Chapter 3
You can’t sit on your ass here all day.
Reaper was more than a little grateful that Derek hadn’t called while they were at the house.
That would have been a whole lot of conversation, especially with Viper, possibly with Juice too, that he didn’t want to do in this lifetime.
He understood that his commanding officers needed to know where his head was at before they spun up for a mission.
But there were things that just should remain private.
Derek was one of those things.
As was Cian and his claims of Grá Croí.
Reaper pounded the dirt path back toward Trace’s place.
His boots struck the earth with a rhythm that matched the thud of his pulse, steady and relentless, a metronome counting down the seconds until he could bury himself in something that made sense a hell of a lot more than the twilight zone he seemed to be unable to wake up from.
That buzzing thing going on under his skin and the itch on his arm, those had to be because the Dolmen’s magic still thrummed beneath his skin, a low, insistent vibration like the ghost of a tuning fork pressed against his bones.
He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to leave crescent moons in their wake.
Lock it down.
Bury it deep.
He didn’t have time for this shit. Not now. Maybe not ever.
If what Cian says is true…forever isn’t going to be all that fucking long, now is it?
Despite wanting the quarter mile back to the house to drag as long as possible, it wasn’t long before the cabin-like structure in the open field emerged from the trees.
Run another lap.
Another lap of the property would give him time to gather every emotion that had escaped the lock box deep inside himself, and stuff them all back in.
But the smoke curling from the chimney in lazy, gray fingers carried with it the rich, greasy scent of bacon and the sharp, bitter tang of coffee.
His stomach twisted, and a traitorous growl rumbled up his throat.
Stupid fucking hunger.
But he still latched onto the sensation like a lifeline, and let it drag him back from the edge of whatever the hell he’d been teetering on since the fucking phone call from his jerkwad ex.
He had no explanation for the weird sensations that had swept through him as he’d sat against the Dolmen’s rocks. Or know why the sound of the voice in his head had changed from one voice to two.
Maybe I’ve finally lost my damn mind.
He kicked his boots on the side of the step to knock the dirt off before entering the small room of the only above-ground space in the cabin. The Murphy door swung silently open, revealing the opening to the steps down to the real home den of the Hound of the High King.
By the time he made it halfway to the kitchen, a wave of heat and noise and life filtered up the spiral staircase, accompanied by the sounds and smells of one of his favorite meals of the day, breakfast.
“Morning.”
Ward stood at the stove, spatula in one hand, wooden spoon in the other, his mating mark shifting as he flipped pancakes and stirred something thick and spiced in a pot.
The scent of chili peppers and sweetness wrapped around Reaper, reminding him that no matter what Derek, the asshole, said or implied, these men were his family.
They were the brothers he’d chosen for himself.
These men in this room were what was real.
They were the solid foundation that he’d been rebuilding his life on.
He didn’t have time for the hum of ancient stones in his blood, or the weight of a past he didn’t want to remember pressing down on his shoulders.
Just food and heat and the low, familiar cadence of his team.
It was concerning that Derek knew he was in Upper New York State, and a pain in the ass that he’d have to change his freaking phone number again.
“Took you long enough.” Viper’s voice cut through the haze, gruff but not unkind.
He didn’t look up from the iPad he was doomscrolling on at the table.
Reaper knew the man well enough to hear the edge beneath the words—the unspoken ‘you okay?’ that Viper would never actually say in front of everyone unless a mission was coming down the pipe from Command.
Tell him.
Back at Dam Neck, he did share a house with the others, so Derek showing up to be a dick wasn’t something he’d been overly concerned about. But here, at Trace’s house…
He needs to know Derek might show up here.
He grunted and exhaled through his nose, the tension in his chest easing just a fraction.
“Yeah. But we need to have a conversation in a bit.” The second the words were out of his mouth, unease swirled in his gut.
To distract himself, he grabbed a mug from the rack by the sink and poured himself coffee.
Because he needed the caffeine kick, he didn’t bother doctoring it with creamer or sugar.
He sighed silently when the bitterness hit the back of his throat.
He took another swallow, then another, letting the heat scald away the last of the fog clinging to his thoughts.
