Chapter 15
Steam curled up from the plates. Trace leaned back in his chair. “Dig in.”
Reaper grabbed a serving spoon and nudged a dish toward Cian. “You’re gonna like this one.”
Cian’s moss-green eyes darted between the dishes, curiosity flickering beneath the warrior’s restraint. “Why is the food…pretty?”
“Ward likes to cook,” Reaper teased, “and to play with food. We let him, because it ends up tasting awesome.”
“You’ve got to try this, it’s called chicken parmesan,” Zero coaxed from the other side of Reaper. “It’s good.”
He hid his smile behind his glass, his chest tight with amusement at Cian’s thorough examination as he turned the breaded fillet over as though inspecting a foreign animal.
It was these simple moments, the ones devoid of battles and prophecies, that he found Cian becoming somehow even more formidable, yet more irresistible.
“Par-mi-gian?” Cian’s tongue tripped over the syllables, his accent somehow bending the vowels into a melody of its own.
“Close enough.” Reaper grinned. The comfort of the meal wrapped around him, anchoring him in a world that now spun with new norms simply because it included someone like Cian within its orbit.
Viper leaned in, curiosity lighting his gaze. “You haven’t killed any more TVs, have you, Cian?”
Cian swallowed a bite and shook his head as he wiped his lips. “Reaper made me leave my swords in the room with his bed.” He lifted one shoulder. “Even the magic of Tír na nóg could not have prepared me for this realm.”
Juice chuckled beside Trace. “It isn’t quite as daunting as it seems, trust me. Once you break a few more appliances, you’ll be completely adapted.”
That earned him a glare from Cian, one softened only by Reaper’s comforting hand on his knee. When laughter followed, it was unrestrained, bridging the gap between the shores of old and this present kitchen haven.
As topics turned from mundane adjustments to mysteries of the past, Cian leaned in closer, visibly curious. “These stories you share,” he motioned across the table, “of human wars and battles, you sing of your warriors in this time, too?”
Ward nodded, the scholar within eager to connect threads of history. “Every era leaves its mark, Cian. You’re now a part of ours.”
Reaper listened. Here, in this room filled with people who mattered most to him, he found solace. It wasn’t just Cian adjusting to the presence of modern wonders, but rather, all of them discovering the intricacies of accommodating time’s oddities in unison.
“Sometimes I think we take a lot for granted,” Juice mused, spearing a piece of broccoli. “Reminds me why these shared meals matter.”
Trace nodded solemnly, lifting his drink in a gesture that rang with acceptance. “To united fronts. To the pasts that haunt us, the present that feeds our souls, and futures unknown. Until Valhalla. Long Live The Brotherhood.”
“Long Live The Brotherhood.” He repeated the phrase in unison with his teammates.
“This is a motto?”
“Yeah.” Reaper took a sip of his drink. “It means that we conduct ourselves in a manner that would make the Frogmen who came before us proud, because many of them died to clear our path. We honor and remember those men. We, too, would go to our graves for our flag, our country, and most of all our chosen brothers. We remember and honor our fallen brothers in the hopes that the others after us will do the same when it’s their turn. ”
“Well said.”
“Frogmen?” Cian’s eyebrows had shot up.
“We do our best work in the water, but we can also come out of the water and onto the land, kinda like a frog can.” How did you explain SEAL teams to someone who had never lived in this time? “We are the best of the best. Our country’s tip of the spear.”
“You are the Hounds of your country.” Cian went back to his food.
“Hell no,” Kaze deadpanned, “we ain’t no devil dogs. We’re Frogmen and damn proud of it.”
Reaper took in the faces and sounds around him.
Each voice a thread, every story a tapestry interwoven with the understanding that, whatever adjustments or challenges lay ahead, they would face them together.
As their glasses clinked, he watched Cian.
A connection, as fierce as it was undeniable, threaded between them.
The clatter of forks against plates faded as the last of the meal disappeared, the dishes were done, and the banter around the table was replaced by the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.
Reaper leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, his fingers brushing against Cian’s shoulder.
The contact was casual, but the heat of it seared down their bond as if offering him a silent promise of what was to come… if only he’d allow it.
Trace pushed back from the table first, stretching his arms overhead with a groan. “Alright, if we’re done eating, I’ve got a patrol to run. Juice, you coming?”
