Chapter 9
The Fianna’s war camp was a whirlwind of blood, sweat, and the raw, primal energy of warriors fresh from battle.
The air was thick with the acrid bite of smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
Warriors poured in through the tree line, their faces streaked with soot and gore.
Some carried their wounded brethren, their arms straining under the weight of limp bodies, while others dragged Tuatha Dé Danann prisoners, their golden armor dented, scorched, and smeared with the evidence of a fight well-fought.
The prisoners’ expressions were a mix of defiance and resignation, their proud postures betraying the exhaustion of defeat.
The camp itself was a sprawling, makeshift fortress of tents, weapons, and the occasional flicker of firelight.
Holy shit.
Mind blown.
I’ll never watch Lord of the Rings the same again.
Reaper barely had a moment to take it all in before a hand clamped onto his shoulder with bruising force, spinning him around.
Viper stood there, his face tighter than Reaper had ever seen it, his usual smirk wiped clean by something that looked a hell of a lot like fear.
“You’re fucking bleeding.” Viper’s voice was rough with urgency. “How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s a scratch.” He’d taken worse hits in training and in too many missions gone sideways to even remember half of them. This was just another scar to add to the collection. He scanned the men for his team members, doing a mental count.
Kaze.
Zero.
Juice.
Trace.
Viper.
Me.
Viper’s jaw clenched. “Jesus, Reap. You took one hell of a chance...”
“I have one word for you. Ward.”
Before Viper could kick his ass or respond, Juice was there with his medical kit already in hand.
His expression was all business, but there was an edge to his movements, a tension that betrayed the worry beneath the professional calm.
“Sit. Now.” His tone brooked no argument, the kind of command that came from years of patching up idiots who thought they were invincible.
Reaper shook his head, already stepping back. “Later.” There was too much to do, too much still hanging in the balance. He wasn’t about to sit down and play patient while the camp was still buzzing with the aftermath of battle.
Are we mated now?
What happens next?
Damn, I wish I fucking knew what was coming down the pipe.
Trace materialized from the chaos, his presence cutting through the noise like a blade.
His expression was unreadable, his eyes locked onto Reaper with an intensity that made the hair on the back of Reaper’s neck stand up.
“You went in alone,” It was an accusation, one that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken rules… rules Reaper had completely ignored.
Reaper met his gaze head-on, refusing to look away.
“Miach got me inside.” He didn’t owe Trace an explanation, not really, but the words came anyway.
“I got Cian out. That’s what matters.” The rest, the how and the why, would have to wait.
Right now, all that mattered was that Cian was here, alive, and standing beside him.
The rest was bullshit that could be sorted later.
He hoped.
A horn blasted through the camp, cutting through the din of voices and clanging metal.
The warriors stilled as one, their conversations dying on their lips.
Heads turned toward the center of the camp, where Fionn stood atop a fallen log.
The High King’s gaze swept over the assembled warriors before landing on Reaper and Cian with the precision of an arrow finding its mark.
The air around him crackled with something that made Reaper’s instincts scream.
Danger.
“You.” Fionn’s voice was a whipcrack. “Both of you. Now.”
Cian’s fingers twitched against Reaper’s arm, a fleeting, almost imperceptible movement, but Reaper felt it like a brand.
Cian turned, his chin lifted in silent defiance, and led the way through the parting crowd.
Reaper fell into step beside him, matching his stride, his own posture just as unyielding.
He wasn’t about to show weakness to anyone.
If they were going to face the High King’s wrath, they’d do it side by side.
Fionn didn’t waste time on pleasantries. The moment they stopped in front of him, his command brooked no argument. “Strip.”
Reaper’s brows shot up. “The fuck?”
“Your shirt.” Fionn’s eyes burned like embers, his voice a low growl. “Show me the mark now.”
How the hell does he know?
Crap, what was it someone had mentioned about Fionn knowing everything? But if he fucking already knew everything, then why did he want to see their marks?
Even though Cian’s jaw tightened and the muscles in his neck corded with tension, he didn’t hesitate.
He yanked his torn tunic over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the swirling red lines that snaked up his arm, coiled around his shoulder, and ended in the shape of a wolf over his heart.
The mark stood out in stark contrast against his skin.
Damn, that’s hot.
They better not want us to fuck here to prove we’re bonded or everyone’s gonna have problems.
