Kat Bastion - Forged in Dreams and Magick

I took a fortifying breath, lacing my fingers with his. We stepped forward, and I guided our hands down to the top of the box.

Our clasped hands trembled. From him or from me? A little of both, I decided.

Together, our fingertips touched the cool metal top, the surface warming at our touch.

Nothing happened.

I furrowed my brow. While the outcome had remained a complete mystery to me, I’d expected more than . . . nothing.

I pulled my hand up to my mouth, drumming my fingertips lightly over my lips as I tried to think my way through the enigma. Each event with the box had been different. Iain and I had both touched it in the twenty-first century, while he’d made contact in the thirteenth century. Then I alone had placed my hand on the surface as Velloc did on his end.

Energy practically sparked the air around us. Power from the relic held me in its grip like a tractor beam locked onto an incoming spacecraft. The artifact hadn’t shut down like the first time, when I insisted that Iain send me back. If anything, it appeared to be powering up.

The accelerating rhythm radiating from the object flowed into me, commanding my runaway heartbeat. I tensed as a strong pulse burst through my body.

Velloc squeezed me in reassurance. “Now, Isobel!” He shot his hand back up and clasped mine, dropping our hands onto the metal top.

The slightest touch charged electricity through my body as if I’d plugged my finger into an overloading transformer. I squeezed my eyelids shut and dropped my head, gasping as excruciating pain seared through every ligament. A scream ripped from my throat, echoing off the cave’s rock walls as incredible pressure threatened to detonate my body into shrapnel.

Velloc released my hand, shaking my shoulders. I opened tear-blurred eyes, flames of pain still shooting everywhere.

Iain stood on the other side of the box with his hands around it . . . only he wasn’t solid—I saw the jagged cave wall through his body. I reached up to touch his image, removing my hand from the box.

The pain ceased the moment I severed the connection. And . . . the portal sealed.

Iain solidified, becoming corporeal as my fingers landed on his forearm.

“ Isa. ” Iain whispered my name with a shocked expression, as if he saw a ghost.

Velloc yanked me, shoving me behind him as he growled. I stumbled back, my blank mind failing to process the unbelievable.

Two masterful warriors from worlds that existed centuries apart squared off for deadly battle.

Both owned the heart of one woman.

Me.

I watched in horror as the men launched at each other, colliding in midair.

My thoughts spiraled, the tornado carrying relevant fragments to the fringe, never quite pulling one to the clarity of dead center. The struggle to comprehend the unexpected twist of Iain and Velloc together—in one world—incapacitated my spinning mind.

The two men most important to me were locked in mortal hand-to-hand combat. I stood there dumbfounded, my mouth hanging so wide open my jaw nearly came unhinged. Complete shock at having them together in the same time—in the same space—froze me like carved marble.

Iain leapt from the ground with the force of a cougar, ramming his shoulder into Velloc’s ribs. They crashed into the wall of the cave, pieces of broken rock raining down. Velloc pushed off, spun them around, and turned, jabbing his elbow into the center of Iain’s chest. Iain grunted and wheezed, sucking air into his lungs after the sharp blow to a vulnerable nerve area.

Iain snapped a short punch at Velloc’s kidney. Velloc spun, deflecting the dangerous shot, and rotated his arm out to chop at Iain’s throat. Iain ducked, avoiding the impact. It was clear that Iain’s six-inch height advantage made no difference whatsoever with their evenly matched combat skills.

Blood dripped down their arms, smearing across their skin as they scraped across sharp rock walls. A coppery tang filled my nostrils. Grunts and heavy breathing punctuated the pulse hammering at my eardrum.

Hands flew up around each other’s throats. They shoved off from the wall, leveraging their footing, channeling their force into strangling one another. Both of their faces turned beet red.

Terror seized me. The sudden thought of losing one of them—of witnessing one die by the hand of the other—ripped through my shock. I screamed.

The sound startled both men who’d seemed to have forgotten my presence in the cave, let alone the fact that I was the woman they fought over. Velloc turned toward me, and Iain seized on the unexpected interruption, sweeping his foot into Velloc’s ankle, dropping him.

Iain jumped over Velloc, tackling me in a rib-crushing hug. The velocity of the collision staggered me backward. Over Iain’s shoulder, I saw Velloc spring to his feet. Iain grabbed my hand and slammed it down onto the box, his fingers overlapping mine as we made contact.

Velloc’s feral roar echoed around the cave as he charged us. Instantly, the wild look in his eyes changed to alarm, and Velloc lunged for me.

My heart slammed into my ribs, my mouth falling open in silent anguish, as the man I’d spent the last month and a half of my life with . . . and had fallen in love with . . . vanished.

Iain landed hard on top of me, sprawling us across the floor. Air whooshed out of my lungs from the impact and his weight. Elation by my reunion with Iain and shock at the loss of Velloc overloaded the last of my fried sanity. The world faded to black.

Pain filled my entire being, even though no physical injury marked the damage I’d sustained. With great concentration, I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut, holding back a threatening torrent. My heart burned a hole on the inside of my chest as consciousness brought awareness, along with a barrage of emotions I found myself ill equipped to deal with under even the most forgiving of circumstances.

The two men who loved me were intertwined so tightly into my soul that the loss of one felt equally as devastating as the loss of the other. Guilt filled the spaces in between like pervasive glue, connecting harsh reality to my inconceivable situation. For a moment, I grew jealous of Rip Van Winkle. Twenty years asleep, waking to a different world altogether, sounded ideal compared to my double-feature soap opera.

Familiar aromas welcomed me: fresh baked bread, smoke from a fire crackling in a hearth. But the scent of pine and musky male overpowered them all as I stretched sore muscles, pulling my arms over my head and pointing my toes. I’d awakened in Iain’s bed . . . our bed.

I peeked through cemented eyelids. Iain sat hunched over in a chair near the foot of the bed, staring at the floor. Grave concern carved deep creases into his forehead. At my increased movements, he lifted his face, his eyes widening.

“Isa!” He breathlessly exclaimed my name as he shot up, launching onto the bed. He leaned over me, caressing my face, tears forming in his eyes. “Damn, woman. You scared the hell out of me. You’ve been out cold for two days.”

Isobel Van Winkle—two days versus twenty years.

My body had done a hard shutdown to recover from unfathomable events. But even after forty-eight hours of dead-to-the-world sleep, my mind couldn’t go there. Not yet.

Despite his haggard expression and days of stubble on his face, Iain wore fresh clothes and had cleaned himself up. I lifted the covers. I’d been undressed and bathed. Naked. Again.

I tried to speak, but only a croak came out. Iain grabbed a cup of ale, lifting it to my lips as he supported my shoulders.