20. The Language of Touch #2
His brow furrows in thought. “I dinnae ken… truly,” he admits, his voice low and thoughtful. “It worried me, but if it somehow saved you, I’ll not question whatever gift was granted in that moment.”
“What did it mean?”
Finn shifts, his fingers curling slightly into the blanket. “She asked if I’d hurt you.”
A pause lingers between us, thick and heavy.
His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “Then she told me to defend you.”
The response slips easily from my lips. “I know… given the chance, I’d not hesitate to do the same for you. To defend you with my life.”
I swallow hard and turn my gaze away, focusing on the slow rise and fall of his breath.
Moments pass, and though I try to keep to myself, the tension in my body refuses to dissipate. Suddenly, Finn shifts, his arm tentatively wrapping around my waist, drawing me closer until I’m turned, and my back presses against his chest.
My heart races, but it’s not fear that fuels it now.
There’s something settling about the weight of his arm around me, the way his body moulds protectively against mine.
His touch is firm yet careful, as though he’s afraid I might shatter if he eases his grip.
I let out a shaky breath, and the sound of it draws a soft murmur from him.
“Easy now, Tri,” he whispers, his voice low, soothing, and far too close to my ear. “I’ve got you.”
And I truly believe that. I feel safe—not just from the dangers outside the tent, but from the doubts and fears that tangle in my heart.
As my breath evens out, he moves his hand to my hip. It lingers, not moving, not pressing, just there. It should feel out of place, but it doesn’t. It feels right. Warmth spreads through me, seeping into places I hadn’t realised were cold.
My fingers brush against his, tentative, testing the reality of this moment. Beneath my touch, his muscles shift, and I feel his breath hitch. Emboldened by his reaction, I grasp his hand, guiding it to rest just above my breasts, lacing my fingers through his .
It is as brazen a move as I have ever made, my heart pounding at the intimacy. The heat of his palm sears against me, and for a moment, I am caught between hesitation and desire.
What am I doing?
The thought flickers, but his steady breathing drowns it out, his presence anchoring me.
Is this what it means to trust—offering a piece of myself without fear?
I can’t explain why I need him this close, only that it feels inevitable, as if every unspoken word and stolen glance led to this shared moment.
It’s not just the safety that lulls me, but the quiet strength of him, the way his presence seems to fill every corner of the tent, and every part of me.
“Thanks,” I whisper, barely audible over the rhythm of his breathing.
He doesn’t respond with words, just presses me further into his body. It’s a slight gesture, but it feels like everything.
As sleep slowly pulls me under, I realise I have never felt more protected—nor more vulnerable. In Finn’s presence, I don’t feel the need to run from anything.
Triona Wednesday, 7 May 1823 Somewhere Near Inverness
The morning sun filters through the trees, casting shifting patterns of light across the forest floor as I make my way toward the creek. Callan crouches low at the water’s edge, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes, his focus unyielding.
A few paces away, Casey and Bran sit in hushed conversation, their words occasionally broken by bursts of laughter that feel oddly out of place in a world that’s tipped off its axis .
“Callan,” I call softly.
He glances over his shoulder, his sharp gaze softening when it lands on me. “What is it?”
“I’m holding you to your promise,” I say, folding my arms to hide the tremor in my hands. “No more secrets. I want the full truth.”
He exhales heavily, setting his blade and whetstone aside.
For a moment, I think he might brush me off, but then he looks at me, really looks at me. Something in his expression shifts—an older brother’s love mingled with reluctant acceptance.
“There’s no sane way to say it—in fact, that it’s a truth is something I’m still sortin’ through,” he begins, running a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to the trees as if searching for the right words.
“It’s not uncommon for families like ours—families tied to the old ways—to attract… protectors. Guardians of a sort.”
“Protectors?”
“Banshees,” he says bluntly, watching my reaction. “Spirits drawn to families—especially bloodlines with daughters. They’re not just harbingers of death, like the stories say. They watch over us, protect us—especially the women—from horrors they themselves endured when they were alive…”
A chill races down my spine. “And you think… one of them is protecting me?”
“I dinnae think , lass. I k en.” His gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. “I was told long ago that Sinclairs never walk alone in the darkness. Even if we dinnae see them, guardians linger. They’re there, in the shadows, tied to us in ways we cannae hope to understand.”
“Who told you that?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.
Callan hesitates. “Triona—” he starts.
A bark of laughter snaps the tension like a whip.
“Ach, you’re havin’ a laugh,” Casey says, shaking his head as he strides closer. “So we’ve got a family banshee now? Hauntin’ us, but bein’ downright civil about it?”