“Warrior!”
Fionn’s warning dragged his attention from Cian’s chest, and Reaper followed suit, peeling off his ruined shirt with a hell of a lot less grace. He glanced down at his arm, and the mark was just as vivid as Cian’s.
Fionn’s nostrils flared, his expression twisting into something between fury and disbelief. “You bonded.”
Cian’s voice was steady, but Reaper felt the tension radiating off him in waves, like heat from a forge. “There was no choice, Mo Rhí.” His words were clipped, precise. “The ropes—”
“I know what the ropes do.” Fionn’s hand shot out to grip Cian’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “But the mark is red and not blue.”
Is it not meant to be?
Say the words, baby…please help me help you.
It had been reckless, maybe even stupid. But dayum… the warrior may just be worth the drama of a relationship. A relationship with no take backs and no way out.
Fuck. What was I thinking?
That good men don’t deserve to die at the whims of an asshole?
That he’s melt-the-sheets-hot?
That those muscles of his are droolworthy?
All of the above?
Option number four. It’s definitely option number four…all of the above.
He forced himself back to the present and glanced at Viper, Trace, and Juice’s forearms, and a cold knot formed in his stomach.
Theirs are blue, so why is ours red?
He didn’t like the way Fionn’s eyes flicked between them, as if he was trying to figure out how to break whatever fuckery was coming to them. “Why is ours a different color to theirs?”
Fionn stuck his thumb into his mouth and closed his eyes. Within moments, he opened them again. “It means you’ve claimed each other. But the bond isn’t complete.” His gaze flicked between him and Cian. “You haven’t fucked yet.”
Excuse me, what?
How the hell is that any of your beeswax?
Reaper’s teeth ground together. “We were a little busy trying not to die,” he bit out, his voice a low growl.
The last thing he needed was Fionn judging them for something that should’ve been none of his damn business, not while he was trying to wrap his mind around option number freaking four, and, ‘Say the words, baby…please help me help you.’
A growl rumbled from Fionn’s chest. “While my warriors bled for you,” his voice dropped to a lethal whisper, “you were sealing a bond?”
Cian angled his body slightly in front of Reaper as if he could shield him from Fionn’s wrath.
“We spoke the vow.” There was an edge of warning in his voice.
“That’s all. The ropes would’ve killed us both if we hadn’t.
” The unspoken back the hell off hung in the air between them, reinforced by the growl of the wolf deep inside him.
Fionn’s gaze darkened, his fingers flexing as if he were imagining wrapping them around Cian’s throat. “You have until the sun rises in the morning. If you’re not mated by then, both of you will be no more.”
Whoa, what?
Shit.
This was going way faster than he wanted it to.
Cian didn’t seem as bothered as he glared at Fionn. “We’ll make it.”
Fionn’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “See that you do.” He turned away abruptly and barked orders to the warriors gathered nearby. “Darragh, they are to go to the sacred grove. Give them horses and see that no one disturbs them.”
Darragh dipped his chin at Fionn, then gestured to them both, “This way.” He didn’t wait for a response, already turning to lead them through the camp, his path clearing as warriors melted out of his way.
Reaper didn’t move immediately. His gaze flicked to Fionn’s retreating back, then to the chaos of the camp around them. “What about the battle?”
Fionn didn’t look back. “We have won the battle.” His voice was flat, devoid of triumph. “Your mate’s father will lick his wounds for a while.” His eyes flicked to Cian. “But this isn’t over.”
Cian’s fingers found Reaper’s, threading through them with a possessiveness that sent a jolt through Reaper’s system. “Then we’ll be ready.”
Darragh led them through the camp, past warriors tending to the wounded, past the curious glances and murmured whispers of those who watched them pass.
The wounded were being carried to makeshift triage areas, their faces pale but determined, while others sharpened weapons or stoked fires, already preparing for whatever came next.
The camp was a machine of war, and Reaper couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being judged as they moved through it.
At the edge of the camp, a pair of white horses waited.
One of the beasts tossed its head, its eyes rolling white, but stilled the moment Cian approached.
He pressed his forehead to the horse’s muzzle with a familiarity that spoke of old bonds.
“I have known this one since he foaled on the slopes of Sliabh Mis,” Cian murmured. “They’ll get us there fast.”