Fionn whirled and grabbed him by the shoulders. He could feel his own eyes trying to pop from their sockets. ‘Did you see him? It washim. I need to— I have to—’
He tried to tear away into the crowd but Neacel had the presence of mind to seize Fionn’s jacket like an anchor. ‘Who, Your Highness? Stop!’
Fionn’s brain seethed like a powerful maelstrom. He could barely keep up with the words tumbling from his mouth, let alone the thoughts behind them. ‘Him! That one— I— I don’t understand— why I feel this way—’
‘What way?’
Fionn couldn’t articulate it. His body seemed to be acting on some instinct of its own, fighting his conscious thoughts purely in an effort to get closer to the man on the opposite side of the club. His heart thudded erratically in his chest. There was this growingsomethingwithin his ribcage, so huge and bewildering he could barely breathe.
Fionn collapsed into Neacel’s arms just as the underlying panic kicked in. His insides felt alien, like something had jumped inside and was rearranging the very fabric of him.
He seized a whiskey and downed it with shaking hands. The fiery liquid refocused his scattered thoughts into a point. Fionn stared into the empty glass, shocked beyond words as full comprehension bloomed in his mind.
There was definitely anothernesssitting within his chest. A phantom sense of the ocean surrounded him. It was like there was a current pulling at his soul. Trying to move him in one inexorable direction.
‘I think I have just bonded with someone,’ he said faintly.
Neacel glanced down at Fionn’s empty glass. His expression suggested he was wondering whether Fionn had somehow snuck a dozen other whiskeys behind his back. ‘Bonded, Your Highness? How would that be possible?’
How, how, how? Fionn didn’t have an answer, except for the impossible one.
He was still dizzy from the mental collision; that was surely the only reason he allowed the next words to slip past his lips: ‘Perhaps it’s fated.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in fated bonds?’
‘I don’t.’ Fionn stared blankly at the crowd.Hewas still out there. The other end of this internal tugging sensation. His… mate. His soul mate?
It couldn’t be. Surely all that talk of mates and bonds and bargains on the way to the club had addled Fionn’s brain in some way. But he couldn’t deny the invisible waves trying to push him across the room.
‘I don’t know if he saw me,’ Fionn said, moving urgently into the crowd. Was the bond pulling his mate towards him, too?
Neacel’s eyes widened slowly, mouth dropping open. He hurried to catch up, watching Fionn like a miracle in action. Fionn broke through the throng and lost his breath once again.
His mate wasn’t large by Minchman standards, but appeared stocky next to the humans around him. He didn’t wear a kilt; instead a mixture of denim and cotton that made him blend in well. Facial hair, too, that was especially strange. Perhaps he was more savvy than other Minchmen, to be able to disappear so easily in a crowd of humans. His face was young but hardened by work and weather. He had a strong, attractive jaw and serious eyes, offset by the scruffiness of his dark hair.
There was no denying it now. Every fibre of Fionn’s being screamed that he was connected to this person. He had to close the distance between them.
Deaf to Neacel’s calls to slow down, Fionn strode forward.
His soul mate looked up. Mild interest turned to deep confusion. The current pulled Fionn in, enveloped the two of them. The rest of the world dropped away and Fionn captured his lips in a kiss.
Chapter Five
The kiss was fuckingfire.
Rory didn’t have time to register what was happening. One moment he was skulking on the edge of Graham’s circle, occasionally remembering to smirk at one of his work buddy’s off-colour jokes or at least bury his head in his pint—and thenextmoment a total stranger was leaning into his face with puckered lips and Rory’s mind went blank before he even knew that contact had been made.
But fucking hell, was contact made. Were kisses meant to be like this? It was so… juicy. Like biting into the sweetest, plumpest fruit he’d ever tasted and getting instantly drunk on it. His head was spinning. Were his feet still touching the floor? It felt like being in the ocean, swept up by an enormous wave dragging him against this body and these lips.
It was the mushrooming silence that broke Rory’s daze. He flinched instinctively away from the kiss, all at once missing the fervour of it.
Rory first perceived the number of eyeballs focused on him: Graham and his crew were gawking. Sara was covering her mouth with her hand, possibly smothering a laugh. Then, with slowly dawning horror, Rory took in the sight of the man he’d been kissing.
Themanhe’d beenkissing.
The man with the oddly dyed silver hair (strikingly beautiful, Rory didn’t dare to think) and the rudely prying eyes (definitely not like they could see right into Rory’s soul) and the obnoxious muscles (oh fuck, they were good muscles, though) and garish tattoos over one side of his neck leading into his half-open shirt (hottattoos, really fucking hot).
The man Rory had been kissing like he was the last source of water in a desert. The man who had just given Rory the fastest hard-on of his life. The man who was going to ruin his entire fucking night.
