Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2) (12 page)

Adopting an American accent, Kyrnon said, “Something’s wrong with the toilet in here.”

As he quickly apologized and stepped around Kyrnon to head into the room, Kyrnon slipped the badge from him with deft fingers, continuing on as if nothing had happened.

He didn’t have a lot of time, but he didn’t let that worry him.

This was what he did.

Slipping on a pair of gloves similar to those in which the others used, he flashed his badge as he entered the room where all the pieces were being held. There was one man inside with a clipboard in hand, instructing movers on where each piece was meant to be taken.

“The Withered Lover,” he said to no one in particular. “That should be stored in the observatory.”

Kyrnon had not a fucking clue where the observatory was, but he merely nodded, letting the man know he would take care of it before he was crossing the floor to find it.

He found it, and its replica, quickly assessing the differences between them. Now that the canvas was aged, it was much harder to tell them apart, but Kyrnon remembered what Amber had told him, about the signature she added. It took a bit of staring and searching on his part, but he finally found it, right there at the bottom edge where she said it would be.

Carefully moving them both, he did, in fact, find the observatory, but he left Amber’s replica there, wrapping the other and taking it out back under the guise of having it loaded for one of the buyers.

Once he had it safely stored in a hidden compartment in the trunk of his Ferrari, Kyrnon pocketed his gloves and headed back to the auction that was already ending.

He glanced down at his watch.

Five minutes, fifty-four seconds.

A personal best.

And would be a job well done once he got the hell out of there.

As he stared across the distance at the woman he had never meant to have a relationship with, he knew that even as the job was done, he wasn’t letting her go.

Not even close.

K
yrnon was definitely a night owl
.

This was the third time over the last couple of weeks when she spent the night with Kyrnon that she woke up and he wasn’t beside her. Usually he wasn’t far away, but she did start to wonder what made him get up every night.

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 …”

T
he 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.

And that was a good lesson to have.

But it wasn’t better than learning how to become good at slight of hand. That had taken him no time at all to get the hang of, and having the lessons since the time he was a lad, he rarely got caught anymore.

That had ended this day.

There weren’t many people about, not that he could see, but that didn’t stop him from perusing what he could, and after he had looted everything his pockets could carry, Kyrnon had started back the way he came, determined to get home and share the wealth, but just as he reached the tree line, his gaze had shifted to the building that wasn’t too far off.

Kyrnon still wasn’t sure what he thought was inside—he doubted anything better than what he had already confiscated—but even still, he started for it.

It was supposed to be easy.

Just a way to appease his curiosity, but it had become much more than that very fast.

He didn’t realize until he was much closer and could hear the voices echoing from the windows that this place was where everyone had to be.

Two men were seated outside, one wearing a sweat-stained and slightly dirty shirt with a hat atop his head, and the other was shirtless, wearing a pair of trousers with a hole ripped in the knee.

As usual, once their eyes shifted to him, their lips curled in distaste, but the one wearing the hat was the first to give a sardonic smile. “If it isn’t one of the little tinkers from across the way.”

His friend laughed. “Probably lost, the eejit.”

“Oy!” Kyrnon snapped, that temper of his creeping up so fast that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Mind yer words before I show ye what this tinker’s fists will do to yer face.”

It was one thing to go up against the men in his camp—they never went too far, and should they ever find a need to teach him a lesson, it never went further than wounding his pride. These fellas … they didn’t believe in that.

“Let’s see ye do something about it, laddie,” the one wearing the hat said as he got to his feet, pudgy face ruddy with rage.

Kyrnon didn’t think, just swung, putting enough force behind the hit that he sent the man back a few steps, reeling at the contact.

That first punch always felt the best, the way he could feel the power behind it, and the slight pain of bone meeting bone. He had grown to love that ache, feeling more confident with each hit to know that the next time he threw one, it would be easier.

But despite the thrill he felt, the other men weren’t nearly as happy, and that first punch lit the flame.

Soon, he was facing off against the pair, holding his own despite the fact that between the pair of them, they had at least a hundred pounds on him. Kyrnon was light on his feet, easily moving out of reach, but as he attempted to duck the punch of one, another grabbed the pocket of his trousers, flinging the contents out onto the ground around them.

That was also the moment when the doors flung open, a number of men spilling out, a bloodied lad in the center of them. He could hardly stand on his own two feet, and hit the dirt hard when there was no longer anyone supporting him.

