16. Tyson

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TYSON

I was angry. For days, maybe weeks, if I was being honest, I’d been building up this fecking orgy I shouldn’t want. I was a prince of fire. Wiggles should be mine and mine alone.

The feel of the Shark’s thrusts, making Wiggles gag on my cock assaulted my thoughts, followed by the Tree Ent’s dick, sliding down her throat. Her moans while both of us touched her made me as hard as fecking steel. I wanted to hear those moans again.

Until this moment, I hadn’t admitted it. Now that Jay was pulling back, if I really wanted to share, I would have to be honest with myself and act.

But I didn’t want to share… I shouldn’t want to share.

I ripped the shirt out of my back pocket and pulled it over my chest, making the woman behind the reception desk in the lobby jump. I ignored her and virtually tore the front door off its hinges as I exited into the packed streets of central Dublin.

Viewing other men in the same way I viewed Wiggles wasn’t happening. But the outline of Og’s dick in her throat burned in my thoughts. The first time in the Dirt Worm’s cave, I hadn’t watched. I’d been grateful Jay covered my eyes. Except I hadn’t really. I spent hours envisioning what it might have looked like because I wanted to see.

I like watching more than I wanted to admit.

Except I just admitted it to myself.

What did I want?

A wildfire of humanity consumed the world around me. Noise, smells, and raw, magicless energy bounced off the colorful fronts of wall-to-wall pubs, accented with dark stonework. I joined the flow of the crowd, skirting around street performers and men thrusting advertisements into people’s hands.

I was spit out into a courtyard, and a dark sign with a dragon on it caught my eye. The dragon’s tail was cleverly shaped like an arrow, and it pointed down the steps to a dark cave-like door. I pushed the couple in front of me out of the way and went in.

If possible, it was louder in here than outside. A band consisting of fiddle, standup bass, and a guitar player singing into a microphone kept the place rowdy. People packed the tables, eating and drinking, while even more filled in corners. Dark beer and gravy hung thick in the air, and I followed my nose to the dimly lit bar.

My first authentic pub. Excitement cut through my anger, and I looked for Wiggles, only to remember I left her back at the hotel. Except I hadn’t, she wasn’t mine. She wasn’t something I could leave somewhere. She was a person who was more interested in getting her magic back than me.

A spark of bitter self-pity sputtered.

That wasn’t fair to Wiggles. When Rehan put out my fire, I knew how to fix it and who to be angry at. I would have fought Rehan and his fecking wizard of a grandsire if they kept my mate or my fire from me.

Now, I didn’t know who to be mad at.

I took a deep breath and released it along with my momentary pity party. Jay’s fire was out, and she didn’t know why. I would have set half the world ablaze by now, but my girl kept her head and searched for answers. Instead of helping, I stormed out because I hadn’t gotten what I didn’t want.

I leaned on the bar and thumped the sticky top. A sudden awareness of my actions made me deeply uncomfortable.

“What can I do you fahr?” a man asked behind a row of beer taps, jerking me back to reality.

I was off my island. Maybe not in Scotland, but in the realm of their bitter rivals. The Irish. Maybe kicking some shit up would ease my discomfort. “Do you have any scotch?”

“In me Irish poehb?” The man’s eyes flashed. “Bloody Americans, try again, fella.”

I grinned before realizing I didn’t know anything about Irish whisky. Not wanting to come across as an idiot, I changed my order to what I’d had at the Guinness factory. He pulled me a pint, though he didn’t draw the little shamrock in the foam, and held out a plastic box with numbers above the image of a wireless signal.

I eyed it, trying to understand what he wanted. A slim, pale hand, gripping a slim phone between her manicured fingers, came into view.

“It’s on me,” a light young woman said, her accent not near as heavy as the bartender’s.

I traced the arm to a stunning woman dressed in a short tartan skirt, held up by a corset of leather straps perfectly framing her plump tits. Fire, I loved a good pair of tits, and Wiggles’ were perfect. The young woman touched her phone to the man’s device, and it beeped happily.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” the young woman asked.

I pulled my gaze up from her chest and took a sip of my beer. Cat-eyed make-up brought out her brown eyes and dark, dangerous features.

I inclined my head. “Thank you.”

“Scotch is the American term for Scottish whisky. Not even the Scots say scotch if ye want to blend in a bet.” She patted my chest. “Though that shirt’s not doing you any favors.” She giggled.

