Chapter 41 Carwynn
CARWYNN
I’d killed the Gorta. Like . . .
I. Killed. The. Gorta!
How in the actual hell was that even possible? I didn’t soothe its soul, I didn’t speak to it, I literally told it to go fucking eat itself! And it did!
Lightheadedness took over. I slowly inhaled, realizing my lungs were spasming in panic.
Calm thoughts. Happy thoughts. No need to freak out.
Pogue still looked a little pasty. Hopefully just a side effect from the soul-sucking . . .
“But—” he began, then paused. “The Gorta’s an Ancient.”
Like the Dullahan—and its whip I’d managed to obliterate . . .
Most Ancients had always seemed like bedtime stories. Warped, monstrous things meant to scare misbehaving toddlers into obedience. Or perhaps they were the dinosaurs of legends, the original beasts of the realm, long extinct, with only tales of their immense power left behind.
But the Dullahan’s presence proved otherwise. And according to lore, only the most concentrated, most potent forces could destroy an Ancient. Like a Lord or something unnatural . . .
What in god’s name was I?
My hand moved on its own, rubbing my chest. Then slipped upward to my throat, searching for the familiar ridges of my scar. But it met only the smooth fabric of the choker I’d put on, concealing it away. My fingers were gravely disappointed.
Pogue’s eyes had followed my every move.
I immediately dropped my hand to my side.
His gaze lingered on the choker, then shifted. As if he’d stumbled out of consciousness again.
“You all right?” I asked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Having your soul ripped out probably felt worse than childbirth. Then again, maybe not. Men were such babies about things.
He blinked.
Scuffing echoed as he tore himself off the floor, steadying upright.
The room had darkened since my ability faded, no longer a walking nightlight. Still, I held a sliver of it. Just enough to see a few feet around us.
“That was brutal,” Pogue groaned, rubbing a hand over the red, blistering marks on his wrists. Imprints gifted by the Hungry Grass.
He’d no doubt be sore for a while. Another painful red line circled around his throat.
“I can only imagine,” I said. I caught the sight of dried salt near the corner of his eye where a tear fell during the worst of it.
I paused. I knew when not to push, but I wasn’t much for staying within boundaries.
“What did it do to you?” I asked carefully.
Silence.
Then softer, “Hallucinations . . . or memories?”
Seeing him being tormented like that, I knew he relived some nightmare. One you couldn’t just escape in the daylight. The kind that would stick, that’d leave scars in the form of buried memories.
I’d been in those nail-riddled shoes before. Each step plunging hurt deeper, reenacting terror, on loop. If he could open up, even a little, just for a second . . . it could be ointment on the wound.
Pogue stiffened, turning toward the way out of the cave.
“Neither,” he muttered. “Just sharp pain.”
Quick. Sharp. Avoidant.
Of course. Mr. Prickly had joined us again.
Stupid of me to even think he’d let me in.
Guess I couldn’t really blame him. It took years of David’s incessant coddling and prodding to get me to open up.
Like trying to tend to a feral raccoon’s stitches.
But with some chocolate-covered garbage and warm snuggles, I caved.
I huffed out a resigned breath, spinning on my heel to get the hell out of this place. Right before—
“My mother . . .” Pogue whispered, low and broken.
I stilled mid-step, utterly stunned. Was I actually about to get an answer?
There was a tremor in his voice, but he continued. “The moment when I was a boy. When she was killed in front of me—because of me.” A muscle in his jaw tensed.
The admission had nearly knocked me out. I would’ve bet on the Brownies returning all my stolen jewelry and apologizing before I’d ever imagine Pogue answering truthfully.
His eyes sunk to the floor. Shadowed sorrow pooled at his feel, like a source to drown himself in.
The words were striking. His mother. It felt like an all too familiar blade piercing my heart. My gut sank.
Face crumbling, he continued, “She was a woman of the Craft. Renowned for making volatile potions and poisons. It was how she made her living.” A beat of hesitation.
“She got involved with one of her frequent clients. A wealthy, manipulative bastard. My father.” The bitterness was palpable.
“Eventually, his charm faded and she saw the true kind of devil he was.”
He expelled a slow, weighted breath. “When he found out about my existence, that she’d kept me away—he took his revenge. Took me.”
His eyes shifted up, as if swimming to the surface for air.
“But he’s dead now,” he said. Flat. Final. “So it doesn’t matter.”
So cruel and barbaric. He was only a child . . .
My eyes burned.
“I’m so sorry,” I gently whispered. “That’s terrible.”
The quiet that followed was loud. My breath. His breath. My mind. It all seemed amplified.
His eyes lingered on my face. What was it he was looking for? What was it he saw?
Then, Pogue’s head lifted, back straightening.
“Time to go,” he said, striding past me.
And just like that, the moment was over. Maybe the assmask really was . . . just a mask.
