Chapter 12
Pain filtered into the fantastical dreams of warriors in bonding pools, and wolves in forests, dragging Reaper reluctantly from his slumber.
Between his ass and his neck, he wasn’t sure which he wanted to rub first. He rolled over onto his back and instantly regretted it when his right butt cheek landed on a sharp rock.
“Fuck.” He fished under himself for the stone and tossed it away.
He rubbed over the aching spot on his neck, brushing over the tender flesh, and his breath hitched when his fingers came away smeared with blood.
What the hell?
He sat up too fast, every part of his body ached, and the sacred grove swam in his vision. Memories slammed into him. He and Cian had…
Nope, not going there.
The warrior was sprawled on his back, one arm slung over his eyes like he was shielding himself from the dawn.
Reaper’s fingers tightened around the injury on his shoulder.
He huffed in annoyance that the noise he was making wasn’t enough to wake Cian.
It was stupid to be enthralled by how his chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths, his body relaxed as if none of this was a big fucking deal, right? As if they hadn’t just—
Stop it. Just stop it.
This changes nothing.
His eyes widened as a thought snuck into his mind, and he patted down his body. His clothes were back on, slightly damp and clinging to his skin. His boots weren’t laced correctly, but at least the warrior had the decency to dress him after he’d fucked him senseless in a magic pool.
His molars ground together, the sound loud even to his own ears.
He’d spent years in Special Operations; he was damn good at being an Operator, but this shit hadn’t been in the playbook at BUDs.
He still wasn’t entirely sure that Zero hadn’t tried to be a bright spark and go foraging in the woods surrounding Trace’s house, and poison them with magic mushrooms again.
That would explain the dreaming. I was a wolf.
He wasn’t sure what kind of magic shit had happened last night… or how to freaking deal with it, if it was real.
No take-backs.
The whisper of Cian’s voice echoed in his skull, swiftly followed by the dream-like memory of his hands on his hips, his lips on his mouth, and a wolf’s mouth at his throat.
Reaper’s hands clenched into fists. “Yo, Dude. Did you fucking bite me in my sleep or some shit?” He nudged him in the back, “Cian, what the hell, man?” The movement jostled the warrior, who groaned and rolled onto his side, one hand reaching blindly toward where Reaper had been.
“Morning, Mo Ghrá Croí.” His voice was rough with sleep, his moss-green eyes cracking open. Then he saw Reaper standing there, rigid as a board, and his smirk faltered. “You’re up early.”
“Yeah.” Reaper’s voice came out tighter than he intended. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the way his body still hummed from last night, the way his skin remembered the press of Cian’s hands, the heat of his mouth. “What the hell happened last night?”
Cian pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze sharpening as it landed on Reaper’s neck. “Ah. My mark is still there.” A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “Well, that confirms it.”
Reaper’s hand flew back to the sore spot on his neck before he could stop himself. “Confirms what, exactly?”
“That you are descended from the Wolf Walkers.” Cian stretched, his muscles rippling under his tunic, entirely too pleased with himself. “Failinis marked you. He did really mark you properly.”
Jesus, that better not mean what I think it does.
“Failinis?” Reaper contorted his neck, trying to get a glimpse at the wound, but it was impossible without breaking his neck. “Your what did what to me?”
“My wolf marked you.” Cian’s grin turned feral. The bastard looked entirely too pleased with himself. “And yours marked me back.”
If I strangle him, that’ll knock the smirk off his face.
His fingers twitched toward his neck again. He refused to believe it. Even he wasn’t Bayou enough to keep this up long term. “I don’t have a wolf.”
“Oh, you do. Ossary.” Cian cocked his head to one side, studying him. “That’s what he calls himself. Your wolf is as beautiful as you are.”
Maybe he’s the one who’s been chowing down on the magic mushrooms.
Reaper’s breath hitched. It was way too early, and he was way too caffeine-deficient for him to believe all he hadn’t dreamed it, then. Seeing the world through the white wolf’s eyes, the chase, the fucking, the biting, was way past his comfort zone.
TBI. Fuck my life, it’s gotta be a TBI.
That had to be it. He’d been too close to an IED blast zone, and now suffered with delusions.
“He’s been waiting for you,” Cian continued, rolling to his feet with that infuriating grace of his. “Just like I have.”
“I don’t have a wolf.” His Grá, whatever he was, had lost his damn mind, “Like I told Trace, I think I’d know if I turned into a wolf.”
Cian stepped closer, close enough that Reaper could see the faint red marks on his own neck, almost in the same place where his own neck ached, and his stomach twisted.
