the other Son

Chapter 51

The left side of his torso ached and burned more prominently as he thought back to how he'd acquired the wound in the first place, the unfortunate events, the moment he'd been so fucking full of himself, believing he could easily walk over there and confront the killer. This damn island, Eanverness and the tranquillity had dulled his senses, his instincts – involuntarily, he gritted his teeth in anger; anger at himself and at his father who didn't tire of telling him this wasn't the proper place for him, a Crawford, to be. It was hiding, tail tucked between his legs despite every lie he told himself, how he deserved it, how it was for the best because there was so much blood and guilt on his hands not even the harsh ocean could ever come close to washing off.

He'd shown more of a backbone as a mere teen, making decisions worth of a Crawford, a member of the tribunal although it took many more years for his father to step down. Wasn't it a miracle his seat on the tribunal hadn't been withdrawn yet? The only thing allowing him to cling on was his family's name and former glory, a sorry glow of what he could've been, the potential.

"Tristan?"

Lesza's voice was soft, hardly more than imagination, and concern was pulling at his brow, nothing Tristan deserved or wanted.

He forced his clenched jaw apart, teeth aching as if he'd driven them several inches into the underlying bone by sheer force.

"What?"

The Detective visible recoiled at the harsh tone but Tristan wasn't able to deal with any softness right now, he needed storms and chaos and destruction and his soul was clawing for him to rip open his fucking insides and unleash the evil. His fingers twitched with the urge to break open his ribs and let them see the inhuman before they would undoubtedly perish in a cloud of ashes.

He didn't know how to tell Lesza to fucking run.

Beran hesitated, mulling over words before he finally asked, "Did you recognize the assailant?" His eyes flickered down and the runes on Tristan's skin seemed to flare up with warmth. "Last night?"

"No."

The Detective was taken aback by the clipped reply but accepted it with a small nod, gaze returning to the screen as if the old photograph held any answers. Perhaps it did, perhaps it was just that – a damn picture of times long gone.

Finnegan – Finn – set his empty cup down with a resounding click, the ceramic way too fucking loud on the polished wood. Any mischief had left his face although his head was tilted to the side in an uncanny semblance of a curious pup. Tristan despised the knowing look on his face.

"Anything to say, Lassie?"

Finnegan's lips pulled into an easy grin, unimpressed by the sharpness. "Nothing you don't already know yourself."

Mutt.

"Don't you need to roll in some mud?"

"Is it time to shed or why are you so irritated?"

Tristan sighed, rubbing at the point between his brows where a headache began to throb.

"Shed what?" Beran questioned with a confused look on his face and an even deeper sigh escaped Tristan. How the hell had this dumbass solved a single fucking case in his career?

Finnegan leaned in close, almost as if intending to snag a kiss, and took a deep whiff. "Ah, Druid." He grinned and glanced over at Tristan. "He doesn't know, does he?"

Tristan's jaw twitched in irritation.

"Know what?" Beran pressed, the gradient of his eyes darkening.