Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Eighteen - Coming Home

Gazing up into Tor’s ultramarine eyes, Deòthas could scarcely believe he’d reached her in time. Had she fallen unconscious? Was he a dream? But no, the pain from her various wounds felt too real, too agonising for it to be a figment of her imagination. He really held her against his chest, clinging to her as though he never wanted to let go.

“Not bad for someone who’s little more than food, eh?”

Tor grinned, despite the pain of his own injuries, a pain evident in the creasing of his eyes and the tightening of his jaw.

Deòthas laughed too, then winced as fire shot through her chest and abdomen. She spat out another mouthful of frothing blood as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. If Tor hadn’t been holding her securely, she would’ve tumbled sideways. Ifrinn, her body hurt, from the wound in her thigh which Cailean had poked and prodded, to the burns he’d inflicted on her face and abdomen. And she felt tired. So very tired.

A deep crease formed between Tor’s brows as he murmured, “We need to get you home, mo ghaol. We need to get you to Jäger so he can fix you up.”

For once in her life, she didn’t protest. She doubted she retained the capacity to stitch herself up anyway, even if she’d wanted to, so she nodded mutely, wanting nothing more than to return to the relative safety of the castle with her mate.

“That sounds like a really good idea.”

Someone coughed politely, and she finally noticed Tancred and Corvinus in the doorway, with a mob of gore-splattered ghaisgich behind them. A blush hit her cheeks in a sudden wave of self-consciousness and she tried to curl up tighter against Tor's chest, hiding from view. Some baobhan sith she’d turned out to be, ashamed of her own body.

“I need clothes.”

Her own outfit had been pretty well shredded even before Cailean cut it from her, and she refused to don the Manipulator's discarded cloak. She suspected Tor would’ve given her his t-shirt, except slices from sword strokes cut through the fabric, until there wasn’t a hope of it protecting her modesty. When Tancred offered his own t-shirt, she accepted without complaint, and her mate helped her pull it over a body which protested at the slightest movement. The garment drowned her, but that was no bad thing. It covered everything she didn’t want exposed, and by the time Tor helped her into the shredded remains of her leather trousers, she’d relaxed a little.

“Can you walk or will I carry you?” her mate asked.

Tor watched her with wary concern, as if she were some fragile doll. On any other day she would’ve resented that, but right then she felt fragile. She still didn’t want to appear to be the damsel in distress in front of the others, though. No more than she already did. It was enough that her comrades saw her as an outsider without being seen as a weak link too.

“I’ll walk.”

She managed to stand, but only by clinging to Tor’s arm for support.

 “Don’t let go of me,” she murmured, so low only he would hear.

He cupped her cheek, his ultramarine eyes glowing intensely as he studied her, whispering back, “I’m never letting go, mo ghaol. You’re mine.”

She smiled at that statement, which declared so much more than his willingness supporting her out of the building. She wanted the promise to be true. Sharing her life with Tor would be a dream come true. It would be so much more than she’d ever imagined she could be granted. The gods had gifted her something which she’d thought to be impossible, and while she didn’t understand how it had happened, she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not again.