Page 13 of Pints & Potions

Moira had been beautiful, smart, wickedly funny, and a gas to tease—like Piper. But there, the similarities ended. Moira had been a tiny thing. Barely five-feet, with fiery red hair and a temper to match. She’d burned in bed just as hot as she’d burned out. A part of him had flat-lined the day they put her in the ground. Hell, if he were being honest, it had flat-lined the day she betrayed him. As yet, the spark hadn’t been revived. Most days, he still lived a half-life, with his heart frozen.

Piper was a welcome distraction. She was lively and witty. Her intelligence shown from her sparkling dark-honey eyes and tempted Cian to discover the thoughts behind the emotion. Part of him felt guilty. He didn’t want to lead her on or invest in another romance doomed to failure. He certainly didn’t want his heart to thaw, because the pain was too great. No one could replace Moira. She’d been his everything. Until she wasn’t.

A flicker of awareness flared to life.

Danger.

He spun just in time to dodge a knife directed at his kidney. It glanced off his side instead. Cian felt the burn of the blade and the resulting air exposure on the wound. The damned thing stung like a motherfucker.

Throwing out an arm, he knocked away the wrist of his assailant, then planted a facer to the man’s ugly mug with his other hand. The guy recovered faster than Cian cared for, and charged straight for his midsection, wrapping his burly arms around Cian’s ribs and grazing his new wound in the process.

The pain—in addition to the unprovoked attack—was infuriating, and Cian saw red. He clasped his hands together to form one giant balled fist and brought it down on the back of his attacker’s neck. The vice-like hold eased enough for him to break it.

Cian had learned to fight dirty early in life, and those skills came in handy now. He poked his thumbs in his opponent’s eyes and drove him to the ground with a knee to the groin. Had he witnessed the move by anyone else, he’d have given a sympathetic wince, but this fucker didn’t deserve his compassion.

“Who sent you?” he demanded, recognizing the bull-like man from the ruins.

“I kill you.” The hitman’s use of the English language was fragile at best, and for all Cian knew, the heavy accent indicated the guy’s homeland was anywhere from Budapest to Moscow. Geography he was decent with, languages not so much.

Cian silently dubbed the man Baran, because it meant ram in Russian, and the guy hit like a fecking battering ram. Also, he smelled like the ass-end of a sheep. Although Cian liked nothing better than a rousing fight, the sheer size of this guy gave him pause. Reason was the better tactic in this situation.

Smiling congenially, he said, “Listen, Baran. It appears we got off on the wrong foot here, man. I’m sure this is a case of mistaken identity.”

“No miss-take. I kill.”

“If I slept with your woman, I didn’t know she was married. I don’t—”

“No woman!”

“Ah, so that be your problem, Baran; you need to get laid. Come to me pub, and I’ll hook you right up.”

Cian’s words poured petrol on the fire, and Baran lost what was left of his pea-sized mind. With a strangled cry, he charged again. The impact swept Cian off his feet and brought him down hard on his back about ten feet from his original spot. His ears rang and stars danced before his eyes.

Perhaps Baran would kill him after all.

For sure, the bastard had bruised a few of Cian’s ribs and made breathing a wee bit harder than it needed to be.

The next few minutes were spent trading blow for blow and rolling toward the cliff’s edge. Just how they’d traveled so far, so fast was beyond him, but Cian had a healthy respect for Moher’s cliff face. The drop would be fatal.

Something behind Cian caught Baran’s attention, and it was distraction enough for him to get the upper hand. He delivered rapid punches to the burly assassin’s pug-like face and drove him toward Moher’s rocky rim.

He hadn’t expected the meaty hand to grab his throat or hurl him toward the edge, but he should’ve. Cian brought a fist down on Baran’s elbow bend. He, then, let go of the tension in his legs and let gravity pull him down. Baran couldn’t hold the dead weight, and as he felt his attacker’s hand release him, Cian grabbed Baran’s extended arm, dropped onto his back, and tossed him over his head.

One quick, terrified scream rang out, then nothing could be heard but the crash of the waves on the rocks below.

5

Sensing another presence, Cian rolled to his feet and spun.

A quick check of the area showed Piper was the only witness to the fight, and she stood frozen like an antelope sensing danger. Her bright eyes had darkened to a muddy topaz, and a wary expression settled in place.

“This isn’t what it looks like, love,” he said gently.

“You threw him over the cliff!”

He winced. “Well, yeah, but there were extenuating circumstances.”

“You’re no pub owner.”

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