Ciaran's POV
The silence of the cabin was a veil, drawn thick between the world and the war he watched unfold in her soul. The dim light of the moon barely reached through the windows, and he lingered in the shadows as he always had—watching, waiting, knowing.
They were asleep.
Dion lay curled around her protectively, one arm slung over her waist, his face buried in her hair. A lover's gesture. A foolish man's gesture. He had no idea what pulsed beneath Therrin's skin—what darkness had already begun to unfurl.
Ciaran exhaled softly, almost reverently, as he knelt beside the bed. His form remained cloaked in shadow, barely visible in the darkened room. He reached out, fingers of smoke and midnight, brushing the loose strands of her hair away from her cheek. A quiet sound escaped him—something raw and ancient. Her face tilted just enough toward his touch, still deep in sleep. Her lashes fluttered, her breath shallow and even.
"You always looked like this when you dreamed," he murmured low, not needing her to hear. Not yet. "Soft. Unaware of what you were. Of what you are."
He cupped her face in both hands, thumb stroking the corner of her mouth before drifting down the curve of her throat. His touch was gentle—devoted—but it burned with something possessive beneath the surface. Something that had waited lifetimes to resurface.
"You've forgotten me, mo duinne," he whispered, his voice nearly trembling with a cruel sort of tenderness. "But your soul hasn't. It never could."
He leaned closer, lips brushing hers. The kiss was light. Almost chaste. But it carried the weight of centuries. And with it—he pulled her into the dreaming.
The air inside the dream shimmered like heat on stone. Therrin stood alone at first, wrapped in gauzy white, her hair drifting weightless in some unseen wind. A stream ran beside her feet, black as ink, and behind her stood a wall of ivy-wrapped obsidian.
Then she saw him.
He emerged from the mist in front of her—bare-chested, bare-footed, wild and sculpted like a shadow carved from flesh. Long black hair fell to his waist, tangled and wind-touched. His eyes were pools of endless dark, no whites, no color—just black. Tattoos crawled across his arms, chest, and stomach in sinuous, arcane patterns, alive with a subtle shimmer. And low, just above his hipbone, curling down beneath the waistband of his loose dark trousers, was one that bore her name—mo duinne—stylized in ancient script, his brand of devotion.
"You're not real," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm more real than anyone else has ever been to you," he replied, stepping forward, each step smooth, deliberate. "Because I am yours. And you… you were always mine."
Her eyes widened. She staggered back a pace. "Who are you?"
He tilted his head slowly, like a wolf scenting the wind. "You don't remember? Not yet. But your soul does. It knew me before it knew the name Therrin."
Her heart pounded in the stillness, her body responding despite the war inside her mind. She felt exposed in front of him. Strangely warm. A heat pooled low in her stomach as his gaze swept over her like a caress.
"I remember dreams," she said, unsteady. "A voice. Someone calling me."
"That was me," he answered. "Calling you back to me. Across lifetimes."
His hand extended, palm open. When she didn't move, he came to her anyway, closing the space between them until his chest brushed hers, heat pouring off him in waves. He leaned close, his lips nearly touching her ear. "I remember the taste of your soul," he whispered. "The way you bled starlight. The way you screamed my name when the power overtook you."
She trembled beneath his words. "I don't know you."
"But I know you." His voice dropped, more intimate now. "You crave to be seen, completely. Even the parts you're afraid of. You want to be free of the guilt, of the fear, of the lies they fed you."
His fingers slipped under her chin, tilting her face up to his. "You can be powerful with me. You can become what you were always meant to be."
"I don't want darkness," she said, almost pleading.
"You don't want weakness," he corrected softly. "And light has done nothing but keep you chained."
He stepped back a pace, just enough to let her see him fully. "Ciaran," he said finally. "That's my name. I was your consort before this world knew time. Your protector. Your tormentor. Your lover. And I've waited for you."
He reached for her again, one hand brushing over her heart. "Let me in again. Let me show you the truth."
Her breath hitched as her skin sparked beneath his touch. Something deep inside her answered, like a thread being drawn taut. Their bond—a soul-deep link that had lain dormant—snapped back into place with the force of a storm. She gasped, swaying, and he caught her effortlessly, holding her against his chest.
"There," he breathed into her hair. "There you are."