11. A Thousand Nights Without Her
A Thousand Nights Without Her
S leep has become an elusive companion since receiving that letter all those weeks ago. Visions of Triona now dominate my thoughts.
In daylight, I envision her at my side as I complete arduous tasks.
Chores I once resented seem bearable when I picture her there—laughing softly, fingers brushing mine as she passes.
I imagine us sprawled on the library floor, the day’s weight pressing into our limbs as her voice dances through the quiet, reading aloud while I let her words lull me into peace.
But the nights are worse .
They stretch long and hollow, filled with a hunger I cannot sate.
I lie awake as my mind conjures the shape of her—the arch of her spine, the softness of her thighs, the warmth of her breath at my neck.
I feel her, though she’s not there. Her hair, like silk, spills over my skin in dreams that blur the line between what was and what I long for.
The desire burns so intensely within me it often becomes a physical ache—a constant reminder of the power she holds over me.
Though I fight it, there are nights when I surrender—to the darkness, to the silence, to the echo of her name.
My hands move with a desperate rhythm, chasing a fantasy I know I shouldn’t crave.
But in that fevered moment, it’s her. Always her.
Her touch imagined, slow and knowing, teasing me toward the edge of bliss.
It’s her name that whispers through my mind in that last moment before I tip over, the forbidden fantasy bringing me to completion, only to leave me hollow afterward.
Shame and longing intertwine, but no matter how I fight it, the pull of her is relentless, consuming me in ways I’m powerless to escape.
Our horses slow to a halt before Castle Connemara, dust settling in a golden haze around us as I dismount. Before my boots fully touch the ground, I’m met by Casey’s wide grin and Callan’s steady, grounding presence.
Casey barrels toward me at full speed, wrapping me in a fierce hug, his usual boisterous laughter filling the air as though no time has passed since we last stood together.
“Look who’s finally come home!” he shouts, his voice rich with warmth. “We thought ye might’ve forgotten where we were—or decided ye preferred the company of strangers to yer own kin.”
He pulls me in tighter for another hug, his strength catching me off guard. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more sincere. “It’s good to see ye, brother.”
I chuckle, clapping his back, before turning to Callan, whose smile is quieter but no less genuine.
“Glad ye made it back,” Callan murmurs, his eyes steady with a depth of gratitude that doesn’t need explaining.
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Yer letter was convincing enough.”
Callan huffs a quiet breath, something like a smirk flickering across his face, but the look in his eyes holds steady—relieved, and maybe even a little surprised.
A throat clears behind me, drawing our attention .
“Who’s that?” Callan asks, voice low and guarded, as he nods toward the figure looming just behind.
“Right,” I say, steadying my voice, though a flicker of tension tightens my chest.
Casey’s eyes spark with interest, and Callan raises a questioning brow as the tall, broad-shouldered man steps forward, his confident stride as unmistakable as his American drawl.
“This is Bran,” I introduce, clapping a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “He’s been a tolerable friend to me these past few years. Couldnae leave him behind—not that he gave me much choice.”
Bran, wearing his usual roguish grin, nods in greeting, his eyes glinting with curiosity as he sizes up Casey and Callan.
Recognition dawns on both of their faces, but Callan speaks the question aloud. “Alex’s son?”
“Aye, that’s my old man.”
“Our father speaks highly of him. It’s a pleasure to meet half of the illustrious Mumford father and son duo,” Casey says with a playful edge.
“Pleasure’s mine,” Bran retorts, voice warm but edged with a playfulness of his own as he extends his hand to Casey first. “Finn’s told me plenty about you both.”
Casey laughs, shaking Bran’s hand enthusiastically. “Aye, well, I hope he spared some of the more scandalous tales. Not sure I could live down some things you might’ve heard.”
Bran chuckles, shooting me a playful glance. “Don’t worry. Finn was mostly diplomatic.”
Then he turns to Callan, offering a respectful nod while clearly sizing up the man’s quiet intensity. “He’s spoken highly of you… Callan, I presume? Said you were one to beat in a fight.”
Callan’s mouth quirks, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. There’s a glint of appreciation in his eyes—but also scrutiny.
“Aye, well,” he says, stepping forward and clapping Bran on the arm, the force deliberate. “Clever of ye—to lead with flattery while scoping out the competition.” His gaze sharpens just enough to make the point. “Suppose that means you’re not entirely daft.”
