35. Bared Beneath the Stars #3
Before I can respond, Finn steps forward, his expression firm. “Callan, can we talk? Just the two of us.”
Callan’s brows furrow, but he nods and gestures to the side of the path.
Finn leans close to me, his voice a muted whisper. “I want to say one last thing to Callan now that things have settled between us.” Before stepping away, he presses a gentle kiss to my cheek, his touch warm and reassuring.
He follows Callan, and they stop just out of earshot. From where I stand, their low voices are a murmur against the backdrop of rustling leaves.
Turning my attention to the beautiful countryside greenery around us, I let my eyes wander over the rolling hills and clusters of wildflowers swaying in the breeze.
The distant hum of a stream blends with the low cadence of their voices, offering a tranquil contrast to the tension of the moment.
I try to focus on the serenity of the landscape, giving the men their privacy, but a small shout from Callan has me whipping back around.
I catch a flash of something on Callan’s face—a raw emotion that vanishes the instant his eyes meet mine, replaced by his usual composed demeanour.
Callan places both arms on Finn’s shoulders, his grip firm and steady.
I quickly turn back around, determined to offer them privacy once more, and walk a little farther out of earshot, letting the greenery pull my focus again.
Callan eventually calls out for me, his voice carrying a warmth that draws me back. “Triona,” he says, his tone softer than I’d expected. I turn in time for him to throw his arms around me and give me a hug.
“Stay safe, aye?” he murmurs against my hair.
“I will if you will,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. I give him an equally commanding hug back, holding on tightly for a moment before stepping back to meet his steady gaze.
Callan looks past me to Finn, his eyes lingering a moment too long.
Finn steps forward and holds out his arm.
Callan hesitates for a fraction of a second, then clasps him firmly by the forearm.
Their grips tighten, and Callan leans in slightly.
“Ye watch yerself in there,” he says, his voice low and strained, the words carrying a depth that makes my chest tighten.
Finn’s jaw sets, his voice steady. “I will. I promise.”
“Ye’re one of the best men I ken, Finn. ”
Callan’s gaze doesn’t waver, but something shifts beneath it—like stone groaning beneath pressure, silent but undeniable. He inclines his head once, solemn and spare, and releases Finn’s arm with a grip that lingers—not in hesitation, but in farewell.
He straightens. For a breath, he studies us both with a stillness that hums, as though he’s sealing the moment in the marrow of his bones.
Then, without a word, he turns. The fading light carves shadows along his back as he walks, each step quieter than the last until only the curve of his silhouette remains, swallowed by the dusk.
Finn and I watch him go, the sound of his boots on the dirt fading into the stillness. I feel an ache in my chest, but Finn steps closer, his hand brushing against mine. “He’ll be all right,” he says smoothly.
“We should make camp for the night,” Finn murmurs, his voice low, sure, yet threaded with something more tender than command. His gaze lifts to the sky, where the first stars begin to blink into being.
“If it all changes tomorrow,” he pauses, as though shaping the next words with care, “then I want this night with you. One more, beneath the stars, where I learned what it meant to love you. I want to hold you here until dawn—no past, no future. Just this.”
His words don’t simply land in my chest—they settle like stone in the riverbed, anchoring me against the current of all that’s unknown. I nod, unable to speak, and let him take my hand.
When we stop, Finn kneels to gather kindling with practiced ease, each motion quiet and sure. I busy myself with the tent, my hands working more from memory than thought.
When I return to his side, the tension in his shoulders eases.
He glances back at me, eyes unreadable for a beat, before a faint, wistful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
With the fire crackling low and the tent secured, Finn lays a cloak beside the flame, then lowers himself and pats the space beside him—an invitation not just to sit, but to stay.
As I settle, the sky opens above, vast and endless, the stars painting stories in the dark.
Finn’s arm slips around me, drawing me closer until I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, a rhythm that steadies my racing heart.
He leans his head slightly against mine, and for a long moment, we sit in silence, the pressure of tomorrow dulled.
“I dinnae want this night to end,” he admits, his voice barely more than breath. His words carry the raw honesty of someone who knows time is fleeting .
I turn to look at him, the firelight catching in his eyes, and I see something there that makes my throat tighten—a depth of feeling that goes beyond words.
“Then let’s make it ours,” I say, resting my hand over his. He smiles, and it’s a small, fragile thing, but it’s enough.
Finn leans in, his lips brushing mine with a tenderness that steals the breath from my lungs.
The fire crackles softly beside us, its warmth a quiet echo to the heat building between our bodies.
His arms gather me close, strong and sure, as he shifts over me—his hands moving with aching care, tracing the lines of my face, my neck, my shoulders.
Above us, the stars seem to shimmer brighter, as if stirred by the gravity of this moment.
Their distant light pulses in time with our breaths, silent witnesses to the quiet unravelling of something sacred.
Finn’s touch is reverent, almost worshipful—as though he’s committing me to memory, reading every sigh, every soft gasp like scripture.
I match him beat for beat, threading my fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, needing the press of him, the weight of this closeness. If time is only lending us this fleeting sliver of forever, then I’ll anchor us here—together, in this breathless now.
Suddenly, Finn rises, his strong arms wrapping around me as he lifts me with effortless grace. He says nothing—he doesn’t have to. The firelight casts gold and shadow across the canvas of the tent as he carries me inside.
He sets me down with gentle adoration, as though I’m something sacred, then leans in, his breath brushing my ear. “Tonight,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “ye’re not wearin’ a thing. Just you and me, bared beneath these stars.”
I pull him closer, ready to lose myself completely in the safety of his embrace, in the fleeting forever of this night.
A soft chuckle escapes me as I glance at the canvas overhead. “We’re not technically beneath the stars.”
Finn flashes me a wicked grin. “Aye, well—I’d rather not risk some poor bastard glimpsin’ you and losin’ my head. I’m not in the habit of sharin’ what’s mine.”
My breath hitches at the possessive edge in his voice, at the way he says mine . I lean up, catch his bottom lip gently between my teeth, and give it a playful tug before murmuring against his mouth, “Good. Because I’ve no intention of being anyone else’s.”
There are no words between us now, only the unspoken promises carried in every glance, every caress .
The sounds that rise between us are music born of heat and reverence—his low bellows of pleasure, answer the breathless whimpers he draws from my lips. They clash and mingle in the tent’s hush, raw and unfiltered—masculine hunger and feminine surrender, strength and softness entwined.
Each time I gasp, he answers with a growl.
Each moan he tears from me becomes a vow he returns in sound alone—rough, reverent, and wrecked with need.
The deeper I draw him in, the deeper he falls, until we’re no longer two voices, but one song—aching and beautiful and divine in the way only love can be.
Together, we let the rest of the world fall away, leaving only the sky, the stars, and the love that has bound us long before we knew to name it.