Their son fussed softly in his cradle. Teague could hear him faintly over the sound of Kira snoring softly. She’d been a little stuffed up lately and had only just fallen asleep. He closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer that the baby wasn’t hungry—that was the one thing he couldn’t help with.
Teague pressed a kiss into Kira’s hair and eased out of bed, padding across the wooden floor to Seamus’s cradle. The baby quieted as Teague’s shadow crossed over him, dim in the flickering of the fire in the fireplace.
“Attention, huh?” Teague murmured, reaching down. He lifted the swaddled infant and held him against his chest, cradled in the crook of one arm. He drifted out into the sitting room and to the front windows, peering out into the darkness, watching the northern lights ripple and dance in the night sky. Seamus made a babbling, cooing noise, squirming in his swaddle.
“Hush,” Teague said. “You’ll wake your mother and she needs to rest.”
It had been quiet since Cameron and Neve had left headed west, toward Phelan and Thom and all the rest—almost too quiet, disturbingly quiet. It worried Teague more than he cared to admit, but he hadn’t dared to voice his worry to his wife. The last thing she needed was his stress on her shoulders, especially now that they had Seamus. It was bad enough that he’d still been feeling the effects of the attack that had nearly killed him before the world had come crashing down—she didn’t need another burden to carry.
Still, the Hecate hadn’t launched another attack on him since that day, nor had anyone else. It was disturbing, worrisome.
Either someone was planning something, or they had moved on to other targets.
Teague had a sick feeling he knew who those targets might be, if that was the case, and it didn’t bode well for anyone.
Not one bit.
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