Chapter 4 #2
“No,” Cian snapped. The word sounded like the crack of a whip.
But the thought of stopping, of yielding to the gnawing, restless devastation at the rejection, made his skin crawl.
Failinis prowled beneath his ribs, a storm of fur and fangs, demanding he hunt, claim, and keep their Grá Croí forever.
The beast side of himself was in a tempest of a frenzy, and Cian was the fool trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands.
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw popped, the sound lost beneath the roar of blood in his ears.
Oisín sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was dealing with a particularly stubborn child. “Stubborn bastard. Fine. But if you faint, I’m not catching you. I’ve got a bad back, and you’re heavier than you look.”
Relieved the tension had eased between himself and the son of the king he’d sworn his allegiance to, Cian flipped him off, earning a round of laughter from the warriors nearby.
The sound grated against his nerves, but he forced himself to breathe through it.
He couldn’t afford to lose control here, and the training resumed.
This time, it was Caílte who stepped forward, his hammer a blur as he swung. The man was a force of nature, his strikes powerful enough to fell a horse or flatten a mountain.
Damn, I wish he was fighting with his swords and not the hammer.
Why does it have to be the hammer when I am not at my best?
Cian met the first one with both blades crossed, the impact driving him back a step.
His boots skidded in the dirt, and for a heartbeat, his balance wavered as Reaper’s scent flooded his senses, smoke and gunpowder and something darker, like the earth after a storm, like the first, sharp breath of winter after a long, suffocating summer.
The memory of it was so vivid, so real, that Cian’s grip faltered for the briefest of moments, his focus fractured, and Caílte’s next swing caught him in the shoulder.
Pain exploded down his arm, white-hot and blinding, like a brand pressed against his skin.
Cian roared, more in frustration than agony, the sound tearing from his throat in his beast’s snarl.
The warriors around him flinched, their eyes widening at the raw, feral fury in his voice.
He twisted, driving Claiomh Solais up in a vicious uppercut that forced Caílte to stagger back, but the damage was done.
His left arm was numb, his grip slipping, his fingers clumsy as a drunkard’s.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
His movements were sluggish and his reactions delayed, like he was fighting through deep water. Caílte took advantage, darting in with his dagger, feinting left before slashing right.
Thank fuck he didn’t use the hammer.
Cian blocked, barely, but the movement sent another searing jolt through his shoulder, and his vision swam.
Black spots danced at the edges of his sight, mocking him, taunting him as the ground tilted beneath his feet, the sky above spinning like a drunkard’s dream.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon.
The scent of iron and sweat filled his nose, but beneath it all, beneath the blood and the dust and the stink of battle training, there was him.
Reaper. The ghost of his scent clung to his skin, a phantom touch that made his mark burn like a brand.
No. No, no, no—
Failinis snarled, a sound that rattled his ribs, that demanded.
Enough. We hunt. We find him. We—
He should have known that Failinis would flip the switch from morose to needing to act so fast, but it still caught him off guard.
“Shut up,” Cian growled, but his voice was slurred, his knees suddenly unsteady.
The world tilted, the sky above spinning like a wheel out of control.
His second sword slipped from his fingers, falling to the ground as if it had been ripped from his grasp.
His legs gave out, and he hit the dirt hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.
The world went gray for a moment, the edges of his vision blurring as he gasped for air.
Fionn’s face swam into view. “That’s it. You’re done.”
Cian tried to shove himself up from the ground, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate.
They felt useless and heavy. His fingers twitched against the dirt, nails digging into the earth, trying to stop the world from spinning.
The scent of crushed herbs and sweat and blood filled his nose, but beneath it all, beneath the chaos of the training grounds, there was Reaper and the knowledge he didn’t want their Grá Croí bond.
Hunt.
Find him.
Bite him.
Make him ours.
Oisín’s face appeared above him next to Fionn’s, upside down, his golden hair falling free of its knot, framing his face like a halo. “Stubborn arse,” he muttered, pressing a waterskin to Cian’s lips. “Drink, before you embarrass yourself further.”
Don’t touch me.
Only Reaper should touch me.
