Chapter 22
Cum Cup
CORMAC
Brigit’s posture screams of nerves.
She’s scared to be here with me.
I can’t really say I blame her.
Aside from the most sensible fear, that of me and my violent tendencies, she’s afraid of getting too close to me. Of letting herself care what happens to me.
But she knows as well as I do that it’s too late for us now.
No matter what forces try to drive us apart, we are so deeply entwined now that nothing else matters.
She’s a part of me, body and soul.
And that should terrify her. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her, and that kind of pressure can be a lot for someone so used to being insignificant in others' lives.
She hasn’t said as much, but it’s not a secret that she feels unimportant, even in her own life; that’s why she seeks out such extremes.
She doesn’t know she’s allowed to feel things as deeply as she does, so she finds external forces to give her permission.
“Breathe, Brigit,” I tell her, making her face me. She’s beautiful in her little skirt and knee-high boots, pretending to resist as I drag her through the meadery. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She rolls her eyes, “I know that.”
“Then why are you so freaked out?” I ask.
With a sigh, she tries to shake out her tense energy, “I’m not freaked out. I just don’t know how to deal with you when you’re not breaking into my house and threatening me.”
“Hasn’t that gotten a little boring?” I pry, nudging her shoulder with mine. “I figured we’d try something new.”
Her eyes fall to the ground, but I can see from the side the little smile she’s trying to hide behind biting her lower lip.
“Unless you’re really that used to it,” I suggest. “I think I have something sharp in the car.”
She fake gasps, “Not with you?”
“Not this time.” I wanted to keep both hands completely free today. While I might have been less than kind in persuading her to come downstairs, now that she’s here, I don’t want to be a psychopath and his fixation.
I just want to be Cormac and Brigit.
“What are all these?” she asks, running her fingers along the tall, wooden barrels.
“Those are for aging the whiskey,” I explain, pointing to the smaller ones toward the far left wall. “Those are for fermenting the mead. As you saw outside, that’s where we gather all the honey, but it gets processed inside.”
“So it’s all whiskey and mead?”
“Yes and no,” I pull her with me to the new processors. “Whiskey and mead both have similar fermenting procedures and mix really well together, so they tend to be what we make the most. But we’ve been experimenting with infusing tequila with honey.”
“Ooh, yum.”
My nose wrinkles, “It’s been okay. Not as great as it sounds, honestly, but Skyler thinks we just need to find the right honey and type of tequila.”
“Fancy tequila is having its moment right now,” she comments, looking up at the high ceiling.
I smile, “That’s what Skyler said.”
Her brows raise to her forehead, her eyes landing on me in shock, “Really? Maybe I should try my hand at marketing. Then you could have avoided naming your company after an obscure monster.”
I chuckle, pulling her closer and tucking her under my arm. She only resists the tiniest bit before abandoning her efforts, folding her arms over her chest to continue acting like she’s not curious about it all.
“Balor isn’t obscure if you know your mythology,” I correct her. “He was the leader of the Fomorians. The most formidable of them.”
“The Fomorians, huh? You just couldn’t help naming it after yourself?”
I have the instinct to grip her chin and kiss all the crinkles in her nose until that self-satisfied smirk falls off her face.
“My family name came from the mythology, yes,” I concede, “But naming all of this Balor wasn’t about me so much as it was about the history and perseverance of the Irish.”
One side of her lips lifts in a genuine smile, her big, curious eyes searching mine, waiting for me to tell her more.
“The Fomorians were supernatural beings, larger than life, and more than a little bit monstrous,” I repeat the story my grandma told me when she visited from Ireland.
“I always loved hearing about them. I was terrified of them, of course, of them somehow returning to reclaim the land that humans had moved into. But as I grew older, I found myself relating to them.”
Leading Brigit into the private tasting room, I close the door behind us gently, not wanting the loud noise to distract from our conversation.
“The Fomorians were feared far and wide, known for their chaos and destruction. And for someone who needed to become destructive to survive, I could see myself in their story.”
“Even before…” she gestures to my tattoo on my neck, and I nod.
“Even before this,” I agree, sighing as I debate how much more to share with her. “My dad was a sick fuck. I won’t get too into it because I want us to have a fun day, not a depressing one, but he and his friends found me… entertaining after a few drinks.”
