Page 92 of Unveiled

At the edge of the clearing, Adrian glanced back. The circle of rimmed grass shone faintly under the moon. Beyond it, the woods leaned closer as if to eavesdrop on their leaving.

“They’ll open it wider next time,” he said.

Connor’s jaw flexed. “Then next time we tear out more of what comes through.”

Adrian didn’t argue.

They left the rend behind them, stitched but not healed, and the night followed with the patient tread of something that had all the time in the world.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Connor

The walk back to the castle shouldn’t have taken long. But nothing in the valley felt normal anymore. Not the air, which clung too close to the skin. Not the trees, which leaned as though listening. Not the ground, which shivered as if remembering where the rend had kissed it.

And certainly not the people. One limping, one half-conscious, one bleeding into a stranger’s coat, and two Valours walking side by side as though the night itself were holding its breath between them.

Connor had Adrian’s weight tucked under his arm, the Frenchman leaning heavily against him. He kept insisting his legs worked fine. Connor ignored him.

The slight tremble in Adrian’s steps told the real story. The glow of the mark had dimmed, but not nearly enough. Connor could feel it through Adrian’s shirt. The heat radiating like an ember waiting for fuel. It made Connor’s teeth sting, made the wolf in him pace in tight, furious circles.

They climbed the rise toward the castle, its lanterns dim in the swirling fog. Connor had insisted Adrian return with him. The others trudged ahead, Max half-carrying Irial, Fraser checking their flank every few steps.

Only Adrian broke the quiet. “Connor,” he muttered, his breath fogging. “You don’t have to hold me like I’m about to crumble.”

“You are about to crumble.”

Adrian attempted a laugh. It dissolved into a sharp inhale of pain.

Connor’s hold tightened. “You see?” Connor muttered. “Proves my point.”

Adrian’s head dipped, his dark curls shadowing the fever-bright sheen of his eyes. “Fine. Perhaps I am slightly unsteady.”

“Slightly,” Connor echoed, rolling his eyes. “You nearly collapsed every time the wind changed direction.”

“The wind was hostile,” Adrian said gravely.

Connor snorted. He couldn’t help it. The sound felt like the first real breath he’d taken in an hour.

Adrian leaned into him more. “Mon dieu. The brute has humour.”

“You’ll be grateful for my brute strength in about two minutes when you inevitably pass out.”

“I don’t pass out,” Adrian said, affronted.

Connor’s glare said otherwise.

Adrian sighed. “I pass out with grace.”

The castle doors groaned open as they approached. Warmth spilled out along with torchlight, the scent of smoke and stew, and the sound of anxious voices echoing from the entry hall.

When the Brannigan clan saw their leader step inside covered in ash, blood, and frost, conversation died in a single collective breath.

Connor ignored the stares. He nodded Max to bring Irial to the infirmary wing. Moira appeared, her eyes sharp and assessing, already issuing orders to her assistants. Then she saw Adrian. Her expression softened and tightened all at once.

“Get him upstairs,” she ordered. “Now.”

Connor didn’t need telling twice. He guided Adrian through the maze of corridors, avoiding curious eyes.