Kaze was leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes tracking Reaper’s every move with that unnerving stillness of his.
The man missed nothing. It was equal parts useful when they were on a mission and infuriating when anyone wanted to keep anything private.
“You good?” Of course, he’d ask the question Viper didn’t.
Reaper set the mug down harder than necessary.
Fuck.
Then cursed silently when the sharp clink of ceramic against wood filled the silence. He knew better than to give Kaze any indication that something was going on. He’d bug the crap out of him until he knew the ins and outs of that duck’s ass, and then he’d offer ridiculous solutions to fix it.
“Peachy,” Reaper muttered, reaching for the carafe to top himself off.
The lie tasted bitter in his mouth, but he washed it down with another mouthful of coffee.
He didn’t need this. Didn’t need Kaze picking at the seams of whatever the hell was unraveling inside him.
It was infuriating that Derek, the asshole, had found him.
Why the hell can’t he just leave me alone?
It’s been fucking years, and every time I think he’s forgotten me, boom, up he pops like a fucking jack in the box or a scabby rash.
A snort came from where Trace was sprawled in a chair at the table.
Juice perched on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, their plates piled high with eggs and toast and half-eaten strips of bacon.
Trace’s eyes flicked over him, and from the way his eyebrows shot up, he clearly noted the way his shoulders were locked tight enough to snap, the white-knuckled grip he had on his mug, and the way his jaw was clenched so hard his molars ached.
But Trace, thank fuck, didn’t push. Just gave a single, curt nod toward the empty chair beside them.
“Sit. Eat some grub. You’re burning calories just standing there with a face like a slapped arse.”
“No slapping anyone’s ass, Grá Croí.” Juice elbowed Trace in the stomach, hard. “Except mine. If you want to take a shot at slapping mine, I could be persuaded to try that shit.”
“Damn it, Juice, I just woke up.” a bleary-eyed Zero walked in. “Don’t say that shit at the breakfast table. None of us wants to know what kinda freaky shit you two get up to behind closed doors.”
This, this he could deal with. The guys’ bickering was so normal, it eased the tension of hiding shit from the team.
Reaper hesitated for half a second before dragging the chair out.
The legs scraped against the wood floor with a sound that set his teeth on edge, but he ignored it and dropped into the seat with a grunt.
He grabbed a plate from the stack at the center of the table and loaded it up without thinking, filling it with eggs, bacon, and a pile of pancakes still steaming from the griddle.
He picked up a piece of bacon and chewed on it.
The combination of salt and fat exploding across his tongue made him queasy.
But there was no chance he would put it down or stop eating.
He’d learned the hard way to eat when the food was going, because if rapid deployment orders came through, there was no knowing when he’d have a decent meal again.
Eat.
Even if your stomach is betraying you.
The happy sounds of his team munching on breakfast lasted for all of two minutes before Juice leaned forward, elbows hitting the table with a thud that made the silverware jump. “Hey,” he pinned Reaper in place with his gaze, “when did you get a tattoo?”
Reaper’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.
The pancake syrup dripping from the tines splattered onto his plate with a wet plink.
He set the utensil down with deliberate slowness because if he didn’t, he was going to launch it across the room like a fucking javelin and stab the asshole for being stupid. “Come again?”
Juice nodded to his arm. “Your tat—
“—Shit.” Trace interrupted him.
“I didn’t get any new ink.” Reaper followed Juice’s gaze and twisted his arm to glance at the skin just above his elbow. His eyes widened at the red swirls.
What the fuck?
Trace eyed him, took a slow sip of his coffee while his thumb traced idle circles over Juice’s hip where he still sat perched on his lap.
“Those are the mating marks of a Hound of the High King,” Trace said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Like they weren’t all sitting around his kitchen table, talking about a place that belonged in bedtime stories and drunk Irish uncles’ tall tales.
“Which of my hound pack brothers is your Grá Croí?”
“No—none of them.”
“Liar.” Trace nudged Juice to stand up and then got to his feet. He snatched Reaper’s arm, pulled it close, and peered at the mark. “Remember how you crossed the fairy wards when you first came here?”
“I do. But that means shit.”