Page 10 of Of Shadows & Ash (Land of Shadows #1)
Chapter Nine
FELICITY FORREST
“The rule has always been ride or die. Even in my time, when the ceangal calls, you’re tossed onto his back whilst in stallion form. If his stallion rejects you, it almost always marks your death.”
Queen Orla, Fourth Queen of the Wraithwind Court
H eat climbs up my neck, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to combust spontaneously. Dammit. He catches me staring. Again. The guy beside him says something under his breath, and they laugh. Am I part of a joke? Then he throws back a shot and starts moving through the packed tables toward us, like he’s some predator and I’m the prey.
I square my shoulders, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. No way am I letting him —walking sin wrapped in danger—see how much he’s gotten under my skin.
“Crap,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s with you?” Cyn asks, cutting through my panic. Before I can think of something remotely plausible to say, her eyes follow mine.
“Oh. Yum,” she breathes. “He’s a feast for the eyes.”
“Which one?” I ask, because seriously—how does one choose between a tiger and a lion? It’s like picking a favourite way to be devoured. One’s quick and savage, the other? The other makes you beg for more, maybe even share the feast with a friend. But of course, that sounds a lot more like Cyn than me.
“They’re both hot, but I’ve got a thing for tall, dark, and brooding with scars to match,” Cyn says, nodding toward the man a step behind mine. Mine? Mine? What the fuck?
He continues to stalk toward me—us—and his amber-flecked, mischievous eyes lock on mine, but there’s nothing casual about the intent in his gaze. My breath hitches, and oh no…this is not a safe place.
There’s something about how he moves—all muscle and power. Maybe it’s how his shoulders stretch his shirt, or how he looks at me like he’s already figured me out, and I can’t help feeling like a rabbit in front of a very well-groomed wolf.
I have to remind myself that I’m not in the market for that kind of trouble. Let him chat me up. Let Cyn play with his friend. I’ll show a little interest and keep it light. Fun. My life is full of things—writing, friends, my morbid humour. I will not let myself fall into a hole because some guy’s too damn attractive for his own good. But there’s something about him that crawls under my skin and sinks in deep, like a hook I didn’t see coming. It’s not normal. Hell, it’s not even rational. The air shifts when he’s near, pulling at me like I’m some puppet on a string. And the worst part? I don’t even know why.
I try to muster a smile, but it feels hollow, like a mask slipping. There’s something deeper at work, something I can’t control. My body leans toward him, caught in the invisible web that seems to wrap around us both. He navigates through the crowded pub like he owns the place. Hell, maybe he does. Or maybe he owns every heartbeat of every woman he passes. Including mine, apparently.
“I can manage a conversation,” I mutter to myself, more of a pep talk than anything, because, honestly, my only real defence against the man is a fortress made of sarcasm and cynicism.
Cyn grins. “Don’t look now, Flick. They’re closing in and that one hasn’t blinked since he saw you.”
I roll my eyes. “Lovely. A stalker with good bone structure.”
And then he’s there, and oh, he’s there . His friend stops beside him, all scars and quiet menace. My pulse trips over itself, and I hate how this feels inevitable, like they were always meant to end up here. It’s enough to make the hairs on my arms stand at attention. Is it him or my damn nerves spinning this tension so thick it feels like the world might split open?
“Looks like you’ve got room.” he says, already sliding into the priest’s vacated seat without waiting for an answer.
His accent slides into my brain and snags somewhere far lower. And all I can think is…I’m so screwed. His friend hesitates for a moment, before pulling out the chair beside him and sitting down like he’s reluctantly following orders.
My heart starts racing, and my palms turn into mini sweat factories. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the space between us and how much of it he’s claiming just by being in the same room. How, if I stare at him for one second longer, I’ll melt into something unsettling, like a pool of demon blood. Then blurt something stupid about how my insides don’t quite match what’s on the outside because that’s the sort of weird shit my brain likes to offer up when it’s panicking. Instead, I hold his gaze, daring him to keep staring. If he wants to look, fine. But if he’s looking for someone to bow, he’s in the wrong fucking room. My gaze drops to his mouth, traitorous as ever. Full lips, carved for sin, and all I can think about is how they’ll feel against mine. How they’ll taste. I lick my lips, and there’s that sound again—a faint, haunting melody that no one else seems to notice, like a siren’s call that sets my nerves on edge. This isn’t normal. Hell, this isn’t human . But do I look away? No, of course not. I stare at his mouth and think of all the filthy things he can do with it.
My best friend, mercifully, jumps in. “I’m Cyn,” she says, all sweetness and a touch of mystery. “And this is Felicity.”
He doesn’t look at her. His eyes remain on me, as though I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at. “I’m Niall.” He gestures toward the other man. “Tomas.”
The world seems to shrink around us. I wasn’t expecting the shift—how could I?—but suddenly, his presence is like a storm rolling in. I’m not shy, not even close, but something about how Niall watches me with that intense focus, sends my thoughts scattering. It’s as if the rules changed mid-game, and I’ve got seconds to figure out my next move.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, love,” Niall says. “What brings you to my island?”
