Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(43)

Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes, glancing over at the clock. Four in the morning, a few hours later than his usual. Sliding out of his bed, she kept the blanket wrapped around her as she went in search of him.

Though the TV was on, he wasn’t on the couch, and only a cup of tea on the table told her he had been there recently. As she wandered about, she found a staircase toward the back of the loft, and her curiosity got the best of her as she started up.

It wasn’t until she got to the next landing did she realize that the best part of his place wasn’t the loft below, but rather the greenhouse that made up the highest floor. She’d barely taken a full step before she could feel the cool tile beneath her feet, and even the spongey feel of moss. It was significantly warmer up here than it was below, and more impressive was how vibrant the night sky was from this view.

“Like being on top of the world,” Kyrnon said softly, a stream of smoke spilling from his lips as he spoke. She was almost halfway across the room when he added, “I tore down the roof and had this done—makes me feel like I can breathe.”

She didn’t realize it until she was closer that he was lying in a bed of grass beneath open windows above him. His legs were crossed at the ankles, his arm cocked, hand beneath his head, revealing one side of the V-lines at his waist he possessed.

“Why?” she asked when she was settled next to him, running her fingers through the grass at her sides and the slight dampness she found there.

“I spent a lot of time outside when I was a lad. See, whenever we set up camp, we always found a spot right under the stars.”

He sounded somber, like the memory saddened him. “And you miss that,” she guessed, then asked, “What changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“What made you stop being able to sleep at night?”

Kyrnon didn’t answer her question right away, still staring up at the cloudless sky above them, taking another drag from his cigarette. “My childhood wasn’t a pretty one.”

“If you want to tell me, I want to hear it.”

Whatever he was willing to give, she would take it.

And she had assumed as much. Between the scars, and the way he only seemed to talk about his life in recent years as opposed to the one he led back in Ireland entirely. Besides where and little details about it, he had never spoke of his life there.

Grinding out his cigarette on the tile, Kyrnon got to his feet. “I’ll be needing whiskey for this.”

He didn’t hesitate in grabbing hold of her hand, walking them back downstairs where he left her to get settled on the couch as he rattled around in the kitchen for the bottle of whiskey he kept in a lower cabinet.

Unlike last time, he merely twisted the top off, tossed it on the counter, then took a few healthy swallows before he crossed back to her. Instead of settling on the couch, he got comfortable on the floor, stretching out on the fur pelt that looked incredibly soft.

With a deep sigh, Kyrnon said, “It all started when I was thirteen …”



* * *



The sun on his face was nearly blistering hot, but Kyrnon didn’t care as he raced across the field, but he could only get so far, especially when he heard the squeal of tires as the truck gunning across the land drew closer.

He only had seconds—seconds before they were on him, but he didn’t slow, even as his heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest.

His mam had warned him not to go past the trees, and more, not to bother the men that dwelled on the other side of them, but at thirteen-years-old, he hadn’t understood the need for the precaution, not when there were more than fifty people traveling with their caravan.

That was both the beauty and the curse of living the way he did—he had more freedom than he needed.

But despite his mam’s warnings, he had done specifically what she forbade, venturing across the line, and out of sight where any of his kin may have called him back.

Expecting another pavee family, he had been surprised to find that there was no one living in the trees like he had expected. As far as he could see, there were only the trees for miles.

Kyrnon was stubborn, however, and refused to believe that he would leave without some kind of thrill, that his mam’s rules had been for nothing.

Instead, he ventured farther, and farther, until he was so deep in the woods that he couldn’t remember how to return. He couldn’t have walked for more than another thirty minutes before the densely packed forest was giving way to a clearing where there were a row of houses, a building set at the end of the lane.

It was here that Kyrnon thought he understood his mam’s worries. City people were quite unforgiving when it came to Kyrnon and his family, not liking the idea of them setting up their camps so close to their own homes.

Quite often, they treated them as though they were worse than the dirt beneath their feet. Once, that had saddened him, made him wonder what was so wrong with the way they lived. So they chose to live more freely than others—that their customs weren’t the same … did that make them so different? But he had quickly grown out of those feelings, that disparity shifting to annoyance.

If they thought him less than, he would be better—but he would make sure they never said any shite to his face.

His cousins were skilled at bare-knuckle boxing, teaching him everything he needed to know to defend himself should the need ever arise.