Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
CIARAN
Everything was going so fucking wrong.
A week ago, everything in Ciaran’s life was as it should be. As it had been for a long time.
Peaceful, quiet, and blessedly uneventful.
Uneventful was good. Boring was good.
Ciaran liked boring.
He loved his life in Tenebrae. He loved his job, his store.
His family.
His consortium.
Then Detective Sergeant fucking Douglas fucking Sawyer had to turn up and ruin everything.
Now nothing was as it should be.
Everything was different. Changed.
Ciaran was changed.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want a human mate. He didn’t want a mate at all, let alone a human one.
Least of all a human one.
For fuck’s sake.
And then Hendrix and Dylan had gone to Hobart for a week or two, as they often did.
They liked the club scene, to indulge their human side every now and then.
Ciaran understood that. He certainly took no issue with it.
He wished them well, made sure they had enough money, told them to behave themselves, knowing damn well they wouldn’t.
It was good for Dylan to let loose every now and then. He was higher strung than most, and he usually came back relaxed and settled. Probably from all the human sex, Ciaran assumed.
Not that he needed that, but he certainly understood others might.
But then Hendrix had come back alone.
And for the past six days, Dylan had been unaccounted for.
Six whole days.
And the worst part was Sawyer having the audacity to show up in Ciaran’s town and turn everything on its head.
Hiding out at the hut further up the river was supposed to be a reset, like a breath of fresh air to cleanse his mind, but it had only made it all worse. Because apparently putting distance between them was like adding petroleum to fire.
Then he’d had to come back and listen to Hendrix’s recount what had happened in Hobart—their encounter with the Bass Straight consortium, which was enough to piss Ciaran the fuck off—but then, when Ciaran thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, it got a whole lot fucking worse.
The most delectable, alluring, and frightening scent...
Sawyer’s blood.
Sawyer was bleeding.
How did he know it was Sawyer’s blood?
He just knew.
He knew it like he knew the sun would rise in the morning. As he knew his own thoughts. As he knew his own self.
Well, he thought he knew himself.
Clearly that was fucking wrong too.
But he knew it in his stupid human bones that his Sawyer was bleeding.
There was nothing in this world that could have stopped Ciaran from finding him.
Now, if he had found Sawyer injured, lying in a pool of his own blood, Ciaran knew he wouldn’t have been able to contain his human form. He was barely maintaining it as it was.
It wasn’t until he saw Sawyer standing upright, smiling, seemingly fine, that his need to shift to freeform subsided, thankfully.
But then it all went to hell again when Sawyer walked right up to him, the smell of his blood so potent, so fucking tempting, like the call of the ocean, tenfold.
And then he had the audacity to smirk at him, get far too close, and make some joke about the fucking door.
The. Goddamned. Fucking. Door.
Sawyer walked out with a gorgeous smile on his face like Ciaran’s entire world didn’t just go careening off its axis.
Ciaran really wanted to hate him.
But he didn’t.
He just stood there, unable to speak, unable to breathe, taking every ounce of self-control he had to keep his human form.
He felt his body shimmer and morph, his feet rooted to the floor, his human hands fisted, and gods fucking help him, he was about to follow Sawyer, about to track him down and throw him against the goddamn—
But then Fray was there, putting his strong arms around Ciaran. He all but manhandled him out of the store, across the street, and to the pier. “Okay, back into the water with you.”
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” he seethed.
Fray just laughed. “Ah, yeah, no you’re not. Fuck him, yes. Kill him, no.”
Ciaran didn’t even try and contain his rage at that, morphing into freeform as Fray dumped him into the water.
Ciaran bloomed an angry, violent red, swelling up, his limbs writhing, fighting to get back to the surface.
Back to Sawyer.
But Fray was right there with him in shades of warning blue, not having any of it. Calm the fuck down. Don’t make me zap you.
Ciaran hissed at him, his pride and rage sending incandescent spikes all over his body. Just fucking try it.
He didn’t mean that.
He would never fight with Fraser.
Luckily for both of them, Fray knew this.
Plus, Ciaran had felt Fray’s electrical charge once before. He didn’t fancy reliving that ever again.
Ciaran’s anger deflated, along with his pride and ego, and he shrank back down to the sea floor, under the jetty against the rocky wall. He morphed into a ruddy black colour, his spikes smoothing out with his temper, and like the fucking mature grown-up he was, he crossed all his limbs and pouted.
Fray laughed, bubbles escaping to the surface. You good now?
Fuck off.
He laughed again. I’ll go suggest Kellan pay Sawyer a visit.
Jealousy flashed through Ciaran, vibrant and consuming.
