Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Viper stood frozen with the sliotar still clenched in his hand, his fingers tingling like they’d caught a live wire instead of a chunk of leather.
He stared down at it a second longer than necessary, forcing his breathing back into a rhythm that wouldn’t get him accused of having a panic attack in front of a field full of bare-chested warriors, then turned and hurled the ball back toward the players hard enough that it whistled as it cut through the air.
One of the Fianna caught it cleanly and saluted him with a wolfish grin before diving back into the fray like it was a goddamn blood sport.
It is a fucking blood sport.
Every single one of them is battered and bloody, including Trace.
Viper didn’t watch. He wasn’t sure he could, because he was too damn busy trying to make sense of what had just happened. One heartbeat, he’d been turning toward Zero’s voice, and the next, he’d felt the fucking ball flying toward Ward.
I fucking felt it.
How does shit like that happen?
It was like a tremor coming through the ground or as if the air had shifted, and his blood had known something was coming for Ward before his brain had time to register it.
I’m a SEAL.
It’s muscle memory.
Training.
That’s all this is.
Bullshit.
He hadn’t even been facing him. His back had been to the field. There was no angle for him to have seen it coming, and nothing for it to have reflected off. There was no freaking reason he should have moved before the danger existed in the real world.
Viper exhaled through his nose, striving to keep the unease from making his mind lose what grip it still had on his sanity, and turned back to the game. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ward watching him, not the players, and that unsettled him more than anything else.
“You good?” Ward whispered. He thankfully didn’t resist as Viper moved them toward a railing, and out of the line of fire.
“Yeah.” The lie tasted like shit on his tongue. “All good. Reflexes, you know?” He silently prayed the others didn’t call him out on his bullshit, and released a slow breath when Kaze just cocked an eyebrow but kept his mouth shut.
Ward raised a skeptical brow but didn’t push. Instead, he stepped a little closer until their arms brushed. That subtle grounding weight of him—solid, quiet, curious—worked better than a med patch ever could. Viper held still, letting the buzz of the moment drain off into the cold morning air.
Below, Trace moved through the game like he’d been born to it.
Every swing of his hurl, every sidestep, and every launch of the sliotar through the uprights drew roars from the watching crowd.
Viper didn’t think he was just playing anymore.
It almost felt like the shifter was claiming something, maybe his name, or his place, or maybe even a piece of himself that missed being with these people for so many years.
“Okay, that’s… sexy as fuck,” Kaze said, coming up beside them with Reaper and Zero in tow. He whistled low as Trace vaulted over two players and fired off a goal from what had to be fifty feet away. “I don’t even like sports, but I’d join that team.”
Reaper rolled his eyes. “You like anything involving contact and blood.”
“That’s a lie,” Kaze said cheerfully. “Sometimes I also like knives.”
“Don’t let Juice hear you talking about his Grá Croí like that or he’ll rip your head off and use it as a ball.” Viper didn’t look away from the field. “Where’ve you all been?”
“Stalking breakfast,” Zero answered, leaning his forearms on the rail. “And trying to figure out if any of those guys on the field are single and into sarcastic Navy personnel.”
“You’re all idiots,” Viper muttered, but his tone had softened because, for one brief moment, they were all here. His team, his men, his brothers in arms, were somehow still managing to act like the dysfunctional, heavily armed family they’d always been.
He kept his arms folded across his chest as the others settled in around him and Ward as if they now included him in their circle without being ordered to.
Over the years, they’d learned how to take space around him without making it feel like a perimeter.
Each one had his back without needing to say it.
He and these men shared the loyalty of a brotherhood that couldn’t be trained or ordered into place; it had to be earned in the fiery depths of hell that were war zones, missions, and spending time together in some of the shittiest places on earth.
Just as he always had their backs, they always had his.
He glanced sideways at Ward, who stood at his elbow, watching the field like he was trying to figure out every rule of the game. His fingers twitched slightly against his thigh, and Viper figured Wards was probably cataloguing every move, or maybe every ancient reference.
Should I be concerned that he didn’t say anything about me catching the ball?
If he was freaked out, he hid it well. Or maybe he was trying to give him some space to explain how he did it.