Bran’s grin only deepens. “Flattery’s just honesty with a smile, isn’t it?” he quips, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to let the mischief settle in. “Figured I’d win more ground by working out which of you bites back the hardest. ”
Casey barks a laugh, clapping Bran on the back. “My coin’s on you. Might not be so hard to put Callan down these days. Our sister—”
“Casey,” Callan cuts in sharply, his tone low and warning. “Shut yer mouth and drop it.”
Casey tries to suppress his amusement but fails miserably, laughter spilling out despite Callan’s glare. “Aye, aye, fine,” Casey says, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though his grin remains firmly in place. “Consider it dropped.”
My gaze slides to Callan, curiosity flickering to life as I silently ask the question.
Callan meets my eyes with a look that says don’t even think about it. Whatever Casey was about to say, Callan’s not sharing—and if I so much as breathe a question, he’ll make himself scarce faster than a shadow at sunrise.
The corner of my mouth twitches, amusement threatening to rise. I know better than to press, but I also know it’ll come out—most likely when Casey decides the time is ripe to stir the pot, as he always does.
The four of us fall into laughter—the easy kind, worn in like an old coat. Camaraderie blooms in the way only old ties allow—jabs and jests tossed like stones across a quiet loch.
But when the mirth fades, I catch the edge of something in Callan’s sidelong glance. Subtle—but heavy. A flicker of what still lingers beneath the surface. A reminder of why I’ve come back.
As Casey leads Bran off toward the stables, his voice animated as he regales Bran with some undoubtedly exaggerated tale, Callan steps closer to me. His hand lightly grips my arm, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear.
“I’m glad ye’re home.”
He hesitates, and I see the vulnerability in his eyes, a crack in the armour he wears so well. “I’d wondered if my letter had gone unanswered,” he continues, his words slower now, deliberate. “If maybe—” He pauses, the unspoken possibility hanging heavy between us.
He doesn’t need to finish. I know what he’s thinking, what he doesn’t say aloud.
We were both raised to carry what others couldn’t. To be unflinching, unshaken. There’s little room for softness in the shape we were forced to take. It hollows you out over time. And he’s been carrying too much, alone.
I place a hand on his shoulder, grounding him in the way only he and I understand .
“Ye never needed to doubt,” I say, my voice quiet but certain. “I’d have come, Callan. Always.”
His lips press into a faint line, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting mine again. The tension in his shoulders eases, though the gratitude in his expression is something I doubt he’ll ever put into words.
“Aye,” he finally says, giving a small nod. “Good.”
It’s a simple word, but it carries more than it seems, and as he steps back, I feel the unspoken bond between us as strong as ever. A tether that runs deeper than blood. It’s a connection forged in silence—in the heavy spaces where burdens are borne without complaint.
Beneath Callan’s steady gaze, I sense the stirring of unrest—a shadow that has yet to take shape. There are questions in him, tangled and unsaid, and though he hides them well, I know their weight.
He needs someone beside him—not to lift the burden entirely, but to remind him he is not alone beneath it.
And when he’s ready—when the silence breaks and the words finally come—I’ll be here. He’s never been one to speak before the time is right. And I?
I’ve always known how to wait.
“Right then,” Callan says, nodding toward the familiar stretch of land behind the farmhouse. His tone softens, the edges of his usual gruffness smoothing into something almost wistful. “She’ll be glad to see ye,” he murmurs, as though speaking more to himself than to me.
As he steps back to give me space, memories of Triona flood my senses, as vivid as if she stood beside me.
I can almost feel her there, our shoulders brushing as she catches me up on the last three years of life—three years spent without me—her voice weaving stories that linger long after the words fade.
“Ye ken how she is. She’ll get bent outta shape if she finds out ye didnae see her the moment yer foot stepped onto solid ground.” I nod in acknowledgment, though words fail me.
Callan claps a hand on my shoulder, his voice low. “She’s out at the cliffs. Casey said her and Ma got in quite the row. Said it looked like she’d been holdin’ back tears, but she’s not the type to let ‘em fall where folk can see. ”
I nod again, and my chest constricts as my gaze follows his—toward the worn path I know by heart, the one that winds through grass and wind and salt air until it reaches the sea.
Every nerve thrums. The steady beat of my heart begins to rise, louder now, pulsing with something I wish I could ignore.