“We’re on holiday,” I say, keeping it simple. No need to mention that hunting down the unknown is usually how I spend my time. Something about the way he says ‘my island’ tells me I should keep that part to myself.
“You look like you could use a drink.” His voice drips with authority, not a suggestion, but a command dressed in charm.
I nod. God, yes. But for the love of all that’s holy, stop calling me love. If he keeps looking at me like that and talking all…all…Irish and whatnot, I’m going to combust.
Niall raises a hand, catching the waitress’s attention with a sharp, deliberate motion.
She stops at our table, not quite smiling, but polite enough to pass for friendly. “What’ll it be, then?”
“Tom Crean,” Niall says, his tone smooth, confident, and final.
Tomas grunts, echoing the same order, then glances back at the band playing in the corner.
“I’ll have the same,” I say, even though I’m not sure I could swallow a drop right now. My attention keeps slipping back to Niall, and it’s turning my brain into static.
Cyn orders something fruity and colourful.
The waitress jots everything down and slips away, her footsteps lost under the rising tune of the fiddle. That’s when I catch the glance Niall and Tomas share—barely a flicker, but thick with meaning. Tomas nods once.
Whatever they’ve decided, Niall pushes to his feet.
“Excuse me,” he says, in a tone that suggests he’s done explaining himself. His gaze meets mine for a heartbeat. Then he turns and makes his way toward the back of the pub, his shoulders broad, his stride confident.
Cyn lifts an eyebrow at me, but I ignore her, resting my hand on the satchel by my side. The weight of the Other Crowd Guidebook for Mortals presses against my palm, steady and oddly comforting. I’m not pulling it out—heaven knows I’m not about to flip through folktales in front of everyone—but something about having it close settles me.
Not that it does much to explain why these ancient stories suddenly feel closer than the fiddler on the rough wooden stage. Could Niall be one of them? My chest tightens. A connection hums with a force that refuses to be named. Maybe it’s chemistry, but there’s a tug there. Something that has my instincts screaming danger even as the rest of me aches to chase him down.
Cyn and Tomas strike up a conversation. I catch bits about her family and his scars—it must be personal if he’s sharing. But the pub’s noise swells, and soon the fiddle drowns out their chatter.
Niall strides back into view, pausing to speak quietly with the waitress. She nods, placing her hand on his arm like she has every right. Possession flares inside me like a flame doused in petrol. Mine. The thought tears through me and hits somewhere deep.
What is wrong with me?
He’s a stranger. A dangerously handsome stranger with a sinful mouth and enough raw magnetism to make me want to do terrible, dirty things. But still a stranger. I came here to chase a story and nothing more.
He says something else and her fingers linger on his arm like she can’t help herself. And I want to rip her hand off of him. A pang sears through my chest.
Jealousy? Oh, for fuck’s sake . That’s ridiculous. This isn’t me.
Then his gaze snaps to mine, pinning me to my seat. The corner of his mouth curves like he knows exactly where my head has gone. A challenge, daring me to admit it.
Cyn nudges my elbow. “You good, Flick?”
“Fine,” I lie, forcing my spine to straighten.
Niall closes the distance between us as he walks back to the table. It feels like the pub shrinks. Everything else fades to background noise, all fiddles and laughter and clinking glasses. He’s all I see, all I feel, heat radiating off him in waves.
“Caught you staring again,” he murmurs, voice as dark and smooth as the stout behind the bar. He plants one palm on the table, leaning in close enough that I smell the salty tang of the sea air on his skin. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to ruin me.
“I wasn’t—” but I choke on the lie when he arches an eyebrow. The spark in his eyes says he won’t buy a word of it. And damn him, I don’t want to finish the sentence anyway.
His lips curl into a smirk that’s pure sin. “You can lie to me, a stór ,” he says, the endearment sliding under my skin like a brand, “but not to yourself.”
I want to snarl at him for using words like that. I want to yank him closer and make him regret teasing me. Hell, I want a lot of contradictory things right now.
Tomas laughs at something Cyn says, pulling my attention for a heartbeat. They’re either oblivious or ignoring the crackling energy between me and this man. That memory of the waitress’s fingers on his arm slams back into my mind, striking a chord of territorial jealousy I didn’t know I possessed.
Niall catches the flicker in my eyes and leans in, closer still. “Jealous already, are we?”
Heat floods my cheeks, whether from anger or wanting, I can’t decide. “In your dreams.”
He dips his gaze to my mouth like he’s picturing exactly how it would taste. “Every night,” he murmurs, and the promise in his tone makes the floor tilt. “But you’re wrong, you know.”
“About what?” I ask, half-breathless, clinging to the last shred of control I have.
“That waitress?” His smirk deepens, and the raw confidence in his eyes makes me shudder. “She knows her place. And you…” His voice drops to a low rasp. “…already know how this ends. You’ve been mine since the moment I saw you.”
