Wrong Way Home
  • Reads 39
  • Votes 1
  • Parts 2
  • Time 5h 33m
  • Reads 39
  • Votes 1
  • Parts 2
  • Time 5h 33m
Ongoing, First published May 10, 2022
ONE WRONG TURN. ONE RIGHT MAN

Like every other weekend, Colin is on his way home from university, but he's taunted by the notion
that he never takes risks in life and always follows the beaten path. On impulse, he decides to take
a different route. Just this one time. What he doesn't realize is that it's the last time he has a choice.
He ends up taking a detour into the darkest pit of horror, abducted by a silent, imposing man
with a blood-stained axe. But what seems like his worst nightmare might just prove to be a path to
the kind of freedom Colin never knew existed.

Taron has lived alone for years. His land, his rules. He'd given up on company long ago. After all,
attachment is a liability. He deals with his problems on his own, but the night he needs to dispose of
an enemy, he ends up with a witness to his crime.
The last thing Taron needs is a nuisance of a captive. Colin doesn't deserve death for setting foot on
Taron's land, but keeping him isn't optimal either. It's only when he finds out the city boy is gay that
an altogether different option arises. One that isn't right, yet tempts him every time Colin's pretty
eyes glare at him from the cage.

"When Taron looped the heavy metal collar around the slender neck and closed the padlock, his
body throbbed with the excitement of knowing he owned this boy.
Was it wrong? Yes, yes it was.
Was it so, so good? Definitely."
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Eallair had bumped through life, following Tor's lead, but with the date for his own visit to the proving grounds looming, he needs to be sure of his own heart. Unfortunately, with his gift playing havoc with his eyesight, and the glare of others auras ensuring a constant migraine, it's proving difficult to focus on what he wants from life. It seemed easier to down a bottle of absinthe and pass out in a stranger's bed, than to worry about whether or not he should even be taking the trials. But maybe the trials were the answer to his problems; hadn't the Taghadairean taken Deòthas's magic as her sacrifice? Maybe they would take his gift too. And if they found him unworthy? Well, then he wouldn't need to worry about anything ever again. Tancred couldn't remember the last time he felt happy. Being chief had always been an honour, but after millennia of life, he was beginning to feel tired, stretched thin; his weariness went into his very soul. If he'd been another chief, in another time, he might have fallen on his sword, but as so many people kept reminding him, the Comhairle couldn't afford a change of leadership. The nobles would use his fall to justify the disbandment of the Council, and with evil still gathering, no one could afford that. Even warrior chiefs need something to live for, though. The lull left in the wake of the Manipulator's death was only ever going to provide a temporary peace. Raghnall had gone to ground. Cailean's demonic sponsors were unlikely to abandon their quest for chaos simply because one minion had fallen. The question? Who was going to make the next move, and can the Comhairle come through the next battle unscathed?