“You can still sense them.”
Seamus froze at his lover’s soft-spoken words, halfway through the motion of tugging his shirt on. It was early and the sun would just be peeking over the horizon beyond the walls, beyond the tents and trees and shattered remains of dormitories and lecture halls.
He swallowed hard. “Sense who?”
“The Hunt,” Leinth said. “They’ve released you, but you’ll never truly be free of them, will you?”
“That’s a question I don’t know the answer to,” Seamus said, reaching for a sweater. “There may come a day when I don’t hear the call or feel the tug on my soul.”
“Then you can still sense them.” There was only a bare hint of accusation in her voice—for the most part, there was just a note of tired, sad acceptance, perhaps a trace of hurt. His connection to the Wild Hunt was a connection that he didn’t share with her, one he couldn’t share with her—not that either of them would ever truly want to.
Seamus straightened, staring at her for a long moment, heart feeling like it was being squeezed by a vise. “I can,” he admitted quietly. “I—Leinth, don’t worry. They won’t call me back. They’ve released me.”
“But you still hear them, still feel them.” She got up from the bed, moving toward him with a furrowed brow, a worried look. “Can you blame me for being concerned? They may not call you back, but if they needed help, you would answer.”
He opened his mouth to protest. She pressed a finger against his lips.
“Don’t lie to us both, Seamus,” she whispered. “You would answer because they were your men once, and I know you.
“You won’t abandon them. Not completely. You can’t. It’s not in you.”
He hated the fact that she was right.
