Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Ten - History Is Frightening

Tor was unstable, clearly. But no, there were psych tests now, assessments to make sure potential trainees were suitable for training and the trials. Deòthas’s new partner must’ve been in control of his mental and emotional faculties when he took the trials, but something had clearly set him off kilter since. That shouldn’t be surprising, not with his family issues and suddenly being thrown into this world of war and warriors. But was it the machinations of the Manipulator which were setting him on edge? Or was it her?

Deòthas couldn’t help but feel she had far more to do with it than she understood, but she couldn’t make head nor tails of what Tor felt about being her partner. His emotional range seemed to fly between disgust and dread, to utmost respect and, she thought tentatively, even desire. That notion seemed almost inconceivable, but while Tor appeared semi-proficient at hiding any lust from his expression, he couldn’t hide it from his scent, and there’d definitely been more than one type of hunger adding spice to his fragrance in the car. But could that really be directed at her?

It wasn’t possible… yet it had only happened after she offered to feed him. And there was that sketch too…

For the love of the gods, she couldn’t dwell on this. It wasn’t appropriate when she had a job to do, especially considering her own emotional landscape had been distorted beyond recognition. The week at Longhirst would be hard enough to get through, even without complicating matters by admitting just how much she wanted Tor to crave her.

Could that be the answer? Had she fabricated his need because she wanted it? No one had ever cast her a second glance, so had she grown so starved for attention that she saw something in the rookie that wasn’t really there? That had to be it.

Studying the asphalt under her feet, Deòthas wished another explanation would present itself, but she couldn’t see how anything else was possible. It didn’t matter though, not beyond the dull ache in the centre of her chest. She had come to the Longhirst facility as Tor’s partner, to help him train candidates for the trials. That was all she had to be and all she had to focus on. It would be hard enough facing up to the scorn of the trainees without dwelling on the pointless desires her heart and body had decided to crave, and which could only ever be rejected by the object of her yearning.

Pushing such thoughts aside, she locked the car and followed Tor towards the entrance doors, resenting that he’d taken her bag but relieved he’d read her well enough to leave the claymore. She had no intention of going anywhere in the Longhirst compound unarmed. Why? Because she was afraid; truly, bone-deeply, afraid.

Deòthas would've loved to deny her fear. She’d carved herself a hard-ass reputation and would’ve liked to say she simply felt wary of scorn, of candidates who would’ve heard the ever present rumours regarding the ‘fey-born’, but it just wasn’t the case. In shameful reality, and even after all the years that had passed since she'd last seen him, she still feared being near Raghnall, the Comhairle’s head of recruitment and training. There were things in her past she could never forgive or forget...

They were also things she’d kept hidden for five centuries, and she wasn’t about to admit any weakness to Tancred now. The consequence? She couldn’t ask the chief for a different assignment. She’d just have to face Raghnall and pray he’d keep out of her way.

Maybe time had lessened his hatred.

Ha!

Tension still radiated from Tor as he held the door open for her and then guided her up from the car park. She wondered who felt more on edge, him or her? The air tasted thick with apprehension and frustration, but nervous warriors had an unfortunate tendency to become volatile; they were probably on course for a show down, if a spark ever hit the powder keg which had resulted from their poisoned emotional grids. Gods help any person who lit that fuse.