws of their kind.
Marten was incredibly smart, if not a little peculiar, but he was astute and focused, composed and calm.
If Kellan were inclined, he’d thought Marten might have been someone he could see himself with. He’d always been curious about the pleasant and charming Norwegian elder, and he’d be lying if he hadn’t been obliging when Marten had suggested they make the journey to visit.
He'd always wondered if their easy conversation and intellect could spark into something more. But it was very apparent upon meeting him in real life, after having spent hours with him discussing all things cephamorph, human, physiological and instinctual, that Marten was not Kellan’s type at all.
Marten, Arvid, and Lukas were all wonderful guests. Polite, courteous, and it was so generous of them to come all this way. Kellan would be forever grateful.
But they, Marten or otherwise, were not Kellan’s type at all. Maybe once upon a time, but not now. Not after being in Tenebrae for as long as he had.
Kellan was now used to loud and laughter, to the jokes and anecdotes, the pranks, the teasing, the brotherhood he’d found here. Sure, he’d rolled his eyes a time or two, and he’d sighed a lot, but he could see now it was a love language in its own right.
He’d always thought his type was older, studious, and serious, aloof with an air of mystery.
But as fate would decide, his type was someone younger, who felt incredibly deeply and wore his heart on his sleeve. Who struggled with focus and calm. Someone like Dylan.
But his type was also someone who antagonised with blunt force sarcasm as a form of affection. Who acted as if he didn’t care at all. Someone who was loud and funny and would give you his last dollar. Someone like Hendrix.
And not one or the other, either, but both.
So, yes. Two. Both.
Fate was mocking him, surely.
It was some kind of joke. It had to be.
Except it wasn’t.
He recognised the signs. He recognised the pull, the undeniable need to be near Dylan, the unmistakeable desire to touch him.
At first, Kellan hadn’t minded. He’d always been fond of Dylan.
He knew he was a kind person, a good man.
He was tender-hearted, and Kellan had always been able to talk Dylan down when his anxiety was high.
It could be worse, he remembered thinking.
And then it got a whole lot worse.
Because the identical pull, the exact same need, was now also aimed at Hendrix.
Identical. Duplicated. Concurrent.
The need, the pull, that had begun as a small ember was now an inferno. It burned not for one person, but two.
Both.
Kellan was confused. He was certain there’d been a mistake and that the calling to one bond would hone in, laser focused, and the other would fizzle out.
But no.
They burned brighter, hotter.
And it wasn’t just him. Dylan and Hendrix both felt it too.
They hadn’t said as much, but Dylan was the most obvious; Kellan had seen the way Dylan had looked at him, then at Hendrix, how confusion had given way to nervousness.
The rapid blinks, shortened breath, the wincing and pushing his hand against his sternum. Such a tell-tale sign.
Hendrix was not so obvious, but the signs were there. Where Dylan wore his emotions for all to see, Hendrix turned his—anger, impatience, loathing—inward.
He was much like Ciaran in that regard.
But Kellan had caught the glances, the hard set of Hendrix’s jaw, the line of his mouth, and the twitch of his eye. He’d tried for distance. He’d tried to push back, push away.
When Kellan had tried to talk to him, he’d flat out refused to listen.
He’d wanted to speak to Hendrix before Dylan, figuring Dylan would need the support of both of them. But Hendrix had told them it wasn’t happening, and then he wouldn’t look at either of them as he backed out of the room.
Which made the ember behind his sternum burn with nothing short of violence.
And Dylan couldn’t bear it.
Kellan could barely even think.
They’d been having a nice night, celebrating the arrival of their friends from New Zealand—and the fact that a female cephamorph stepped off their boat and straight into Otis’s arms—and Hendrix had his tattoo gun out, and there’d been food and laughter.
.. and now he stood out on the street, holding both Hendrix and Dylan as Dylan cried.
Holding them felt so right. As if the sun and moon and all the stars were his, and the pain was gone but the fire still burned...
Dylan sobbed and clung to them both.
“It’s okay,” Kellan tried. He held them tighter. “You’re okay, Dylan. We’re here with you. Breathe for me.”
And Dylan tried, he did.
Ciaran and Sawyer came walking up with the three Norwegians in tow.
More witnesses. Great.
“Everything okay?” Ciaran asked.