And all too soon, it was Kyrnon that was the focus of their attention.

Two against one, he’d liked his odds, but with this many … he knew he needed to get the hell out of there.

The hat guy reached down, picking up one of the necklaces that had slipped from Kyrnon’s pocket onto the dirt between them.

“What’s this here?” One of the newcomers asked, his tone carefully controlled.

This man seemed to be at the center of them all—the leader if Kyrnon had to guess. He was taller than most, though rail-thin, and dark eyes that looked unforgiving.

“The tinker’s a thief,” The Hat said, his lip already puffy and bleeding.

“Is that so?” His eyes tuned on Kyrnon, assessing, gauging, and whatever he saw made the corner of his mouth quirk up. “Do ye know what we do to thieves around here, tinker? They fight in our games until their debt is paid off—and look here,” he gestured around them toward everything Kyrnon had taken. “Yer debt is worth thousands.”

Tapping his fingers against his leg, Kyrnon considered his options.

He was dangerously out-numbered, though that had never stopped him before. This time, however, he was nervous, not because he couldn’t take a beating, but because he didn’t understand what had caused the lad on the ground to pass out.

He could guess … his face was bloodied and bruised, and what little wasn’t covered by his clothes was the same. The lad looked like he had garnered one hell of a beating.

Looking down at him, Kyrnon wasn’t sure if he was still breathing …

“
It’s all there,” Kyrnon said, keeping his distance, knowing that this wasn’t a fight he would see the end of. “I’ll be on my way. No harm done.”

“That’s not good enough.”

And it wouldn’t be, he was soon realizing.

The man didn’t look appeased in the slightest, and if he were being honest, the man looked like he already set his mind on dragging Kyrnon into that place at his back to do whatever he requested.

Fight or flight, he thought in that moment.

And that was how he found himself taking off down the road, trying to ignore the sound of pounding feet behind him as the men chased him down.

His mother had warned him not to go past the trees.

He hadn’t listened.

“
O
h
, Jesus.”

Kyrnon was torn from his ramblings of a past that was always hovering in the back of his mind by the sound of Amber’s soft words. That had been the easiest, he thought as he took another swig of the alcohol. He hadn’t told her what all he suffered at their hands—not that he really needed to.

She could see the evidence forever marked in his flesh.

Looking back at her, he shook his head. “Probably best we leave it at that.”

He thought maybe she would, that the story he told her would be enough to appease whatever curiosity she had about him, but she surprised him as she slid off the couch and joined him on the floor. Taking the bottle from his slack grip, she took a drink of her own before handing it back.

“Go on.”

Kyrnon was tempted to tell her everything in that moment, anything she wanted to know if she stayed there beside him—but as that thought hit, he set the bottle of whiskey down, figuring he’d had enough.

“There’s not much more to tell. I paid off my debt by fighting. Simple as that.”

“Didn’t your family ever look for you?” Amber asked, her gaze searching his.

“O’course they did, lovie. They just couldn’t find me.”

That was only partially true.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he could have sworn he’d heard his name being called—had even thought he spotted one of his cousins outside the grimy window of the prison he was in, but there was nothing that could be found—not when the man that had taken him hadn’t wanted him to be found.

“Then how did you get back to them?”

He hadn’t.

It took years and the happenstance of Z popping into that town for something else for him to get free of that place.

But he wouldn’t tell her that.

“I got out,” he said instead, “and made a new life.”

Her face fell, but he reached for her, smoothing his thumb over her lips. “Don’t make that face. You have a very kind smile—lights up my day. Let’s see it.”

She shook her head, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he saw tears in her eyes. “I’m sor—”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, sitting up. “It wasn’t your doing—you have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I’m sorry that it happened to you. You didn’t deserve that.” She tucked curly strands of hair behind her ear. “And I’m sorry that it still keeps you up at night.”

“You help me sleep,” he confessed, drawing her into his embrace. “When you’re lying there beside me, I don’t disappear into my head like I usually do. You bring me peace, Amber, so wipe that sadness off your face. I don’t like seeing it.”

His words cut through her sadness quick enough.

Straddling his lap, she cupped his face, leaning down to kiss him, putting everything she felt—anger, sadness, and another that she didn’t want to contemplate—into it. Not even a second passed before he was kissing her back, taking everything she had to give.