Her lips quiver, a sad line appearing between her brows, but she doesn’t say anything, giving me the space to continue.
“I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal until I was 13 or 14, and at that point, I was skin and bones, growing too tall too fast for any amount of muscle to keep up with,” I smooth the space between her eyebrows with my thumb, watching as the snake on it slithers across her forehead.
“But I fought back anyway. And I walked away with little more than a brutal scar on my hand from it colliding with his friend’s fucking teeth. ”
“Jesus,” she mutters. “I’m so sorry.”
Those words crawl under my skin, leaving me itching to get rid of them before they can hit their mark and drag up uncomfortable emotions. I’m not the boy I used to be, and the man I became to stand up to them has no need for her pity.
“Anyway,” I breathe, “I felt connected to the monsters because I realized from a very young age that I would need to be one to survive. And so Balor was born of me trying to channel everything into something great. My job was to take rot and change it into something better. It’s an apt metaphor for my transformation, I think. ”
Her pretty little frown drags her face further down.
“You aren’t rotten, Cormac.”
“Of course, I’m not,” I place a kiss on her forehead, trying one last time to rid it of the sad line there. “I’m… fermented; Made into something completely new and intoxicating.”
That finally gets a chuckle out of her, making her cheeks flush with warmth.
“Come on,” I push her further into the room with a hand on her spine. “Sky and I tried these but I want to know what you think.”
Her brows raise, and an uncomfortable laugh slips out.
“What?”
She smooths her hair over her shoulder, “It’s just funny.”
I don’t understand what’s funny, and I hope she can fill in the blanks for me before I feel like an idiot.
“Not like laughing out loud, but in an ironic way,” she says by way of explanation, but I’m still missing something. “This just feels incredibly similar to the night we met.”
“I was supplying you with booze?” I laugh.
Her teeth sink back into her lower lip before she answers, “Sort of. You wanted me to try some sparkling something and I was scared I wouldn’t have the proper reaction.”
“I’m sure you did fine.”
Her smile grows, eyes glittering with humor. “I didn’t. I hated it and you ripped it out of my hand.”
My brows drive up into my hairline as I take a threatening step forward, “You hated the sparkling? How dare you?”
She places a hand over her chest defensively, “I don’t like anything sparkling. I don’t even drink soda because I can’t stand the bubbles.”
Wrapping both hands around her waist, I keep her from stepping away from my advances, “Can’t believe you. What a betrayal.”
She swallows, leaning backwards and putting her hands on my chest. “In my defense, I loved whatever you gave me next. I think I had four or five glasses of it.”
My eyes narrow, and I make her yelp by lifting her up onto the table. “I’m deeply offended. You’re gonna have to make up for that, you know.”
“I should have just lied,” she laughs. “But how was I to know I was insulting a future serial killer?”
Her tone is playful, but it doesn’t take away from the strange feeling her words instill in me.
We barely passed each other before everything changed. If things had been different, could any of it have been avoided?
“I get it, you know,” I tell her instead of harping on the parts of the past that I can’t remember, choosing instead to enjoy the memories I get to make now.
“Get what?” she smiles.
“Why I was so obsessed with you.” A few seconds pass as all she can do is blink, frozen by the plain confession in my words.
There’s no way it was a secret to her that I was head over heels from only a few sentences, but hearing it aloud is probably scary for someone who’s been made to believe they have to earn affection.
“Even though you were insulting my life’s work. ”
Her jaw drops with indignation, and she playfully slaps my chest. “I told you I loved the other one. It was some red, sweet something. Honey Boy!”
“There’s no fucking way I let Skyler name something that,” I groan.
Her head falls back in a full belly laugh, and I watch in rapture as the sound escapes her throat, craving to run my fingers along the muscles there and feel as more beautiful noises follow.
“Well, whatever that is, I’m sure there’s a few bottles out on the floor somewhere,” my voice sounds strained as I inch closer, my legs barely touching her knees and booted calves as they dangle over the edge. “But for now, I want you to try these.”
“As long as none of them are bubbly,” she agrees, her eyes meeting mine finally.
Her gaze is so fucking hungry, like the reminders of when we met have brought up all the things we should have been doing that night instead of going our separate ways.