Blood in the Ozarks

25. Surprise?

"God, put some clothes on," Cian groaned up at Ortega's bare chest.

"You're one too talk," Ortega retorted.

Cian was laying in the grass fully nude. Although it was hard for me to even notice his lack of clothing when his arm from the top of his right shoulder down to almost the elbow looked as if he'd survived a wicked house fire. Even his chest had spots of angry red from where the aconite had speckled his skin when the tiny ball ruptured.

He'd let go of my hand and opened his eyes again, but had yet to sit up in the grass. As the theoretical smoke cleared and I found my bearings once more, I wasn't sure if I should try to help Cian, or let him figure out sitting up on his own out of spite.

A werewolf. This whole time. A fucking werewolf.

But once again Ortega stepped in for me. He leaned down and offered his outstretched hand to Cian. And without argument, Cian gripped Ortega's hand and let the other man help him off the ground. Cian was shaky at best, but he seemed to be coming back to himself. However, he was leaning toward his right as his arm dangled limply down his side. But with the aconite stopped from working its way further into his body, Cian was quickly regaining strength in the rest of his muscles.

Once Cian was up and stable on his own, Ortega moved on heading back to our adversary. With a sneer of disgust, Ortega kneeled down next to Jayme Donner's human form. He pinned Donner's arms together across his back, almost too excited about the arrest. Ortega waved me over and I handed off a pair of handcuffs from my belt. Our cuffs were standard issue, but with carvings by a witch in the metal of each bracket. The markings would dampen the fiends power—not forever, but for long enough to transport him. Probably the best money our department ever spent.

I ran back into the barn and gathered up Cian's clothes. As I walked back with the pile in hand I readied myself for a different kind of fight. One I never could have imagined we'd have.

"Cian Francis Harding," I shrieked, the ball fabric scrunched between under my fingers.

He flinched at the sound of his name. Not just his blue eyes, but his good shoulder also tensed.

"I cannot believe you," I continued, pointing a shaking index finger at him. "You—you are a fucking werewolf."

"Surprise?" He joked half-heartedly.

My whole body stopped like my brain had shut down everything at the response. Even my breath was held for a few seconds as I tried to process what he'd said. Cian was not someone who joked during serious conversations. Somehow that one word was almost as unsettling for me as the fact that my fucking boyfriend was a fucking werewolf.

"This is serious, Cian."

Dried grass crunched underfoot as Cian walked toward me in nothing but his Dockers.

"I know," he said. His eyes were downcast as his hand reached out for the balled up shirt. Instead he placed his warm palm on top of mine and said sincerely, "I didn't mean for you to find out this way."

"How did you mean for me to find out? Because obviously being honest with me wasn't your first plan." I tried to hold back all the hurt and anger I felt, but in the end my voice came out bitter and clipped.

Cian didn't answer; his features were covered in shame.

"Do you have a clan? Oh God, do you have an entire family you never introduced me to?" A tear escaped the pool that had been threatening to release from the rim of my eyes.

"No, no," he soothed. "Calm down. My clan is back in Ireland. I know a few weres in Virginia, but they're nothing like my familial pack."

"Please don't tell me I've met them and didn't spot them either. Is one of them Toby? Out of all your friends my first pick would be Toby." I shoved Cian's hands and his cotton shirt toward his chest, forcing him to take the clothing as I huffed. "I can't believe this is happening."