Bran flicks a pebble into the stream. “Sounds like the start of a bedtime story gone wrong. ‘Once upon a time, your ancestors were so tragically tortured that the spirits belonging to the great beyond stuck around.’”
Callan rounds on them. “It’s no jest, ye daft bastards. I’m tellin’ ye what’s real. ”
Bran raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying it sounds like something out of a fairytale. Banshees lurking around like some sort of spiritual escorts?”
“It might not make sense to you two eejits,” Callan snaps, “Seein’ as ye’ve been too far up each other’s arses to see what’s happenin’ around you. But Triona’s healin’ ability doesnae make much sense either, now does it?”
That shuts them up. Casey’s smirk fades. Bran’s humour dims to curiosity.
Casey crosses his arms. “All right. So how would you know all of this?”
“Because I was told,” Callan growls. “Years ago. By someone who knew more about this sort of thing than ye ever will.”
Bran tilts his head. “By who ? A wise old mystic? A local seer? Someone drunk off his tits at the pub?”
“By someone who cared if we lived,” Callan snaps.
Casey steps forward. “Say it’s all true. How—”
“Enough!” I snap, my voice cracking as I cut him off.
They all freeze, playful banter fading as I glare at Bran and Casey.
“I saw her.” The words tremble out of me. “I saw her. So whether you believe in banshees or ghost stories or bloodline curses… I’m telling you. She’s real.” I pause, swallowing hard.
“They almost… if I’d been held down a minute longer…” I trail off. My throat tightens, the memory searing.
As if summoned, Finn steps into the clearing. His presence steadies me, and when words fail, he speaks for me.
“They were gonna force themselves on her,” Finn says, his voice low and cold. “And I watched as they were torn limb from limb. So I dinnae care what it was, but I’m damn grateful for its arrival. I’ll be thankin’ it every night I draw breath.”
Silence chokes the clearing.
Even Bran doesn’t have a quip. Casey’s expression twists with shame and something deeper—fear, maybe.
Casey lowers his voice. “Triona… I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m… we’re all just as confused as you,” I say, gesturing toward Finn and Callan. “This hasn’t been easy to process.”
They nod in unison, their earlier skepticism replaced by a quiet understanding .
Bran exhales, running a hand through his hair, the humour that usually dances in his eyes tempered by a flicker of something softer. “Banshees… it’s… bloody wild, and eerie as the grave. A spirit woman smiting deceptive cunts in the woods.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips, but before I can respond, Bran speaks again.
“So… just to be clear, she’s on our side, right? No sudden appearances to scare us while we’re taking a leak in the woods?”
Casey snorts. “Bran, I swear—”
“Are you afraid she’ll try to steal yer cock?” Finn deadpans.
“What? No!” Bran balks. “I’ve a strong bladder, but I’m not made of steel. One jump scare and I’ll be down a pair of trousers. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t fancy pissing myself.”
The tension breaks, a ripple of quiet laughter passing between us. Even Callan smirks, though he quickly hides it behind a scowl.
Bran’s grin widens as he leans back against a tree. “That’s all I needed to hear. Banshees, welcome. Just… give a bit of warning so I don’t greet you with my arse out.”
The laughter that follows is sharp and strange—but welcome.
Callan rolls his eyes but mutters, “Bloody eejit,” under his breath.
Casey shakes his head, his voice a touch more serious as the moment settles. “Truth be told, we should’ve believed him straight off. I’ve been this lad’s brother for twenty years, and I can tell ye—Callan doesnae know how to tell a joke, let alone make one up.”
That draws a few more quiet chuckles, even from Callan himself. For a fleeting moment, it feels like we might be okay.
Callan exhales, rolling his shoulders, blade back in hand. His voice, when it comes, is softer.
“Deidre told me. Long ago. When I was just a lad.” He stares down at the blade like it holds the memory.
I swallow, something uneasy curling into my stomach. “How would Deidre even know that?”
“Deidre has been a presence in our parents’ lives since before we were born. I can only assume… she must’ve kent the truth of it all’.”
The truth of everything .
Had she known what was coming ?
Had she known my parents’ fate long before it unfolded—watched it, carried it in silence, never speaking a word?
“I’m startin’ to truly believe what Da meant… what he said before we left. That the world we’re steppin’ into—it’s not the one we knew. Not anymore.”
No one speaks, but I feel the quiet acceptance of the truth—that the world has changed.
And somehow, I know—we are only just beginning to grasp its depths.