I thought there’d be more backwards thinking, but it’s almost all worry. Like ninety-nine percent premium, high-octane, all-consuming preoccupation.
Is Gael’s left hook weaker than his right? Why is Tye distracted and pissy for no reason? Nuala’s bloodwork came back not looking so great. The heating bill is going up and new windows are expensive, but if he doesn’t lay the money out now, will they only get more expensive? Was the smaller purse last month at Salt Mountain a sign of things to come or just Salt Mountain being cheap?
It goes on and on like a library with endless shelves of unsolvable problems and things he can’t control.
His panic and rage in this moment scream like a fire alarm, but underneath, the vibe is not much better. How does he function this way?
I go searching, poking around for something that’ll temper this new understanding. I don’t want to feel bad for Killian Kelly. He’s a dick. And his wolf’s a dick, too, he’s just a little smoother about it. Making me think he was chill. He’s the one who really lost it back there, going for my neck with his fangs.
Over on the logs, the Byrnes are muttering to each other. The scent of fear is beginning to mingle with the reek of aggression. It makes my nerves jumpier. Scared, panicking animals are more dangerous than aggressive ones.
I calm myself by rooting around in Killian’s psyche, looking for something that isn’t anxiety, but when I find the good stuff, I don’t feel any better.
It’s a new memory. The images set my skin on fire. I’m grateful Lochlan and Eamon have their backs to me.
I can see earlier from Killian’s point of view—my boobs bouncing, my belly jiggling, my fingers furiously rubbing my clit. I look—wanton. Unlike myself. As if I don’t have a care in the world. Like I’m enjoying myself.
And I know what he felt when he sank inside me. The overwhelming awe.
He felt at peace. All the noise faded, and there was nothing but my breath, my soft cries. His soaring heart.
I am his reward.
And in a burst, I know why he’s done all the things he’s ever done. Every win in the ring. Every beatdown outside of it. Every hour of training in the brutal heat or cold. Every time he roused the males from their beds for a midnight run through the mud and rain and snow. Every rule. Every piece of justice dispensed with his fist or claw.
It was for me. To make me safe.
I see the echo of a memory—a faint glimmer that ignites an answering memory buried deep inside me.
Killian and I are children, huddled together in a bed, bandaged, dried blood still caked in our nail beds and hair. Abertha and Killian whisper, but I can’t follow the gist. I’m in too much pain. I have to trust him. When he raises a cup to my lips, I have to believe he is doing the right thing. And I do. Because he is my mate. I trust him in my bones.
And then I understand it all.
I sway. Kennedy steps forward to brace me up.
Killian did it all for me.
He changed this pack and everyone in it through the sheer force of his will, for me. Because of the kind of world he wanted for me to live in. Not our young—me.
In his imperfect, clumsy, hypocritical way, he made a pack where I could build beehives alone without worrying about a male coming by and taking advantage. And Old Noreen is in charge of the kitchen instead of begging for leftovers outside of the lodge. Where Dierdre can go on runs with Liam, and Conor and Jimmy can live together, and no one would consider driving them out of camp because we don’t do that kind of shit anymore.
And Killian didn’t even mean to change everything. It’s just when you start insisting that folks behave decently to each other—I guess it kind of snowballs.
I’m not sure how to feel now.
When we were children, he gave me up. We could have fought together, side-by-side, but he took the choice away from me.
But we were so young. Too young to make those kinds of decisions.
It all clicks into place.
I need him.
I need to go away with him, be alone, piece this together. Remember everything.
But we’re in the middle of a coup, and Killian is going to blaze in any second, rip the heads off half our fighting males, and roll them at my feet.
I know this because the image is flashing through the bond now. He’s close, approaching from the north, upwind, and he’s scouting the situation through my eyes.
I try to let him know the positions of the other males, but I’m not sure if I succeed. I don’t know how to work this connection between us, especially since he’s sending me a flood of desperate reassurances tinged with bloodthirsty rage. It’s hard to get anything through that mess.