Either way, it made the back of Viper’s neck itch.
He didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t solve, especially when they involved him, and most especially when they could compromise his men or his mission.
What mission?
Your mission ended the second you stepped through the fucking portal and landed here.
He opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut again when a warrior in layered leathers and a carved boar-helm approached with a short nod. “Fionn and Oisín request your presence.”
Viper straightened. “All of us?”
The warrior shook his head. “No, just you and your Grá Croí.”
He’s not my Grá Croí.
He can’t be.
Goddammit. He didn’t like the sound of that request. Separating from his team put his teeth on edge. He turned toward the others. “Stay sharp. Stay together. Keep your eyes on Trace and Juice.” He paused. “And if shit goes sideways?—”
“We neutralize the threat with fire and come find you,” Zero finished.
Kaze grinned. “With marshmallows.”
Reaper’s mouth twitched. “Noted.”
Ward shot him a wary look as they stepped away from the ridge. “You always give fire orders that fast?”
“Only when I’m not sure what kind of requested meeting we’re walking into.” He absently ran one hand over the mate mark, scratching at the itchy skin.
Is this something to do with these?
They followed the warrior in silence, their boots crunching over the mossy stones and damp grass as they cut back through the trees toward the heart of Dún Fianna.
The quiet between them buzzed with questions neither of them was ready to voice yet.
Viper’s thoughts circled like a hawk. He had a feeling that whatever Fionn had to say was going to piss him off big time.
By the time they stepped through the torchlit entrance of the great hall again, Viper felt every nerve in his body come online.
The air felt heavier, and his instincts prickled.
Fionn stood at a table at the top of the room with Oisín at his side.
The High King and his son nodded at them and waved them toward the bench facing the door.
“We’re here.” Trace, fresh from the field, entered just behind them with Juice on his heels. “The others are outside,” he told Fionn. “Mo Rí, you need to grant permission for Diarmuid to allow them in, or we’re going to have one hell of a fight here in about two minutes.”
“They will fight?” Fionn narrowed his eyes and tilted his head toward his hound.
“Aye, to get to their chieftain, they will.” Trace followed Juice around the table and sat next to Fionn. His mate climbed over the bench to sit next to Viper. “As I or any of your warriors would to get to you or Oisín.”
Fionn waved the others toward the bench. “We need to talk. It matters not if they hear it from me or from you later.”
Viper slammed a mental operator’s mask into place. If there was a reckoning to be had, there was exactly no chance he wanted the Fianna or their king to know just how unnerved he was. “We’re listening.”
Once the rest of Viper’s men took a seat on the benches, Fionn moved to the head of the heavy table carved with ancient spirals and knotwork.
He placed his palms flat against the worn wood and squared his shoulders beneath a mantle, Viper recognized as a leader who knew what was coming could not be softened.
When his son Oisín mirrored him, stone-faced and silent, his gaze flicking to each of them like he was already calculating who would fall and who might survive, Viper cursed in his head.
Fuckballs.
That’s not a good sign.
“You’ve crossed a threshold,” Fionn began. “When you breached the veil to free me, the balance between worlds shifted. The threads that kept Tír na nóg sealed and safe from the outside world have frayed, and cracks have formed in the veil.”
“You mean portals?” Reaper asked from further down the table. “Like the ones we came through?”
“I mean…” Fionn’s eyes pinned them with an unreadable stare. “Tears in reality. Places where creatures that should remain banished from all worlds can now slip through both to this world and yours.”
Viper’s spine went stiff. “Was this some kind of prison break?” Maybe given enough time, he’d be able to come up with a logical explanation. But then, logic wasn’t exactly on the table when portals and a place that belonged in storybooks were in play.
“Consider it a seal,” Oisín said. “No world is a cell or a prison, exactly. Tír na nóg was never a cage—it was a sanctum. But when the blood of warriors spilled on sacred ground, and the mark of a Grá Croí lit the stones…you called the old power back.”
Wait, how the hell is this our fault?
“God damn it.” Viper tensed and locked eyes with Fionn. “We didn’t know any of that would happen. We were doing what you asked of us.” There wasn’t a hope in hell he was going to allow his men or Ward to take the blame for this shit.