Her words were careful, deliberate. “Since I became the Goddess of Winter, you are the first to see me for who I really am. The role is a huge burden to carry alone, and I would welcome support.” Her head cocked to one side, those silver eyes raking up his form. Tritus felt them linger on his muscled legs and broad chest. She smirked as she added, “Besides, you are pleasing to the eye; therefore, I am not unhappy.”
Tritus knew the words she’d spoken were not quite true, for he could feel her emotions were at odds with the words and the mask of her features. He didn’t know how or why, but he knew she was holding back, not quite telling the truth. He wasn’t aware when it had happened—whether it was when she first opened the book of his life—or when the veil her brother imposed had lifted mere minutes ago, no longer hiding just the horns on his head, but also his power. Tritus couldn’t explain it, but he could now feel that deep well of power thrumming in his veins, a heady rush of energy that roared with a life begging to be unleashed.
The thought gave him pause. Had that power always been there? Later. That question would be considered later. For now, Cailleach waited.
And even though she’d danced around the truth of her emotions, Tritus was certain she favored the match. Just as he was certain that he favored her. In all honesty, it felt like he’d come home. Not to this place, but to this woman—this goddess. She felt like home, where he was meant to be. So, when she broke her silence and asked him with a slight hitch in her breath, “And you? Are you happy with who Dagda chose?”
He did not deny it. “Yes.”
Her breath released in a rush, as if she’d been holding back, protecting herself from his response. Her eyes searched his as if looking to confirm the truth of his statement. It was then Tritus noticed that not only had the power around her form lessened, but the silver in her eyes had also dimmed; the irises not as volatile as before. Rather, they moved gently, like ripples across a still lake, closer to a mortal’s than they’d ever been.
Tritus realized with a spark of excitement that he felt a connection where he held the soft skin of her hand. “And you? What do you think of your brother’s machinations?” he asked carefully. What he’d left unsaid was: what do you think of me?
But the words were a trigger. “What I think matters naught,” she snarled softly. “Free will is irrelevant; only prophecy now dictates our thoughts and actions. Cerridwen is unrivaled in the strength of her gift, and what I know of my sister is that all her prophecies ring true.”
Tritus tightened his grip on her hand, and asked slowly, “So, you’re saying you feel nothing for me, my lady? That you’d be quite happy for me to leave here, and search for a life with another?”
“No,” she cried impulsively, as if she wasn’t able to withhold the denial, and at the possessive note in her tone, Tritus felt something settle inside him.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because, prophecy or not, I felt a connection when I first saw you.”
She snorted. “I was a crone then; you feared me!”
“Yes, I feared you,” he admitted. “But something was there that made me question you.”
She stilled at that. And while he had her attention, he cemented his point by adding, “And now I only see you. And if you can sense this connection between us,” he tugged her hand to make his point, “You’d understand the truth of it: that I see no other but you.”
Cailleach hissed, her face stark at his admission. At first, Tritus wasn’t sure whether it was a sound of annoyance or relief, but it was her words that confirmed her feelings.
“Tritus, son of Cernunnos,” her voice was loud and clear, unquestionable, and Tritus withheld a flinch at the boom of power that arose in those commanding words. “I claim you! And prophecy or not—you are mine.”
Before he knew what it was that she’d said, Cailleach reached out and grabbed his other hand, her grasp firm and unyielding. A bolt of energy blazed through their joining, and with that connection came an understanding that her claim was irrevocably final and could never be rescinded. Tritus felt the connection through to his very soul, as if Cailleach’s assertion had created a deeper connection that was more than the bond they’d newly created. This was more. So much more. Now it felt as though they were tied together by a gossamer thread, each aware of what the other was thinking and feeling.
Tritus tugged on that internal filament, searching their connection. The emotion he felt coming from Cailleach was desire, not just for a life that was no longer alone and shared with another; but for him. That she found him attractive, not only his human body but also his horns, a gift of his divine heritage.
And Tritus responded.
He felt the heady rush of blood arrow straight to his groin. His feelings for her burned like a shining light down that shared thread. Tritus didn’t question his reaction, whether it was prophecy or truth. It was what it was, and there was no point fighting it.
Aware that she was waiting on his response, he gave her what she wanted. Eyes fixated on her ruby red lips, his answer came, low and hungry, “I claim you Cailleach, Goddess of Winter. I am yours.”
Her lips peeled back in a triumphant smile that was more teeth than lips.
Tritus didn’t give her a second to luxuriate in what she thought was her own dominance. Acting on instinct, he tugged on her hands. She stumbled forward, so close to his face that he felt the warm mist of her breath on his cheek. Without giving her time to respond, he brought his lips to her ear and gave the outer shell a quick nip before whispering his own claim, “And you are mine.”
A gasp escaped her, and he pulled back, catching the startled expression on her face. An acknowledgment that her power over him wasn’t all-consuming.
For this connection they had, it went both ways.
5
Brydie
I opened my eyes, blinking in the lamplight, unsure why I was lying on a brown leather couch, a patchwork quilt covering me, in a room that held an eclectic mix of paraphernalia. There was an Egyptian scroll made from papyrus paper, a Moroccan vase, a set of wooden animals, a fire-blown glass bowl, and on the wall, an antique clock and a boomerang. On my left was an old, box-shaped television, rabbit ears on top. The small room was in stark contrast to the forest I’d seen in my dreams—the forest with the beautiful woman and the man with horns. The details were hazy now, fragments of half-truths that made no sense.
Without conscious thought of my actions, my hand crept up to clutch the pendant. I held it tightly, that now-familiar warmth blooming on contact. It was enough to steady my nerves and wipe the last vestige of sleep from my mind.
But the harsh, intrusive sound of the coffee machine shattered that forced calm. Scrambling into a sitting position, I looked over the back of the couch, spotting a tall, spectacled man in the kitchen. He was fiddling with a fluro-orange coffee machine. I could smell his faint scent on the air. It was subtle, almost unrecognizable—the comforting scent of polished wood.
Ian.
I’d met him last night. He came to rescue us following the car chase and the bomb that exploded after—after Gage had killed the security guard and sent the banged-up vehicles to the Other. The memory was sobering. I was still reeling from the truth of what I’d seen, how Gage had attacked the woman in the vehicle. How he’d killed her, then sent her to an alternative reality just before the bomb went off.