Kellan’s tired gaze met Ciaran’s. “No. Everything’s not okay,” he said.
“What is it?” Ciaran asked, alarmed.
He said out loud, for the first time, what he believed was happening. “I, uh, I think we have another bond initiation.”
Ciaran’s eyes went wide, and he began to smile despite his obvious confusion. “Who?”
Dylan cried harder, his hands fists in Kellan’s shirt. Hendrix held the back of Dylan’s head, and it made Kellan’s hearts sing to see him comfort Dylan. Kellan met Hendrix’s eyes and sighed. “Have you ever heard of a bond with three people?”
Ciaran and Sawyer both stared, and Kellan could almost hear the cogs grind to a halt in Ciaran’s mind. He blinked, looked at Kellan, Hendrix, Dylan and back to Kellan, and blinked again. “Three?”
Kellan nodded. “I think so, yes.”
Ciaran scrubbed a hand over his face, still trying to get his head around it. “How.... How does that work?” Kellan shot him a look that said, What the fuck?, and Ciaran was quick to add, “No. I know how that works. I mean, how.... How do you know it’s both?”
“Because I tried to leave, and it felt like I was being torn in two,” Hendrix whispered.
Dylan’s head shot up, his eyes wide and brimming with fresh tears. “No,” he breathed. “Hendrix, please.”
Hendrix gave him a soft, warm smile. “It’s better now.” He cupped Dylan’s cheek with one hand. “You feel better now?”
“Yes. But I’m so confused,” Dylan whispered, his chin wobbling.
“We’ve got you,” Hendrix murmured. He looked at Kellan then, his copper eyes full of questions he’d yet to ask.
Kellan smiled at him and nodded. “Yeah, we do.” He pulled back and took Dylan’s face in his hands. His wide and teary eyes hurt Kellan deep in his core. “We need to talk.”
“The three of us?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah, Dyl,” Hendrix answered. “The three of us.”
Kellan liked how that sounded. The three of them.
“So,” Kellan began, even though he wasn’t entirely sure where to start. He was acutely aware of their audience, but he didn’t care. They weren’t important right now. The only important people in this moment were in front of him.
Kellan’s hearts burned in his chest, and if he didn’t know better, he might think there was a cardiovascular issue.
But it couldn’t be. It was a physical pain that Kellan wasn’t prepared for.
Sure, Ciaran, Sawyer, Fray, and Tobin had all told him.
They’d all said it fucking hurt, but he still wasn’t prepared for it.
Nothing in the world could have prepared him for it.
It was visceral and overwhelming.
It had eased significantly when he’d been holding both of them in the street, and it felt so natural, so right. But now in the face of reality, needing to be brave enough to have the conversation they needed to have, Kellan wasn’t sure he was brave enough.
He didn’t want to hear Hendrix say no.
It scared him witless.
He doubted Dylan would survive a refusal. He doubted he’d survive it himself.
Hendrix studied Kellan for a moment, wincing as if in pain. “You’re scared. I can feel it.”
He was the older one of them. In human years, he’d be thirty-one. Hendrix and Dylan were all of twenty-two. Of course, they were adults, but Kellan felt he should have been the one to take charge, the voice of reason.
“Terrified,” Kellan admitted.
Hendrix was standing right in front of him.
Close enough to touch, close enough to feel the warmth of his body.
He searched Kellan’s eyes, for what, Kellan wasn’t sure.
But then he smiled, and his eyes said yes.
His eyes said he was done fighting. He was done trying to be anything but in this. He needed this, like Dylan needed this.
Like Kellan needed this.
Hendrix slid one arm around Kellan’s waist and held his other arm out for Dylan to join them, and he did, quickly slotting into their arms. His happiness and relief were so contagious, Kellan couldn’t help but smile.
Was it all a mess? Sure. But it was a mess that he knew now it would take the three of them to navigate.
It was a mess because what even was a bond between three people? How was it possible? Plausible? Practical?
Questions Kellan had asked himself a hundred times.
But he was in this.
He wrapped his arms around both of them, and it all made perfect sense. Every wrong, every anomaly was right, and everything he thought he knew had changed.
There was no going back.
They were in this.
What shape this took, whatever this would end up looking like, Kellan wasn’t sure. But he knew one thing.
It had three sides.
HENDRIX
This was fucked.