Each step was a potential ankle-breaker.
We steadily made our way back through the tunnels.
Silently, I might add. Pogue hadn’t spoken a word since his moment of vulnerability.
Not even a revisit to the whole you just killed an Ancient dilemma.
No gratitude for saving him. No, how about you, are you okay? Nothing.
The tight, pussface had returned. If the gears in his head were working overtime, he wasn’t letting it show. But I could tell something was off, not just from the horrible torture, something else. The tension built between us. Uneasy. Something unspoken was brewing.
Barreling water grew louder as we approached the entrance. The cascade shimmered with a light blue hue, moonlight sparkling like stained glass. Mist swept over my skin, hitting my senses like the smell of rain before a storm.
It was a beautiful distraction. But my irritation was still growing.
Was he seriously going to go mute now? Ignore me? Not even attempt to address the massive elephant—or Gorta—that’d been in the room?
Right as we neared the mouth of the entrance, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“So that’s it? We’re going to ignore the whole shitshow that just happened?” I flung my arm behind me, jabbing a finger down the throat of the cave. “No, hey, thanks for saving my life, by the way? Just—completely shutting me out?”
What the hell was I doing? My emotions were flying like a hormonal tween.
In an instant, he spun on me. The movement sent a gust of air sweeping across my cheek.
Something raged in his eyes—angry, punishing. Then, with a blink, it softened.
This man was so goddamn confusing. Maybe he was just perpetually confused himself.
His gazed locked on mine, scorching a hole in me. He looked like he was about to scream . . . or cut me down with words serrated enough to draw blood.
Eyebrows cinched together, taut and conflicted. As if he were being torn apart from the inside out.
Suddenly, a hand gripped around my throat. Not exactly choking, but firm. Controlled.
He pushed me back against the stone wall, pinning me there. Cool breath swept the bridge of my nose as his face hovered inches from mine.
Shock. I was completely taken back. Not scared, not hurt. Just—
Fuck. What was this man doing to me?
It wasn’t a strong grip, if anything, it was carefully light. I knew I could easily knock it away. But I didn’t.
My breath caught, diaphragm rising and falling double-time. My breasts pressed against his chest in rhythm. Heat began to shoot through my veins, flooding my system.
Those cold eyes flicked between mine, uncertain. Then slowly, they lowered, caressing over my skin, dragging to my lips.
His thumb stroked gently over my choker. The touch was tender, before it slid up, skimming my full, bottom lip.
He breathed out . . . I breathed in.
Ever so slowly, as if Death had claimed time itself, his lips touched mine. A phantom of a kiss. Feather-light. Savoring.
My mouth parted. His lips pressed harder, fully encompassing mine.
Stolen breaths echoed between us. A symphony composed by lust and yearning, performed by hearts already damned. And damn—it was fierce, all-consuming.
A warm hand traced the curve of my waist, curling around possessively to secure me in place. The other migrated up, sliding under my jaw, grounding me as we spiraled in the storm together.
I didn’t need to open my eyes to know the darkness had deepened. Shadows swarmed us, clinging to my skin as if marking their territory.
Tug.
Not the time, I swore at my inkling. My ever-so-inconvenient, cryptic sixth sense, sparked to life in the pit of my stomach.
Tug.
Pogue’s tongue found mine, and my back arched instinctually, deepening the kiss.
No. Piss off.
His lips would be my undoing. Way too good, way too addicting to give in and surrender to the better of my senses just yet. I had a taste, and now I wanted—
An unexpected chill ghosted across my hip, slashing through the warmth his hand had left behind. And my mouth throbbed, half from the delicious brutality of his kiss, and half from the ache of abandonment.
“What—” I breathed, the word abruptly shriveling up.
Pogue pulled away, slow and smug, the corner of his lip ticking up devilishly. He swept a thumb across his bottom lip.
“There,” he said, voice coated in dark amusement. That wicked grin spreading. “My thank you—for saving my life. Figured a kiss would suffice.” He placed a hand on the stone wall next to my head, leaning in. Warm air brushed my cheek. “Wouldn’t want you looking desperate—begging like that anymore.”
That. Fucking. Dick!
I’d experienced hurt before—abandonment, rejection, heartbreak. And yeah, it always stung, leaving their scars. But this—this was straight-up vicious. Right to the jugular.
I loathed the damp burn pooling behind my eyes. But there was no way I’d let this prick see one goddamn tear fall.
His knotted brow loosened, noticing my own mask being placed over the hurt.
I slammed my hands into his chest. So hard he staggered back, nearly slipping on moss.
I wish he had.
His mask flickered, or maybe it wasn’t a mask at all. But I didn’t have a single fuck to spare analyzing it.
Without another word, I stormed out of the cave. My anger was a living, burning light—a Candela refusing to go out. Only wanting to guide me home.