Calm down, for fuck’s sake, Ciar. He’s a doctor. He’ll fix him so when you surface, you can’t smell his blood.
His blood. His injury.
It was blisters, Ciar. Popped blisters on his hands. Not even a minor injury. What would happen if it was serious?
Ciaran hissed at him. You think I want this? Does it look like I want this?
Fray softened. I know you don’t. And I’m telling you this because I love you and you’re my brother.
Ciaran already knew he didn’t want to hear this...
You need to speak to him.
We need to find Dylan. Dylan is our priority. Not Douglas fucking Sawyer.
Sorry to tell ya, Ciar, but the leader of our consortium being mated to a human is a fucking priority too. Timing is not good, agreed. But we need to deal with both.
There was a lot he could, and probably should, say about that, but Ciaran decided that shutting up and pouting was all he was good for.
Fray grinned at him. Good. I’ll see you on the surface. Come up when you’re ready.
Ciaran didn’t think he’d ever be ready.
Ready to face his brothers. Ready to face Sawyer.
Or face the truth.
He didn’t want to face any of it.
But the longer he sat there, hiding in his rock wall, the more he thought about how Kellan was probably tending to Sawyer’s hand, touching him, albeit in a doctorly way, but still....
And maybe Fray was with him, watching, supervising.
Maybe they’d be having a conversation.... Hell, Tobin had talked more to Sawyer than Ciaran had, and that bothered him too.
A lot.
The longer he sat there, the more it bothered him.
He needed to speak to him. He needed to get a freaking hold of himself, sort himself out, and man up.
If “manning” up was the right term.
It wasn’t, but when it came to Sawyer, that’s all Ciaran could ever be.
A man.
Human.
Ciaran hated everything about this “mating bond.” He had never asked for it. He had never wanted it. He’d never wanted a partner of any kind. He had his brothers, and he loved the solitude of being eternally single.
Yet the pull toward the surface was something he couldn’t ignore.
The pull toward Sawyer.
How was it even possible to be mates with someone he couldn’t even stand to be around?
Ciaran was so confused. And ashamed.
He owed Fray an apology.
So, dragging his sorry arse out of the water, he went to do exactly that. He was surprised it had gotten so late; the light was fading fast behind the cover of clouds.
He came up through Fray’s place, found himself some appropriate clothes—a white T-shirt, grey trackpants, and some Birks—and he followed the sound of voices.
Coming from the police station.
Fuck.
Just outside the door, Ciaran took a deep breath, and faking a calmness he didn’t feel, he opened it.
Sawyer was at his desk, with Kellan seated across from him.
Sawyer had his hand palm upward, and there was white gauze taped across it.
Fray was there, too, standing against the bars of the jail cell, and Hendrix was sitting on the cot inside the cell.
As soon as he saw Ciaran, he grinned. He gave a pointed glance toward Sawyer and then chuckled, and Ciaran had no doubt that he’d been told.
Just fucking great.
Fray noticed too. He pointed his thumb toward the door. “Hendrix, outta there, or I’ll lock you up.” Not that a jail cell could contain any of them.
Hendrix just laughed. “But this is so much fun.”
“Now,” Fray snapped, and Hendrix at least stood up.
He had that shit-eating grin firmly in place as he brushed past Ciaran. “Aww, but my favourite cousin—”
Fray caught him in a headlock and walked him out the door.
“Thank you,” Ciaran murmured. “I’ll come see you after.”
Fray gave him a knowing, patient, best-friend smile as he wrangled Hendrix out the door, letting him go only so he could kick him up the backside. They bickered as they went.
Kellan stood up, took his small medical kit, and met Ciaran’s eyes. “He’s fine,” he murmured.
“It really wasn’t anything serious,” Sawyer said. “But thanks, Doc. I appreciate your time.”
Kellan gave him a nod and disappeared out the door, leaving Ciaran alone with Sawyer.
The tiny police station got even smaller, the walls closing in. Ciaran tried to take another deep breath and regretted it immediately.
The air was saturated with everything Sawyer. His scent, like moss and winter rain, filled every part of Ciaran, making everything better and so much worse.
Sawyer sat at his desk, looking at Ciaran, waiting for him to speak, it would seem.
Jesus Christ.
Ciaran raised his chin, trying to keep his voice neutral—pleasant, even. “Hello.”
Sawyer fought a smile. “Good evening.”
He was so much better looking close up, particularly when he smiled. His brown hair, his ice-blue eyes.
So cold, so blue.
Ciaran wanted to drown in them.
“We haven’t been formally introduced yet,” Ciaran said instead. “My name is Ciaran Brenner.”