Prologue #2
“You got the wrong guy, buddy. Back the fuck off.”
Cian’s gaze dropped to Reaper’s mouth, lingered there like he was memorized by it. “No. I don’t think I will because I don’t think I do have the wrong guy.”
The air between them crackled with the violence similar to the split second before a storm broke.
Reaper’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
He wasn’t interested in traveling a road that was lined with IEDs, even mental ones.
He’d spend too many years traveling along Route Irish between Baghdad and the airport to ever want to spend his time dodging broken promises and harsh hands.
Fuck no.
Give him missions, weapons, and explosions. Those he could do. Anything else this dude was selling could just stay on the damn shelf. “This some kind of joke?” he demanded. “Because I ain’t laughing.”
Cian’s expression darkened, the green of his eyes going stormy. “You think I’d joke about this?”
“Hell if I know.” Reaper’s voice was a growl now, his patience thinning.
“I don’t even know what this is that you’re on about.
” There wasn’t a hope in hell he’d ever admit that after seeing both Trace and Juice, and most recently Viper and Ward, he could see the damn signpost in his head, and it was flashing in neon red, warning him to have nothing to do with whatever this was.
“You warrior, are Grá Croí,” Cian said. “My heart love. Do you deny me?”
Reaper’s molars ground together. He didn’t believe in that shit. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that magical bullshit. He believed in bullets and blades and the cold, hard truth that the only person you could count on was yourself.
“I don’t believe in that shit.”
Cian’s voice dropped to a growl, and the rumble of distant thunder sounded over the music. “You don’t have to believe in the wind to feel it on your skin.”
The music hit a crescendo, the crowd surging around them like a living, breathing thing, but everything around Reaper faded except the man in front of him.
His pulse hammered in his throat, and his breath came too fast. He could end this.
Right now. One punch. One well-placed strike to the throat.
He’d done it before. He’d do it again. But something held him back.
Maybe it was the way Cian’s breath hitched, the way his pupils blew wide, dark, and hungry, like he craved the fight.
Like he wanted him to throw the first punch just so he could throw one back.
Like he wanted him, period.
The realization hit like a gut punch, knocking the air out of him.
He didn’t do this. He didn’t feel this. He didn’t stand in the middle of a feast hall, surrounded by warriors who’d probably think nothing of gutting a man for looking at them wrong, and let some stranger—some warrior—get under his skin like this.
“Run if you want. But you’ll only be running toward me.
” Cian leaned in, his voice a whisper against Reaper’s ear.
“But if you run, I will hunt you.” He snuffled along Reaper’s skin, on the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder, and inhaled deeply.
“I can’t wait to chase you, warrior, because when I catch you, you are mine. ”
Shit!
Before he could bring the word from his mind and get it out of his mouth, Cian was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding like a war-drum and his hands shaking like a SEAL pup on his first op.
He grabbed his horn cup and drained it in one swallow, the liquor burning all the way down.
This isn’t happening.
He isn’t some fairy-tale hero.
And I’m sure as hell not anyone’s Grá Croí.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Fionn watching him, the High King’s expression unreadable.
Great. Just fucking great.
He didn’t need the legendary warrior king of Ireland sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
Reaper broke eye contact with Fionn and scanned the hall for his team, because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was focus on the mission.
Right now, the mission was not standing here like an idiot, reeling from whatever the hell the warrior, Cian, had just dropped on him.
He made eye contact with Zero and used his hands to silently tell him he was leaving.
If he stayed here, he’d do something that would either piss someone off, insult them, or cause that international incident he’d been thinking about earlier.
His best bet was to go back to the Crannóg, and get some sleep.
He needed to get the hell out of this hall before he did something stupid, like find Cian again and either punch him or—
Or what?
He didn’t have an answer for that and he refused to think too hard on it, because even he wasn’t a good enough liar to convince himself that he wouldn’t—
Nope. No. Not even going to think about it.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring the laughter, the music, and the press of bodies.
He needed out. Now. The doors to the hall were massive things, banded in iron, carved with the same swirling glyphs that covered everything in this damn place.
He shoved one open, stepped out into the night, and sucked in a breath, then another until his pulse slowly steadied.
I’m not running. I’m strategically retreating.
A shadow moved at the edge of the torchlight, and his hand went to his knife before he even registered the thought. His fingers curled around the hilt, ready to draw, ready to strike—
“Easy, Grá Croí.” Cian’s voice was a low rumble in the dark. “I’m not your enemy.”
Reaper’s teeth bared. “Fuck off.”
Cian stepped forward, just enough that the torchlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the green of his eyes gleaming like a predator’s in the dark. “Are you going to run?”
“I don’t run from jack shit.”
“You will.” Cian’s lips curved. “And when you do, I will chase you.”
His grip on the knife tightened. “You don’t know me.”
“I know exactly who you are.” Cian took another step closer, close enough that Reaper could see the start of a tattoo swirling up his left arm.
Well fuck.
He remembered watching Trace’s mating mark grow in a similar fashion as they exiled out of an outpost in Afghanistan last Halloween.
“You’re mine. And I’m yours. The land knows it.
The magic knows it. Even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.
” Cian reached out and brushed his knuckles against Reaper’s cheek.
The touch was light, barely there, but it burned like a brand.
“You can fight it all you want. But you’ll lose or we will both die when the full moon comes. ”
Reaper’s breath sped up, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile in full battle rattle. The meaning was not lost on him. He should step back, he should walk away, but he didn’t, or rather he couldn’t because the asshole’s touch was memorizing.
“Shifter?”
Cian’s thumb traced the line of Reaper’s jaw, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Like Cú Cullinan, the one you call Trace, I am a hound of our High King, Fionn. It is I who protected our people through the years as we waited for the Dord Fiann to sound three times.”
Then he was gone, melting back into the shadows like he’d never been there at all.
Reaper stood there, his skin burning where Cian had touched him, his heart hammering like he’d just been in one hell of a firefight.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He dragged a hand over his face, his fingers trembling just enough to piss him off.
He didn’t do this. He didn’t feel shit like this anymore.
He was a goddamn SEAL and he’d never again be anyone’s bitch.
He was the fucking Reaper. He didn’t get rattled, damn it.
But as he stood there, under the endless sky, in a magical realm, with the weight of Cian’s words swirling in his head, he knew one thing for certain: He was well and truly fucked.