Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(112)

Some of the bitterness in Owen’s eyes lightened.

“Rescue of both the forest camp and the females accomplished. Guards dead, houses burned. Got a lot of wounded, but no one died. I’d call it a success.” Gawain ran his finger down her cheek and smiled.

As Gawain passed the first aid box to the females nearby, the front door opened. Males in black vests and cargo pants, carrying firearms entered.

The soldiers looked around expectantly, and happy shouts echoed through the room as they spotted their sisters.

“Darcy!” Two males—her littermates—charged across the room. As Owen and Gawain moved out of the way, her brothers dropped to their knees beside her.

Patrin with his olive skin and long black hair. Fell with his blue eyes and short sandy hair.

“Oh, Mother of All, you’re here. You’re free and alive.” Joy welled up in her so strong she was drowning in it.

“You’re safe,” Patrin whispered, as if to reassure himself. His smile didn’t show in his eyes—and hadn’t for the last five years. Ever so gently, he pulled her into his arms.

When he released her, Fell was there. A burbling brook frozen into silence, her brother rarely spoke. He studied the dressings on her arm and leg, nodded approval, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Then he frowned at her. “You didn’t belong there.”

“What?”

“In danger.”

Seriously? They were actually together again, finally—and he was using some of his hoarded words to criticize her? The urge to cry warred with the urge to smack him.

She settled on the second option and smacked the side of his head.

Not even a flinch. He growled. At one time, he’d have yelped and laughed.

Breathing past the ache in her heart, she growled back. “I did belong there.”

“She’s the one who discovered the captives had two trackers.” Gawain’s tone was very even.

Owen’s tone wasn’t polite at all. “She escaped, helped us find your prisons, and saved every benighted one of you. Show some fucking gratitude.” The pride in his voice made her eyes sting.

Both of her brothers scowled, shook the insult off, and she got two more hugs.

“Thanks, chwaer,” Patrin murmured.

Fell simply gave her a squeeze…and she mourned for his lost words.

“Cahir, mage, a moment,” Alec called from the center of the room.

As Owen and Gawain joined him, Patrin’s eyes narrowed. “I saw the cahir. What’s a mage?”

“A blademage.” Darcy looked after him and didn’t…quite…sigh. Gawain had earned all those muscles the hard way.

As if he felt her gaze, he met her eyes and winked.

The flush of heat ran from her head to her toes. After a second, she turned to Patrin. “He’s a metalsmith with extra magic so he can make cahir blades and sheaths and the lifemating bracelets.”

When Alec said something, both Gawain and Owen glanced at her, turned back to Alec with scowls, and whatever he’d suggested was turned down cold.

The sheriff laughed, agreed, and wrote something on his clipboard.

Owen gave him a narrow-eyed look, one that promised retribution, and stalked back to Darcy.

Such a cat. Deadly and snarly and ever so softhearted. She almost sighed again.

He stood over her, his arms crossed over his chest. “We’re heading for Cold Creek. With you.”

“Good.” She frowned. “What about Patrin and Fell?”

Gawain glanced at her brothers. “It seems the spymaster has asked the Dogwood males to help him with a project for a while.”

Patrin nodded. “We agreed.”

“When done,” Gawain said, “your brothers will be assigned to Cold Creek.”

“Assigned?” Patrin asked slowly.

“For safety and to help you all reintegrate with Daonain life, the Dogwood villagers are being scattered throughout the towns in Oregon and Washington,” Gawain said. “Once things quiet down, you can move where you want.”

Her brothers exchanged glances. “Makes sense,” Patrin said. “We’ll be with Darcy, though?”

“Aye.” Owen’s tone was inflexible. “She lives in Cold Creek.”

Grumpy cat. But she loved what he’d said. “She lives in Cold Creek.” Not “assigned”, but she belonged there.

*

Nursing baby Toren, Vic burrowed deeper into the blankets on the couch. Thank you, Zeb. He’d carried her in from the van, set her on the couch, and told her to stay where he put her. Two-thirds of Cold Creek were terrified of the deadly cahir—never realizing he had a soft side. The wonder in his face when he’d seen the babies had almost reduced her to tears. He’d scrounged up tiny boxes for baby beds, ripped up a blanket for bedding, and lined the beds up on the coffee table. After moving the table right next to the couch, he’d sent someone off for diapers.

She’d wondered for—oh, all of a moment—why he and Shay hadn’t stayed behind to fight. But, of course, they’d been ordered to get the captives out. Any Cosantir—and any Daonain male—would put the females’ safety first.

Calum. Worry hummed inside her like a swarm of bees. Zeb had said Calum had planned to hand himself over to the Scythe. No wonder they’d left her alone. The so-called Director had wanted to ensure he’d nabbed Calum before damaging her.