Chapter 2
The whetstone hissed against the blade, creating a rhythmic and steady sound that resonated in the quiet space around him.
With each stroke, each pass of the stone along the steel, Cian felt the connection deepen between him and the weapon that was almost an extension of himself when he was in human form.
He didn’t even need to watch what he was doing as his calloused and experienced hands intimately knew this weapon, the specific angle of its edge, and the way the metal seemed to call to his soul.
He had sharpened this blade many a thousand of times before, honing its edge until it was as ready for war as his wolf side’s teeth.
But today, despite the familiarity, a tempest swirled within him, causing his focus to flicker like a candle flame caught in a breeze.
Beyond the dolmen’s arch, where the ancient stones stood like sentinels guarding the border of worlds, the veil between realities thinned just enough to let the scent of pine and damp earth weave through.
Fresh and vibrant, the air brushed against his skin, bringing with it the sounds and the scent of the Grá Croí, his lifeforce was now tethered to.
But today, the rush of being close to his Grá Croí gave way to something that turned his stomach, twisted his heart, and enraged him enough that for one of the only times in at least four thousand years, he had to fight back the urge to shift: the bitter tang of fear, of pain, and of something his Grá Croí should never feel—shame.
Our Grá Croí is hurting.
I feel it, Failinis.
We must go to him.
His fingers stilled mid-scratch, the whetstone hovering, suspended in the air for a moment before he finally released it to clatter into his lap, forgotten.
We cannot cross the veil.
I don’t care, Reaper needs us.
Just the thought of the man’s name sent a shiver down Cian’s spine.
He hadn’t expected Reaper to arrive this soon, nor had he dared hope the man would stop so he and Failinis could catch more than a glimpse of him.
But now, there he was, resting against the ancient stones on the other side of the Fianna Door, his presence a chaotic swirl of jagged edges and raw, unspoken burdens that clung to him like an invisible cloak.
Warrior. We must go to him.
Stop, Failinis, we need the permission of an Rí to cross the veil. You know this.
But our Grá Croí—
—I know.
The sword dropped onto his lap, its sharpness momentarily forgotten as his attention honed in on Reaper.
He had to work hard not to do as Failinis showed him in his head, and hurl himself against the portal between the standing stones of the Dolmen.
It was maddening that he could see beyond the veil, but he could not pass through.
“Invite us to cross, and I will slay your demons, Grá Croí. Failinis will slay them all.” He knew Reaper couldn’t hear him, yet he made the request anyway. “Say the words and open the door.”
Go to him.
Help him.
He needs us.
Failinis demanded in his head.
If we cross without permission.
We will age and die, as will he.
We cannot hurt our Grá Croí.
He understood the reasons the Fianna could not pass through the door uninvited.
It had taken Oisín nearly a thousand years to recover from falling off the horse while he’d searched for Fionn.
The Fianna could not set foot on human soil without permission to be there.
It had taken all the skill of Cian’s own father, Dian Cecht, and of the Tuatha Dé Danann to reverse the aging process that would have killed the heir to the throne of the Fianna.
His wolf half either didn’t understand or refused to.
With Failinis, either was a distinct possibility.
He understood the wolf’s demands. He could hear how rough and uneven Reaper’s breathing was.
It wasn’t the measured inhalations of the warrior he’d met in Dún Fianna; it was the ragged, labored gasps of someone grappling with an unseen battle only Reaper was a part of.
Cian’s jaw tightened. He understood the weight of memories capable of crushing a man’s spirit from the inside out, inch by inch, until not a sliver of hope remained.
Everything he was, craved, demanded, yearned to do as his wolf wished, and throw himself at the portal until it allowed them through.
Fionn is an old man; we can take him.
You speak of treason, brother.
He should turn away, he told himself. He should give Reaper his space, grant him the dignity of processing his thoughts and emotions alone, as any proud warrior would desire.
But the bond that connected them was a powerful current, and right now, it urged him forward, drawing him closer to the Fianna door and to where Reaper grappled with his turmoil.
Cian felt the rocks shift beneath his boots as he stood. With every step closer to the edge of the dolmen, the air shimmered like heat rising off the rocks. He could not cross over. But all that he was demanded, he did so. There was someone who had hurt his Grá Croí to slay.