“You do have a wolf,” Cian reassured him. “His name is Ossary, and he’s mine now, too. Just as you are.”
Reaper recoiled. “That’s…um…insane.”
“No.” Cian’s voice softened a fraction, sending shivers of awareness down Reaper’s spine, “But it is the truth.”
Damn, I'd tap that.
His vision blurred for half a second with memories or visions, but he locked all that shit down. He needed to brood, to ponder, and figure out where his head was at. With Cian in front of him, that just wasn’t possible.
Zero is from home, he'll know if this shit is real.
The problem was that he couldn't be entirely sure if Zero would seize the opportunity to fuck with him or not. Still, if he wanted to retain what remained of his sanity, then his cattywampus brother in arms was in the hot seat, just as soon as he could reach him. “We’re going back to Dún Fianna. Now.”
Cian’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t argue. Just nodded, already turning toward the path. “After you, mo Ghrá Croí.”
“Stop calling me that.”
Cian paused, glancing back. The morning light caught the gold ring surrounding the green in his eyes and made them gleam. “Why? It’s what you are.”
“Grá Croí?” Reaper spat the words. “I’m not your anything, and weren’t your eyes green?”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Cian’s smile didn’t waver. “Your eyes now carry the circle of Failinis’s gold around your brown. Just as I carry Ossary’s. It’s a Wolf Walker thing, so that’s your doing, not mine.”
Reaper’s molars ground so hard his jaw ached. He wanted to hit something, preferably the frustrating warrior who should not look that damn good in a fucking skirt. But the bond flared in warning, a sharp ‘no’ twisting in his chest.
“I can feel how much you want me, you know,” Cian called over his shoulder. “It is why I am not offended by your protests as you wrap your mind around what is happening. Are you coming? Or are you planning to sulk here all day?”
You are being an asshole, human. That is our Grá Croí. Be better.
Damn, now even my fucking head is scolding me for being a dick.
I am Ossary, not your head. Deal with that shit too, asshole.
Reaper’s hands fisted against the sides of his head, and he rubbed over his ears. It drove him nuts that both the warrior and the voice in his head were right. He was being a dick to a man who also had no choice, a man who’d bent over backward to make this whole thing easier on him. “Hey, Cian?”
“Yes?” Cain paused in saddling the horse Reaper had ridden on the way here, and glanced at him over its withers.
“I’m being an asshole. I’m sorry.”
Cain rounded the horse, came to him, and before Reaper figured out his intent, pressed a kiss to the side of his head.
“We will find our way, a stór. You are still running from your destiny, me and Failinis are relishing the hunt. When we catch you forever, our courting will become the songs of the bards and the legends of the Seanchaí. They will tell of how you are my anamchara, my soul mate, and I am yours. In this way, we will live and love for a million lifetimes.” He handed him the reins of the horse. “Come. Let us ride to Dún Fianna.”
Reaper mounted and fell into place beside Cian. “Someone better have coffee when we get there.”
Cian, bastard that he was, snickered. “This coffee for you is like a drug.” His voice was entirely too amused. “Maybe someday you will speak of me and Failinis as you do your coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t a drug. It’s sanity in a mug. A murder prevention potion in a mug. When you work with the people I work with, it’s not an addiction, it’s a straight-up necessity.”
“I see.” Cian glanced at him. “Maybe you will share it with me.”
Reaper narrowed his eyes. “If you touch my coffee, Failinis is going to need another human to shift into pretty damn quick.”
Cian’s expression turned teasing. “Maybe I will try it.”
“Then steal Kaze or Zero’s.” Reaper grumbled. “Those two assholes are batshit enough, without adding caffeine into the mix.”
Cian’s grin turned feral. “You will help me steal it from them?”
Anything to drive his two brothers in arms up the wall, “Yes, I—”
Cian’s hand shot out, and he almost pulled him off the horse as his mouth crashed into his.
Reaper’s brain short-circuited. One second, agreeing to piss off his teammates, the next, Cian’s hands were around his neck, his tongue sweeping past his lips, stroking and claiming in a devastatingly hot kiss.
Cian groaned into his mouth, his hands pulling him closer.
Reaper could feel himself sliding out of the saddle, and he wrenched back, gasping. His lips were swollen, his pulse hammering. “If your idea of courting is kissing me right off the back of a horse… I gotta tell ya, your courting plans need some work.”
“Hah.” Cian’s smirk was infuriating. “I will keep this in mind.”
As they settled back into the ride, Reaper decided that this, this he could do. Throwing down snark, teasing, and bantering back and forth was definitely in his wheelhouse.
Maybe this will work after all.