The Spirit Walker (BOOK ONE): The Ripple

Chapter Twenty-Five: Chasse & Eilidh

Calum tastes of whiskey and fire.

The alcohol buzzing through our blood leaves little room for finesse. The kiss is all lips and tongue and teeth. It is exhilarating and comforting and messy all at once.

He lifts me up and presses me against the door to correct the difference in our heights without breaking the kiss, and my legs wrap around his hips as naturally as if that is where they have always belonged.

His tongue slides against mine and he rocks into me, and I gasp and whimper and moan and fist my hands into the fabric of his shirt.

"That's enough!"

Calum is ripped away from me so suddenly that my tipsy legs can't quite find their footing. I slip to the ground in a ungraceful heap, and grunt as a spark of pain shoots from my tailbone up my spine.

I rub at the sore spot and glare up at Arran, who holds onto Calum's arm with a grip like iron. "Help her, would you?" Arran says, barely sparing me a glance, and Ness steps forward and assists me to my feet with surprising gentleness.

"I thought you said you had this under control."

I glance back toward Arran and Calum, and see that Calum's jaw is locked, his eyes pointedly averted from me.

"I do. The whiskey-"

"It's not the whiskey, Calum. We have eyes, you know. Every day, you slip a little more. Keep this up, and by this time next week, you'll be Chasse and Eilidh."

Calum growls. "I would never."

"Not intentionally."

"Never." Calum reiterates, his voice rumbling with fury and challenge.

Arran does not back down. "You're overconfident. It's always been your weakness. It's what got you captured by the Iroquois..."

"Be careful, Arran..."

"...And it's what's going to get her killed. Ceallach was murdered because she was Bhanrigh. She'd still be alive if she wasn't mated to you. Do you really want this one to die because of you too?"

Calum swings, and his fist catches Arran across the jaw.

"Don't fucking speak about her!" Calum roars, and Arran rubs at the spot before spitting blood on the hardwood floors.

"If she'd rejected you, she'd still be here."

"Arran!" Ness snaps, her fingers tightening on my arm. Her warning goes unheeded.

"She is not yours to talk about!" Calum swings again, but this time, Arran is prepared. He ducks and weaves and avoids the blow.

"But she was mine!" Arran's voice is thick and hoarse and furious. "Whose window did she crawl through as a kid, when her father was too drunk to continue beating her? Who gave that bastard such an ass-kicking that he finally let her leave his house? Who was the first man who ever made her feel safe? Who made love to her? Who she shared her hopes and dreams and fears with? She might have wound up yours in the end, but she was mine!"

"She was my mate," Calum growls, and Arran grits his teeth.

"She was my wife!"

Oh. Oh!

I stare at the men, wide eyed, hugging my arms around myself, suddenly very, very sober. They are poised for a fight, fists clenched, arms raised, arguing over their love and rights to a woman long dead. A woman whose face I share.

"This isn't the right place for this," Ness interjects, sharply, gesturing to the currently vacant, but very public hallway. "Or the right audience," she adds, jerking her chin at me.