I looked down at the massive shamrock on my black shirt with the words ‘Feckin Eejit’ written in the middle and smirked. “Feck is my favorite word.”

She licked her bottom lip, taking in my build and obviously liking what she saw. “Are you sure ye know what feck means, Mr. Scotch?”

I took a slow drink of my beer, making sure my Adam's apple bobbed as the swallow went down.

“Why ‘ello,” another woman said, putting her hand on my forearm. “I can’t ‘elp but over’ear you may not ‘ave enjoyed our fine Iris’ malt.”

I lowered my drink and turned my back flat to the bar so I could see both women. The new arrival looked to be closer to my age. Shorts and a V-neck t-shirt showed off less of her tits but hinted at what could fill up my hands. So far, I liked Ireland.

“Cormac, two drams of Red Breast 15,” the woman said, her hand still on my forearm.

The younger woman scowled at the new arrival’s hand. “Orla.”

“Sarah, I didn’t notice ye there.” Orla inclined her head. “I’m sure your oul fella’s around. No need to piss ‘em off before the sun even sets.”

Sarah’s cheeks turned pink, and her gaze flashed to me, looking for help. A hand clapped onto my shoulder, and Lux slid between the two women to lean on the bar next to me. My heart raced before my confidence swelled. It took me a moment to realize why. I didn’t want to be at my first Irish pub alone. And now I wasn’t.

Lux wasn’t Wiggles, who I’d just said the wrong thing to again. Thankfully, he wasn’t Og, who owned a very graphic stretch of real estate in my memory. Or Rehan and his impossible standards. Lux was an unknown.

I handed the air dragon my beer and accepted the whisky the bartender extended before slinging an arm over Lux’s shoulders and mussing his still badly cut hair.

The two women both fanned themselves, eyeing us questioningly before Orla held up her dram. “Sláinte.”

My grin ate my face. I’d been saying that word with my friends for years. It meant ‘health’ in Galic, the toast of the world I wanted to visit.

“Sláinte,” We echoed, all taking a sip.

Warm caramels with the burn of young whisky danced on my tongue, making my eyes water. I opened my mouth to say exactly that to Orla, but Sarah spoke first. “Are ye two an item?”

Lux froze under my arm, and I took even breaths, turning the question over in my mind.

I’d stormed out of the hotel because I wasn’t getting the orgy I didn’t want. A memory of sitting in my apartment, looking at a life I hadn’t picked, juxtaposed every action I’d taken since meeting Jay. The five of us laughing while playing a board game smacked me in the face.

I licked my bottom lip. “Think of us more as a package deal.”

Lux tilted his head up at me, one eyebrow raised. I didn’t remove my arm from around his shoulder.

Orla let out a low hum, her eyes twinkling.

A third woman slid between the first two, a tube top of the Irish flag covered her tits. I didn’t remove my arm from Lux.

“I love your shirt,” the new arrival said, her accent clearly not Irish, though I couldn’t place it. She bit her lower lip. “I’m from Australia. Where are you from, and what are we drink’n?”

“Ah…” I trailed off. We hadn’t come up with a story about our origins yet.

“’E’re not drinking gob shite,” Sarah said. “Piss off.”

The woman jerked back. “I thought the Irish were supposed to be friendly!”

“Ye thought wrong.” Orla put her hand on the new arrival's shoulder and gave her a little shove. “Piss off.”

“Get ye hands off me wife!” A man shouted, grabbing Orla’s wrist.

“Get your hand off, my wife!” Another shouted, swinging for the first.

I watched the chain reaction like a kid in a candy store. One, then two, then three at a time joined the brawl. My blood raced. Under my arm, Lux’s shoulders tensed, and scales pressed into my skin through his shirt. His eyes clouded. Rut. While I was fighting my indecision, I forgot Lux was fighting something real.

I knocked back my whisky. “Drink up, and feck’n keep your scales in your pants. Wiggles, our mate, said no shifting.”

The fiddle picked up in volume and speed as one of the fighters punched a server who flew into a group of tables eating dinner.

“Ye gobshite, beating on me staff!” The bartender yelled. He vaulted over the bar and joined the fray.

Lux stood, and I grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him to look at me. “Human. Fists of fecking fury, and that’s it.”

He nodded once, and that’s all I needed. With a roar, I released Lux into a sea of drunken violence and dove in head-first after him.