We will rip them apart Failinis vowed. Shred them until they fade into the forgotten memories of their people’s people.
A warrior should never feel helpless, yet as he stepped close enough to see Reaper, sitting with his back to the dolmen stones, cast in shadows but unmistakably tormented, Cian could do nothing but silently rage at the unspoken grief on his Grá Croí’s face.
He needs us.
Yes, he does.
He could admit when he was wrong, and his wolf brother’s more feral, animalistic side was right.
He raised his sword and slid it into the scabbard on his back.
Fionn would just have to understand, because Reaper’s hands were braced against the dirt, as if he were trying to anchor himself to the earth and keep himself from flying apart into a million shattered pieces.
His fingers were white-knuckled, his head hung low, and the sight made something dark and primal stir deep within Cian’s chest.
Mine.
Ours.
The thought erupted, a feral growl that echoed in his mind, as within him, Failinis stirred restlessly, coiled beneath his skin, demanding release.
The hound was eager to hunt, not only for the blood of his Grá Croí’s enemies, but for the man who belonged to him.
The man, who was hurting and desperate for connection, whether he realized it or not.
Cian crouched down and pressed one hand against the cool, ancient surface of the dolmen.
Immediately, the magic zapped his palm, and sparks flew.
The fairy magic knew the truth of his bond with Reaper as well; there was no hiding from that ancient power, but it also knew of the laws of their people.
Cian pressed harder, and the magic responded.
He flew backward, landing on his arse six feet away.
“Damn you, Gods, we need to comfort him. I beg of you, let him hear my words, and know the comfort a Grá Croí deserves!”
He scrambled to his feet, and this time he didn’t even get to touch the portal before the magic sent out its warning sparks.
“Forgive my impulsiveness.” He whispered the apology to the gods and the magic. “I will go ask Fionn for permission to cross.”
For long moments, he thought the magic wouldn’t grant his wish, but eventually the sparks faded, and he dared approach the portal again.
Both he and Failinis heaved a breath of relief to see Reaper still sitting where he had been, although he was now eyeing the portal as if he, too, had felt the magic’s wrath for Cian’s stupidity.
“You’re not alone,” he murmured softly, his words low and intimate, meant only for Reaper’s ears. He willed his Grá Croí to hear him, to draw upon the comfort that he offered.
Reaper’s head snapped up as if he heard the sound of his voice.
His body went rigid in an instant. He didn’t turn to acknowledge Cian—no acknowledgment came in the form of words—but Cian felt a palpable shift in the air around them, a crackling tension that surged as Reaper’s muscles locked up tight, prepared either to bolt or to fight.
There was strength in that readiness, a determination that Cian both respected, admired, and desired.
Good. Let him be ready.
Soon we will be together.
Soon, our Grá Croí, you will be ours, and we will be yours.
Despite the magic’s fury of moments before, Cian instinctively knew that, this time, as he wasn’t attempting to enter the portal, he would be allowed to touch it.
He skimmed his fingers along the carved symbols etched into the stone, tracing the glyphs and words.
On his arm, his mating mark itched its way higher, tightening his skin, drawing its symbols.
Soon, he would succumb to its mating sickness and fade deep into slumber, then if his warrior did not fight for them, after more than five thousand years, on the night of the next full moon, when the mating spirals sank their teeth into his heart, Cian, son of Dian Cecht, would be no more.
The magic thrummed beneath his touch, responding to his presence, and to the Grá Croí bond between Reaper, Failinis, and him. There was an intimacy in that connection that both excited and scared him.
“Run, if you need to.” Even though he knew Reaper couldn’t hear him, he projected his voice just a touch louder, adding a hint of challenge, a vow to his mate.
“We’ll give you a head start, then we will hunt you, we will claim you, and you will be ours.
” His words hung suspended in the air, charged with meaning, an open invitation layered with promise.
A challenge meant to awaken something dormant within Reaper, something lost among shadows and fears, if only he could hear him through the portal of the Fianna Door.
He blinked in confusion as a shudder ran through Reaper’s frame, as if in visible reaction to his voice. Cian could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched in his throat, catching on the very edge of turmoil.
Come on, warrior.
Fight for us.