Chapter 20 #2
The parking lot was quiet. His car was covered in dust, but ever the reliable little Ford, it waited for him in its usual spot.
The moment he slid behind the wheel, he felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease just a little.
The drive north would take hours, but the night was warm, the roads open, and Ward had nowhere else he’d rather be.
If Trace calls the cops on me for breaking and entering without permission, then I’m going to sic Fionn on him.
Somewhere up in Upper New York State, surrounded by trees and silence and a couch that still probably had Kaze’s blood on it, was a place where he wouldn’t feel quite so alone. He didn’t know what he’d find when he got there, but it had to be better than this.
The road twisted like a scar through the trees, dark and unfamiliar in the headlights.
Ward gripped the steering wheel tighter as the incline steepened, pine needles crunching under the tires with a sound he could almost feel in his teeth.
The GPS had lost signal two turns ago, and he hoped to god he didn’t miss the turn off.
He tapped the brakes and squinted into the dark.
“Is that it? I think that’s it.” He pulled the car to a stop and gathered his stuff.
After the first couple of steps, he went back for the flashlight in the glove box.
If he got lost on the trek through the woods, he’d be in trouble.
It was well past two in the morning when the cabin came into view—dark, quiet, and exactly as they’d left it.
Coming here had been an impulsive move—raw and restless and more than a little reckless.
But now that he could see the cabin, the weight of it—everything that had happened—pressed down on him.
It smells like Viper here.
Now you’ve lost your damn mind. Viper isn’t some cartoonish cologne trail.
But the memory of him was everywhere. Ward could picture him standing on the porch, arms crossed and his eyes scanning the treeline. He could hear him calling out for the others, issuing orders with that calm, lethal command in his voice. Here, he could feel his presence like a second heartbeat.
The fairy protection barrier buzzed, but didn’t zap him as he crossed it on the final approach to the house.
“Are you welcoming me back or warning me off?” When he didn’t get zapped again, he decided to take it as a welcome. “It’s good to be back.”
He dropped his bag by the door and toed off his shoes, then made a slow circuit around the open space—his fingertips trailed over the back of the couch, the edge of the coffee table, and the kitchen counter.
Ghosts of conversations hung in the air.
He could almost hear Zero snarking, Kaze cracking open beers, and Juice arguing logistics with Trace while Reaper muttered darkly over a frying pan. But most of all, he felt closer to him.
Viper’s laugh, low and rare. The press of his fingers on his hip. That impossible, unspoken promise in his eyes every time they looked at each other, like the world was burning and they were the only two things that mattered.
Ward’s throat tightened as he stood in the center of the living room, swaying slightly on his feet, so caught up between relief, grief, and exhaustion so deep it made his bones ache.
Then he dropped onto the couch like a puppet with cut strings, placed his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands.
“God, I miss you,” he whispered to no one.
He sat there for what felt like hours, chasing the sound of rotors in his memory, replaying every glance, every brush of skin, and every word Viper hadn’t had time to say.
Eventually, he lay down on the couch, not bothering with a blanket, and stared up at the ceiling beams overhead.
“You better come home soon,” he murmured, one hand resting over the faint thrum of his mating mark. “Or I’m coming to find you myself.”
The third morning at Trace’s Den dawned pale and gray, fog clinging low over the trees like a shroud.
Ward stood at the edge of the forest, a thermos of lukewarm coffee cradled in both hands, watching the mist swirl through the pines.
Trace’s land was quiet—some might call it too quiet.
He hadn’t slept much. The couch had grown less comfortable by the hour, and the longing amplified by the mate bond was starting to drive him insane.
They’re safe, he kept telling himself. They’re coming back.
But waiting had never been his strong point.
He drained the last of the coffee and headed toward the old trail that led to the dolmen.
The path was overgrown in places, but his feet found it with ease.
The mossy stones, the tangled roots, the hush of the canopy above—it all pulled at something deep in his chest and when he crested the last rise and saw the ancient structure nestled in the clearing.
His breath caught for a heartbeat. Three upright stones and one massive one across the top formed a doorway to nowhere and everywhere.
