Page 4 of The Seer

“No!” His cheeks flushed, and he actively sought someone to rescue him. It tumbled Taryn back to when, as a famous musician, he’d required security to keep over-eager fans at bay. “I mean, I’ve no time. The, uh, the Aether…” Trailing off, he cast a desperate glance at Draven as if expecting help from his direction.

The Guardian enjoyed being contrary for the hell of it, and instead of tossing out a lifeline, he crossed his arms and raised a brow. The gesture earned him a scowl from Fintan and a laugh from Castor, who had entered the room right after Fintan dropped to the floor.

Castor, ever the charming rogue and gallant to every female he met, offered a hand to help her stand.

Her cheeks warmed as she realized she hadn’t moved from the floor where Fintan had left her. No, like the love-starved fool she was, she sat, gawking at him and wishing things had turned out differently.

Way to go, Taryn.

With an irritated huff, Fintan knocked Castor out of the way and hauled her to her feet. His touch electrified her, and she sucked in a breath. For an unguarded second, his tortured sea-green eyes drank her in. But he recalled his abhorrence for her, and his iris color darkened as his face hardened.

“Stop wearing your feckin’ heart on yer sleeve, Taryn Stephens,” he growled in a low voice. “You’re always doin’ that, ya are, and it’s bleedin’ embarrassing for both of us.”

Her heart, like her face and body, went cold, and she shoved past him. Before she could make good her escape, Creed Calder caught her in his arms and tucked her protectively against his chest.

“Do you always have to be such an animal, Fin?” he snapped. The air grew thick with tension as the two men glared at each other.

“The only person whose behavior is embarrassing is yours, Sullivan,” Castor added sternly with a challenging look for Fintan. “She’s being nothing but kind to a dour little prick.”

Taryn was torn between crying and defending him. He didn’t deserve to be piled on, but then again, neither did she deserve his constant scorn. Their romance had been magical until the day he’d ghosted her. She’d spent years trying to forget him and those unimaginable weeks together. There were entire days she didn’t think of him once. All that changed two years ago when he entered her orbit again, uncovering the feelings she’d long believed buried.

But she did neither, cry nor defend him. He was a big boy and could fight his battles himself.

Taryn patted Creed’s chest—a mighty fine one—and drew away from his sheltering embrace.

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a grateful smile and extending it to Castor. “You’ve both been very kind. I appreciate your defense, but there’s no need to exchange blows with Fintan. You might break your knuckles on his hard head.”

Okay, so yeah, her comment was petty, but so was his.

Avoiding a backward glance at the cause of all her woes, she gave a regal nod and hurried toward the library—her sanctuary in a world gone mad.

She’d barely settled in when Fintan entered, sucking all the air from the room and her lungs.

“I’m after apologizing to ya,” he said, proverbial hat in hand.

“You’reafterdoing it, or you’reactuallydoing it?” she asked coolly. “Because they aren’t the same thing.”

“I’mdoin’it,” he replied, sullen despite the overture.

“For which incident?” Tapping her finger on her chin, she affected a contemplative air. “Ghosting me after telling me I was the one? Hiding every time I visit your cousin, Brenna? Treating me like I have the plague when I was only trying to protect your thick head from the marble floor?”

He smirked at “thick head,” and Taryn wanted to throat punch him.

Instead, she ignored his teenage humor and continued roasting his hurtful actions. “Or this latest one? Treating me like one of your overzealous groupies from your stupid boy band days?”

Fintan scowled. “It was never a boy band. Let’s make that clear.”

“Hmm, really? Five guys dancing in sync during the heyday of the boy-band era? Don’t kid yourself, Fintan. It was totally a boy band.”

“You’ll take that back, or you’ll be sufferin’ me wrath,” he warned.

Her laugh was genuine. “Your wrath? And what’s that? You’ll sing me to sleep or make predictions until I run away screaming?”

“Sure, and ya think it’s a joke, but I’ll be tellin’ ya the prediction is real, and you’re to be?—”

He gulped and dropped his gaze.

“Don’t stop now. You’re getting to the good part.” She jumped up and stalked to him, somewhat satisfied to see the wariness cross his reddening face. “What prediction, Fintan? What do your all-fired important ancestors have to say about my life that I give two shits about?” she taunted.

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