Cian obeyed, the cool water doing little to douse the fire in his veins.
His mark throbbed as if with a heartbeat of its own.
When he looked down, the blue had spread further, creeping toward his elbow like ivy, like it was alive and hungry, devouring his skin inch by inch.
It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a mocking reminder of what he couldn’t have.
Darragh crouched on his other side, his voice low, his dark eyes serious. “You can’t keep pushing like this, brother. That bond’s too fresh; it will eat you alive if you do not rest.”
Cian clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
The pain was a distraction, a grounding force in the storm of his own body.
“I don’t have time for this.” The knowledge that Fionn had denied him access to the Fianna Door was sour and bitter bile in the back of his throat.
Yes.
We need to hunt our mate.
“You don’t have a choice,” Caílte rumbled. “We know the laws, and we know the why of them. Who is your Grá Croí? Tell me, and I will fetch them.”
If only it were that damn easy.
The High King didn’t need to speak for his disapproval to settle over the group like a shroud.
The air grew heavier, the scent of crushed herbs and sweat and blood suddenly cloying and suffocating.
Cian refused to look at him; if he did, Failinis would be tempted to rip his throat out for keeping him from leaving to hunt Reaper.
“You’re no good to your mate like this.” Fionn’s voice was calm, yet still lethal. “And you’re no good to us.”
Cian’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps, like he’d been running for miles, at the insult to his position. “I know.”
“Then act like it.” Fionn’s boot nudged his discarded swords, “Go. Cool off with your wolf and think about what you need to happen and what options you have open to you.”
You took our options away.
The resentment from his wolf side was almost enough to make him snarl, to fight, to tell Fionn to go to hell and mind his own damn business.
But with some deep breaths through his nose, he managed to keep the urges at bay.
The ground was steady beneath him now, the sky no longer spinning quite so violently.
The rational part of his brain, not currently being drowned out by Failinis’ howling, knew Fionn was right.
He was no good to anyone like this. Not to his brothers, not to his high king, and certainly not to Reaper.
He pushed himself up on unsteady arms, ignoring the hands that reached to help him. The warriors around him were silent and watchful. He could feel their eyes on him, their thoughts like whispers in the wind.
Weak. Broken. Unfit to lead.
He met each of their eyes and dared them to challenge his on-edge wolf.
When all but Fionn and Oisín had backed down, he snatched up his swords and turned toward the forest. He needed to move, but more importantly, if he allowed Failinis to hunt, maybe it would help before the restlessness inside him tore him apart.
Excitement bubbled in the wolf, and he scrambled toward the door that kept him at bay when the man was in charge. He could feel the shimmer of the change as it sent sparks over his fur, and he whimpered, urging his warrior brother to hurry.
“If I let you out,” Cian said, “you must promise me that you won’t do something stupid.”
Stupid is your side of this relationship.
“Failinis…”
He is our mate.
Why did his warrior brother not feel the urge, the desire to just be close to the human called Reaper? He was their Grá Croí. Well, if he wasn’t going to ensure Reaper had time to fall under their spell, then it was up to the wolf.
“Promise me, Failinis.” Cian paused next to a Dolmen and stashed his weapons inside the door. “Our High King has commanded us not to cross the portal. You cannot disobey him.”
He whined loudly and scratched at the door, his claws ripping open new grooves to join the ones he’d placed over the years when his Fianna brother was being stupid.
“That better be an agreement,” Cian muttered as the door that kept their sides separated shifted.
Failinis ignored both the words and the glare of warning when the warrior slipped past him to take his place in the room.
Finally, finally, he was free. He shook himself from nose to tail, fluffing out his fur, and stalked through the trees.
The forest was alive with the faint echo of ancient whispers.
Something slithered through the underbrush like serpents, their voices tangled in the rustle of leaves and the sigh of the wind.
Failinis paid them no mind. His focus was singular, a burning ember in his chest that flared brighter with every step, every breath, every thought of the man who was his.
You promised me.
I did not.
But even he was aware of the allegiance they had given to Fionn and the Fianna, and millennia of habits were hard to break. Failinis slipped into his routine of running the perimeter to check for intruders.