Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
For nothing.
Just as he broke into the little clearing shading the Asherville cottage, something heavy smashed into him from behind. The heat of flesh, of muscle, crashing against his body and picking him up in its violent momentum to slam him against the wall next to the cottage’s door. Cillian cried out as he struck the wood, only to strangle to silence as that heavy body smothered him, enveloping him in snarling breaths against his hair, hot hardness caging him, pressing pure strength against his shoulders, his back, something else against his ass, heavy and threatening. Cruel hands caught his wrists, pinned them viciously against the wood; he flattened himself against the siding, cheek pressed to the cool paint, trembling as he cringed away from the slow, heavy rasp of growling breaths bending low over him. Curling against his ear. And whispering, menacing and dark,
“…boo.”
Cillian blinked—then slumped with a helpless laugh, twisting to try to elbow Brendan. “You fuck. Get me all worked up, and then ruin it.”
“I live to displease.” Chuckling, Brendan let him go, stepping back—only to catch Cillian around the waist and swirl him into his arms. “Have a good trip into town?”
“Mostly uneventful. The groceries are in the Jeep, and for that little stunt, you get to carry them in.”
Groaning, Brendan leaned down, lightly nudging his temple to Cillian’s. “That’s cruel. I’ve been chopping firewood all morning.”
“I don’t think a few boxes of hot cocoa and some veggies will break your back, Dadd—EEE.” Cillian yelped as a sharp hand abruptly came down on his arse, smacking hard enough to sting, making his hips rock forward and grind into Brendan’s. His breaths caught, and he stared up at Brendan, a flush working through him with deep, slow-burning heat.
“I told you we’re not having any of that,” Brendan mock-growled, then pulled away to give Cillian a little playful shove. “Go in. I’ll get everything.”
Cillian grinned and stretched up to kiss Brendan’s cheek. “You’re too good to me.”
“I just want to eat,” floated back over Brendan’s shoulder as he disappeared up the narrow footpath through the trees.
Chuckling, Cillian shook his head and let himself inside, and slung the rather thick, heavy package he’d picked up from the P.O. box onto the dining area table. By the time he finished plucking at the finicky little knots of twine—he should’ve just cut it open, but once he’d started he got stubborn about it—Brendan came elbowing in, carrying a dozen bristling grocery bags in each hand, thick knuckles and tendons in his fingers straining in hard definition. Cillian glanced up from peeling back the brown paper on the package, and arched a brow.
“…two trips. It wouldn’t kill you to make two trips. Three, even.”
“My way is more efficient.”
“…and you always have to do things your way, I know.”
“Glad you finally understand.”
Cillian watched in amusement as Brendan wrestled the entire mess onto the kitchen counter, then started sorting through the bags. In so many ways Brendan hadn’t changed; still just as particular about all the little things, still very set in doing things his way, still just…
So Brendan.
But that was part of what Cillian loved about him.
And he loved him even more that for the big things…
Brendan listened.
After slotting a few avocados into the refrigerator, though, Brendan paused, glancing up at the small television mounted over one cabinet. “You came back just in time—Drake said we’d want to catch the early evening news on CNN. Think it’s starting.” He reached over his head, arm flexing tautly, and flicked the TV on, then tapped a few buttons, switching channels until— “Looks like it’s already started.”
Resting his hands on the half-open, half-forgotten parcel, Cillian cocked his head, squinting at the screen. It looked like a courtroom, and the man on the stand looked oddly familiar—brown hair, blue eyes, clean-cut, around Cillian’s age or a little younger. Handsome, but not in that unwholesome way Cillian associated with…
He inhaled sharply. “Newcomb?”
“His brother, Victor.” Brendan flashed him a satisfied smirk as he rummaged inside another rustling plastic bag. “And he’s currently testifying that he and his husband have been helping raise the daughter of a woman Oliver Newcomb hurt years ago. She’s on the stand next.” That smirk turned into a broad, vicious smile full of teeth. “That fucker’s never going to see the outside of a prison again.”
Cillian couldn’t help the grin that broke over his face. “Good.” He took a shaky breath. “I…even after all these months, I still worried if I’d done the right thing. If he was just going to find a way to wiggle out of it, and if he couldn’t touch me or you…he’d take it out on someone else.”
“You did the right thing.” The look Brendan flashed him was warm, understanding. “You just needed to do it in your own time.”
“Thank you,” Cillian said softly. “For being there for me until I was ready.”