The place where the veil had parted. The Dolmen was dormant now, but it still pulsed faintly in his senses.
Like a sleeping lion, it was powerful, sacred, and vulnerable. He couldn’t leave it unguarded.
Ward knelt in the damp grass and placed both palms against the earth, closing his eyes.
He let his magic seep outward to feel how the portal fared.
Every day, he was tempted to try and activate it, to visit with Fionn and Oisín, and every day he talked himself out of it, because what if today was the day his warrior came home?
A dozen energies lingered like old fingerprints in this place—Trace’s wild, thunderous magic; Viper’s dark and coiled like a blade held behind the back; his own, braided through it all like thread through fabric.
But most of all, the Dolmen itself. It was older than any of them.
Older than words. It didn’t ask for protection, but it would accept it.
He exhaled, pulled his backpack off his shoulders, and set to work.
The first sigil he drew was one for warding—simple, steady lines traced in salt and set at the northmost point of the stone.
He murmured in Old Irish as he worked, grounding the symbol with intention: protection from sight, from reach, from harm.
The second sigil went on the eastern face of the Dolmen—binding.
Not to restrict the door, but to bind interference.
To ensure that no hand could open what was not meant to be opened.
He infused it with his own blood, a single fingertip sliced and pressed into the grooves of the etching. His blood. His promise.
The third, he saved for last.
He stepped back, knelt at the foot of the Dolmen’s shadow, and sketched the sigil of remembrance. A tether to the past, a promise to the future. The lines wove through a symbol for heart, loyalty, and return.
It wasn’t standard spell work. It wasn’t even something he’d been taught.
But the magic moved under his skin like it knew what to do.
Like it wanted to protect what they’d built—what they’d sacrificed to keep safe, and he’d heeded the call.
When it was done, he stood in the center of the clearing with his hands dusted with blood and salt and his heart beating slow and sure.
But the air felt steadier. Safer. “I’ll keep watch until they come home,” he said softly.
The distant rumble of tires on gravel pulled Ward out of his thoughts.
He’d been crouched beside the Dolmen, his fingers tracing over one of the sigils he’d redrawn that morning.
Three days, four reapplications, and a few minor reinforcements.
The protections were holding. But he wasn’t.
Not really. Not until now as the sound grew louder.
That’s not just one vehicle.
It’s two.
Maybe more .
He stood slowly, brushing the earth off his palms and wiping them on his jeans. His heart started a slow, painful thud behind his ribs—measured and cautious. As he took off at a lope toward the parking lot just off the access road, he decided hope was a dangerous drug.
The doors of two SUVs opened almost in sync with his arrival.
Juice was first out. He scanned the perimeter, his eyes sharp but relaxed.
Then Zero, slipping out like a shadow, muttering about air quality and residual ash content.
Kaze swung his legs out next, then Trace, who lingered just long enough to check something on his phone.
Reaper unfolded from the back seat of the second SUV with a grunt, stretching like he’d been cooped up for days. Then?—
Viper.
His lungs forgot how to function for a full beat as he drank in the sight of those broad shoulders, the military haircut, and that signature unreadable calm that masked the violence underneath.
Electric snapped between them the second their eyes locked across the clearing.
For a second, nobody moved. Then Ward did.
He didn’t run. That wasn’t their style. But he crossed the distance with a purposeful stride that said mine without ever needing to say it out loud, and Viper met him halfway.
He pulled him into arms that had been missing from his life for far too long.
Ward wrapped his hands in the fabric of Viper’s shirt, clutching the back of his neck and breathing him in like oxygen. Viper’s arms locked tight around his waist, grounding him and anchoring him, as if letting go wasn’t even on the table.
“Hey,” Ward whispered.
“Hey yourself,” Viper murmured.
They didn’t kiss. Not here. Not yet. The others were unloading gear, stretching, pretending not to watch—but the moment was carved out anyway. Private. Unshakable.
“I missed you.” Ward’s heart did a weird thud-thud as it aligned with the one beating in Viper’s chest.
“I know.” Viper’s eyes flicked over his face like a checklist. “I felt it.”
Ward huffed a breath and pressed his forehead to Viper’s. “Welcome home.”