When Riley hauled herself out of the water, she saw Bran holding Sasha close, laying a serious kiss on her.
“Oh, God, that’s wonderful. I’m warm again.”
“Magick mouth?”
Bran laughed over at Riley as she dripped frigid water onto the deck. “Just a personal benefit.” He took Riley’s arms, squeezed lightly. And warmth flooded her.
“Excellent, even without the lip-lock.”
He moved to Annika.
“I like kissing,” she told him, and brushed her lips to his. “And I like warm.”
Bran slapped both Sawyer and Doyle on the shoulder. “No point in any of us shivering our way through this. “Anything, fáidh?”
“No, sorry. It’s so different from where we’ve been before. All so shadowy and stark in a way. But I didn’t feel anything. Anyone?”
“I felt good,” Annika told her. “But there’s no singing, like there was for me with the Water Star.”
“Up for round two?” Riley asked.
Sasha turned her back to Bran so he could help her change tanks. “It’s what we’re here for.”
The second dive of the day gave them no more than the first. In Riley’s book that meant two locations checked off.
Routine, Riley told herself when they secured the boat below the cliffs of Bran’s house. Part, an important part, of discovery was routine.
They took the easy way—Sawyer’s way—back to the house. And she folded herself into routine by scarfing down leftover pizza, closing herself in with her books.
The rain came back in the night, lashing rain with grumbling thunder that echoed off the sea. The storm woke her from a dream she couldn’t quite pull back. And with the crashing waves, whirl of wind, she doubted she’d pull back sleep either.
She dragged on a sweatshirt, flannel pants. She wanted to see the storm boil over the sea and cliffs so slipped out of her room, walked quietly down to the sitting room that faced the Atlantic.
Glorious, she thought as she opened the doors. It flashed and burned, whipped and snapped so the wind screamed with it. Like a banshee, she decided, since it was Ireland.
The wild had always, would always call to her blood, and a wicked storm whirling over the night-dark sea, the rough and rugged land heated that blood, had her stepping out just enough to let the rain pelt her upturned face.
Then she looked down, saw movement, saw a figure near the cliff wall, and instinctively reached for the gun she hadn’t thought to bring.
In a flash of lightning the figure became Doyle, and her instincts took a hard turn into lust.
Dark and brooding in the storm, coat swirling, sword in hand as if prepared to strike against the elements. Gorgeous, she thought again, and primal and violently sexy.
Yeah, she’d always been drawn to the wild.
As she thought it, he turned, lightning sizzling above him, and in its fire, his eyes met hers. He tightened those thoughts into a noose that clutched at her throat.
Pride and sheer will made her stand there another moment, meeting those eyes, holding them even when the dark fell again, turned him into a shadow.
Then she stepped back, shut the doors against the storm, against the man, and went back to her room alone.
• • •
Routine, Riley reminded herself when they went through it, step-by-step, the next day.
A dawn run through the wet forest, jumping over a few limbs brought down in the storm. Polishing it off with a sweat-popping session in the gym as watery sunlight struggled through the clouds.
A shower, breakfast, two more dives, weapons training.