The Cairngorms—Scotland, the Highlands

Standing on top of his favorite cliff, Tydrin leaned forward to peer over the edge. Moonlight illuminated the weathered face, caressing sheered stone, slipping deep into narrow crevices, reaching toward the heart of the mountain. He squinted against the glare, protecting his light-sensitive eyes, and stared at what most considered certain death. A straight drop. A cascade of ice and snow. Nothing but the snarl of jagged rock for a thousand feet.

Nice.

Neat.

Tidy tied up in a chaotic twist.

A fitting end for someone, but not him. Jumping wouldn’t bring relief, much less undo what he’d done. Or erase the past.

Self-reproach tied a knot in the center of his chest. Barbed and brutal, the individual threads pulled, making him ache from the inside out. Not surprising. It was that time of year. Again. Like always. Inevitable as the changing tide, the seasons turned, blowing Nordic winds into arctic bluster and strands of hair into his face. Tydrin shook his head, denial rising as he raked the dark mass out of his eyes. January 7^th. Bloody hell, he hated the date. Despised its annual occurrence. Despaired as one month spun into the next, dragging him closer to winter and the reckoning.

Penance. Forced restitution. A guilty conscience that never abated…

Or let him rest.

His gaze on the thick curl of gathering storm clouds, Tydrin shoved his hands into the front pockets of his favorite jeans. The yawn of a large cave behind him, he settled in his usual spot, bare feet cradled by well-worn grooves, shoulder propped against the rock wall. Ice pressed against his arm. The chill woke his dragon half, sharpening his senses as he stared out into the void. Into nothingness. Into the snowy swirl of midnight and the beauty of the mountain lair he shared with the other members of his pack.

Dragonkind hidden in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. Smack dab in the midst of human society. Amid a mountain range so inhospitable most never ventured anywhere near it. Tydrin’s mouth curved. Cairngorm, a beautiful beast wrapped in ragged terrain and subzero temperatures.

An excellent home. Perfect cover for his kind.

Blackened by time, scarred by harsh weather and covered in snow, individual peaks rose and fell, dropping into valleys, angling into sheer stone faces, shooting skyward to touch the hand of God. He huffed. God. Right. It was so much bullshite. Faith. Hope. The need to believe in a supernatural force that watch him from above, holding the world—and all in it—in the palm of His hand. Disgust drilled deep, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. So ridiculous. Beyond stupid. The dogma smacked of foolishness—of archaic beliefs set inside ancient parameters that no longer held sway.

A shame in many ways.

He could use a little faith right now. A touch of what humans held in such high regard.

But even as he searched, hope rising hard, none came. No great burst of inspiration. Not a whisper of forgiveness either. Sorrow compressed the cradle around his heart. Tydrin ground his molars together. The harsh sound echoed inside his head, killing the quiet, heightening his grievance, laying the blame at his feet. Lucifer lash him and get it over with. Would it never end? Would he ever be able to let it go? He wanted to. Longed to learn how and leave history where it lay, buried in the past, but—

“You still here?” The deep voice drifted from the rear of the cave.

Tydrin tensed. Well, shite. Talk about bad luck. And even less solitude. With a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder. A pale purple gaze met his. Tydrin swallowed a growl and eyed the bastard with enough balls to come at him from behind. “Aye.”

“Thought to find you gone by now.”

The statement tightened his chest. He should be gone. Ought to be in dragon form and airborne, making his annual trip to the human cemetery. That he still stood cliff-side told the tale better than any explanation ever would. But then, dread—and the promise of penance—had a way of stalling a male’s forward progress. “You thought wrong.”

Cyprus, commander of the Scottish pack, raised a brow. “Wool gathering, are ye?”

He shrugged, refusing to add fuel to the fire. His older brother didn’t need to hear about the guilt plaguing him anymore than he wanted to talk about it. So instead of answering, he changed course, deviating into the only subject guaranteed to turn his brother’s attention. “Any word from Vyroth?”

Eyes shimmering in the gloom, Cyprus left the shadows and walked into the open. Moonlight fell across his face, illuminating aristocratic features. Deceiving in many ways. Sure, his brother looked like royalty—played the part from time to time as well—but anyone who knew the male understood the truth. Cyprus might be controlled, but he was also the loveliest sort of lethal. Was a stone cold killer when warranted, just like the rest of his pack.

A hard glint in his eyes, Cyprus stopped alongside him. “No word yet. The little prick. ’Tis a fine time for him tae disappear.”

Tydrin’s lips twitched, finding humor in the name calling. Particularly since little in no way described Vyroth. “Tempted tae call him out when he gets home?”

Cyprus snorted. “I could use the fight, and my twin never disappoints.”

True enough. Irrefutable, in fact, ’cause well…if Cyprus epitomized vicious, Vyroth tripled the effect, then multiplied it by ten. Aye, the two might be identical in appearance, but sharing a womb before birth didn’t make them the same. The twins differed in personality: one night, the other day. Steadfast and even, Cyprus excelled at leadership, providing the stability and guidance each member of the pack required. But Vyroth? Tydrin stifled a snort. Shite, the male was the picture of unpredictable. Toss in unreliable. Mix it up with a bad attitude and…uh-huh. No way around it. Vyroth did as he pleased, always had—to hell with the rest of the world.

Which explained his absence over the last few weeks, didn’t it?

Unconcerned by protocol, Vyroth always left without a word. No head’s up. No see-yah-later. Nothing but silence and an empty bedroom. He and Cyprus had come to expect it. Both of them understood the male’s restlessness, his need to get away, explore the world, be one with his dragon half. His most recent trip, however, concerned Tydrin. It wasn’t like his brother to stay away so long. A couple of days—a week at most? Certainly. But over a month without any word at all? He frowned. Nay. Such overt disregard wasn’t Vyroth’s usual MO.

“Any leads?”

“Vyroth is still tae far away for me tae track, but…” His brother rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks. “I can feel him. He’s still alive.”

“Good.” Tydrin exhaled in relief. His brother’s claim made sense. Closer than most siblings, the twins possessed a special bond. The cosmic link coupled with identical DNA allowed Cyprus to connect to their brother’s life force over great distances. A handy skill. The best, really, with Vyroth MIA more often than not. “Let me know when he makes contact.”

A furrow between his brows, Cyprus nodded.

“Later then.” Onward and upward. He couldn’t put it off any longer. “Donnae expect me before dawn.”

Pushing away from the wall, Tydrin stepped closer to the cliff edge. Cold stone brushed the soles of his feet. He ignored the chill. As a fire dragon, his temperature ran south of hot. Which meant he went shirtless most of the time. Tonight was no exception. Bare skin steaming, he flexed tense muscles, preparing to leave his perch. Time to shift into dragon form and get airborne. Avoiding what must be done wouldn’t make it go away. He knew from experience. Had tried time and again to forego the annual trip.

To no avail.

Self-recrimination refused to let him ignore it. Call it impulse. Call it compulsion. Call it duty touched by honor. The exact cause didn’t matter. He needed to pay homage. The small show of respect served as an excellent reminder: of his loss of control, of his crime, and the consequences of a violent temper.