Juice stood. His eyes flicked to Reaper and Cian, a knowing glint in them. “Yeah. Try not to break anything else while we’re gone.”
Zero tossed his napkin onto his empty plate. “No promises needed. But if you do, make sure it’s something fun.”
Viper clapped Reaper on the back as he passed, his voice low. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Reaper smirked. “That leaves a lot of room for interpretation.”
Ward lingered for a moment, his gaze shifting between Reaper and Cian. “You know, if you need help figuring out any of the… modern amenities, just let me know.”
Cian’s brow furrowed. “Amenities?”
“Showers, sinks, toilets,” Ward clarified, grinning. “The fun stuff.”
Cian’s expression cleared, but his cheeks flushed just enough to betray his thoughts. Reaper bit back a laugh. “We’ll manage.”
One by one, the others filed out, leaving Reaper and Cian alone in the suddenly quiet room. The air between them thickened, charged with something raw and hungry. Reaper stood, his chair scraping against the floor, and held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Cian didn’t hesitate. His fingers closed around Reaper’s, and he let himself be pulled to his feet.
His room was at the end, the door slightly ajar.
He pushed the door open wider, stepping inside and pulling Cian with him.
The room was sparse but comfortable. It suited the man he was.
A large bed draped in dark blankets, a dresser with a mirror above it, and a single chair tucked into the corner.
“Come, let me show you something you’re gonna love. ”
“Huh?” Cian asked.
“Warm water that flows from a pipe that we can wash up with.”
“You have a warm waterfall in a room?” He sounded thoroughly confused. “What kind of magic is this? I must bring the spell back to Tír na nóg when we visit.”
Reaper chuckled. “We call it a shower. But I like your name better.”
He didn’t let go of Cian’s hand as he led him toward the bathroom, flipping on the light as they entered.
The space was small but functional with gray tiles, a glass-door shower, and a sink with a mirror above it.
He reached in and turned the knob, adjusting the temperature until the water ran hot, steam billowing up to fog the glass.
Cian stepped closer, his free hand reaching out to touch the glass door. His breath hitched as the heat of the water registered, his fingers tracing the condensation. “Magic,” he whispered.
“Science,” Reaper corrected, but his voice was thick, his gaze locked on the way Cian’s tunic clung to the broad expanse of his back, the fabric dampening slightly from the steam. “But yeah. Feels like science is just another name for magic sometimes.”
He turned, crowding Cian against the sink.
His hands found the hem of the tunic and tugged it upward.
Cian lifted his arms without protest, letting Reaper strip the fabric away, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the swirling ink of his tattoos, and the blue mark of their bond, which was more than a little fascinating when it was on Cian’s skin.
Man, the days I could spend driving him nuts by tracing that with my tongue.
His fingers trailed possessively and reverently over the mark. “Still can’t believe this is real.”
Cian’s hands found his waist, pulling him closer. “Believe it.”
The words were a command, and he met it with his mouth, crashing their lips together in a kiss that was all teeth and heat.
Cian groaned into it, his hands sliding up his back, gripping the fabric of his shirt and yanking it free.
The sound of tearing fabric was lost beneath the roar of the shower, the spray of water against the tiles.
Reaper broke the kiss only long enough to shove his shirt the rest of the way off, then his pants, kicking them aside until he stood naked before Cian. The warrior’s dark-green gaze raked over him hungrily before his own clothes followed, discarded in a heap on the floor.
The air between them was electric, the steam clinging to their skin as he backed Cian into the shower and pulled the glass door shut behind them. The water hit them like a wall, and Cian hissed, his head tipping back as the spray sluiced over his chest, his hair.
Didn’t take him long to figure it out.
He didn’t waste time. His hands were on Cian immediately, mapping the hard lines of his body, the dips and ridges of muscle, the rough scars of old battles. His fingers curled around Cian’s cock, already thick and heavy, and stroked once, then twice, his thumb swiping over the slick head. “Mmh.”
Cian’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking forward into the touch. “Yesss.”
Reaper grinned wickedly before dropping to his knees.
The tile was hard beneath him, the water cascading over his shoulders, but he barely noticed.
All he could focus on was the way Cian’s cock twitched in his grip, the way his thighs tensed as Reaper leaned in, his breath hot against the sensitive skin.
“Reaper—”