Red flags should be waving. Any other time, Cyn and I would’ve given each other the signal and bailed faster than you can say “bad idea.” But the possessiveness in his words wraps around me like a dark promise. And gods help me. Instead of fighting, I sit here, my pulse hammering like I’m caught in a web I can’t escape. My breath stutters as his gaze bores into me. I don’t run, and I don’t deny it. I just wait, heart pounding, already bracing for the damage he’s about to do.
I should correct him. Tell him I’m not anyone’s. But the words don’t come. My body hums with anticipation, and the thought of him claiming me—whatever that means—sends a delicious tension tightening in my core.
I force myself to remove my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “I didn’t realise men still said things like that without irony.”
Niall grins as he slides back into his seat with the kind of predatory grace that makes my pulse jump. His fingers tap once against the edge of the table, drawing my attention like he knows I’m hanging on his every move.
I bite my bottom lip.
“Other than being on holiday,” he says, his tone low and edged with amusement, “what are you doing here, sitting with a priest? Not that I mind, but a woman checking me out while thinking…unholy thoughts? While seeking counsel on being devout?” His smirk deepens, his voice dropping to a sinful rasp. “That’s a confession I’d love to hear.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I hate that he knows exactly how to get under my skin. He leans back, his confidence a palpable force, like he’s already claimed the upper hand—and me. He’s laughing at me with his eyes. I clench my jaw. This one may make me forget why I swore off men in the first place. Breathe. Gods, I’m a walking disaster, and the last thing I need is to get tangled up with some local hottie who hasn’t figured out that I’m a cautionary tale.
“He’s not my priest. I’m on holiday, remember? And no, actually, I brought Cyn with me because it’s her birthday, and I was interviewing him for a story.”
My pulse thrums in my ears, and there’s this strange, electric buzz under my skin, like my body is trying to tell me something my brain can’t process. He’s looking at me like he could devour me, or I’m a riddle he’s dying to solve, and for some stupid reason, I want him to solve it.
The energy inside me stirs, louder, insistent, a drumbeat I can’t ignore. It pushes at my chest, whispering things I don’t understand but can feel down to my marrow. Make him yours. The thought slams into me. My whole body reacts to it, heat curling low in my stomach.
I shouldn’t be feeling this. I shouldn’t be letting it overwhelm me, but I can’t seem to stop. It’s like I’m on the edge of a cliff, the pull of gravity stronger than my will to stay grounded. Letting anyone get this close is a terrible idea. I know that.
I came here to do a job, not get distracted. But gods help me. Every fibre of my being wants to claim this man like he’s already mine.
His mouth curves. “Might I ask what it is you do besides staring at men in bars?”
Cocky bastard. “I could ask you the same, Niall. Seems like you’re quite skilled at it, too.”
Niall leans back. “Guilty as charged, but only when the view is worth it. As for work, let’s say I’m in the business of land management.”
“Real estate?” I ask, mentally filing that away.
His gaze flickers for a split second. I catch a tiny hesitation, a brief tightening of his jaw. It’s so quick that if I blinked, I might have missed it. “Duty comes first in my family…but sometimes it’s the unexpected moments in my country that keep me busy,” Niall explains.
I laugh, though I don’t know why. Nerves, I guess. “ Your country? Like you own it?”
He smirks. “And you, a stór , what brings you here to interview a priest?”
I roll my eyes, deciding to play along with his teasing, even though he dodged my question. “Well, I’m a writer. I cover…travel and local legends. This island’s folklore is too tempting to pass up. And who knows? Maybe I’ll find a story about a charming local who ensnares unsuspecting tourists.”
His eyes darken. “Be careful. Some legends might be more real than you expect.” His expression clears. “This charming local might be compelling enough to write a whole book about him. What do you think, Tomas? Should we give them a story worth writing about?”
He grins. “Only if we’re the heroes.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Well, first of all, I never said that you and your friend were charming.” But I can’t help but laugh, the tension easing from my shoulders. I shrug.“I suppose every writer needs a hero at the heart of their story. But be warned, I’m known for my creative liberties.”
Niall leans in, the heat of him setting every nerve on fire. “Let me give you something worth writing about, a stór .”
His taunt slides into my mind like thick, sweet honey, making me crave all the ways he’d— Stop. He’s baiting you . The thought snaps like a whip. I steel myself, forcing the flutter in my chest to quiet, the heat in my veins to cool. He’s good at this—too good—and I can’t afford to be caught off guard.
My mouth goes dry. I trace my finger over a knot on the wooden table, grounding myself in its rough texture, anything to avoid looking into those onyx and amber eyes and letting Niall see the soft spots I’d rather keep hidden.
When I think I’ve got a hold on myself, his voice drops lower, “You sure you’re not hiding something?”
And for one horrifying, heart-stopping moment, I wonder if he can see something I can’t.