Page 28 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
He calls to the girls, explaining about the wood detail, and Rhea practically bounces out of the supply room. She's already reaching for her cloak, chattering about wanting to see how big they can make the fire this year, when Ciaran catches my eye over her head.
"What about you?" he asks quietly. "Any interest in lending a hand?"
The invitation hangs between us, layered with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to unpack. It's not just about chopping wood or festival preparations. It's about choosing to be near him, choosing to let myself be part of whatever this thing is between us instead of hiding behind my counter and my fears.
"I should mind the shop," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth I know they sound weak. The truth is, I want to go. Want to watch him work, want to be part of the easy camaraderie I can see building among the volunteers. Want to stop being afraid long enough to see what might happen if I let myself trust this.
"Of course." If he's disappointed, he hides it well. "Maybe later, then."
They bundle up and head out into the cold, Rhea's excited chatter fading as the door swings shut behind them. The shop feels suddenly empty, too quiet, and I find myself drifting to the front windows to watch them walk across the square.
Ciaran has one hand on Rhea's shoulder, guiding her around patches of ice with the same protective care he shows Nya. She's looking up at him with obvious adoration, hanging on his every word, and something clenches tight in my chest at the sight.
This is dangerous,I think.She's getting too attached.
But even as the thought forms, I know it's not really about Rhea. It's about me. About the way my heart speeds up when I catch sight of Ciaran's tall frame moving through the square, the way I find excuses to be near the windows when I know he'll be passing by. About how I've started looking forward to our shared dinners and quiet conversations after the girls go to sleep, how natural it feels to have him in my space.
I'm getting too attached. Have been for weeks now, if I'm being honest with myself.
Twenty minutes later, I abandon any pretense of working and position myself at the front window with a cup of kaffo and aledger I'm not actually reading. From here, I have a perfect view of the square, where a growing group of volunteers has gathered around an impressive pile of wood and kindling.
Ciaran is in the center of it all, his dark cloak abandoned on a nearby bench. He's rolled up the sleeves of his tunic despite the cold, and I can see the lean muscle of his forearms as he swings the axe with practiced efficiency. Each strike splits wood cleanly, economically, like he's done this kind of work before.
Stop staring,I tell myself, but I can't look away. There's something hypnotic about watching him work—the fluid motion of his body, the way he pauses to wipe sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the easy confidence in every movement.
When he reaches for the hem of his tunic to pull it over his head, my mouth goes dry.
He's beautiful in the way that dark elves often are—all lean lines and sharp angles, his pale skin marked with old scars that speak to a life more complicated than poetry salons and literary discussions. There's a tattoo on his left shoulder blade, some kind of intricate knotwork that catches the winter light as he moves.
I'm definitely staring now, my kaffo growing cold in my hands as I watch him bend to gather more wood. The muscles in his back shift and flex with the movement, and I have to grip the window frame to keep myself steady. Because that man looks far too good for me to stand.
This is ridiculous,I think desperately.You're acting like some silly girl with her first crush.
But I can't make myself move away from the window. Can't stop cataloging the way he looks when he laughs at something Korin says, the careful attention he pays to Rhea when she tugs on his sleeve to ask a question. The way he pauses in his work to make sure she's staying warm, adjusting her scarf with the same gentle care he shows Nya.
He's going to leave,I remind myself.Just like Cyprien did. Just like they all do.
But even as I think it, doubt creeps in. Because Cyprien never chopped wood for festival fires or carried heavy supplies without being asked. Never spent hours helping children with their art or listened to my stories about the shop with genuine interest. Never looked at me like I was something worth staying for.
A commotion in the square draws my attention back to the present. One of the younger volunteers—Thalen's apprentice, I think—has managed to get his axe stuck in a particularly stubborn log. The men are laughing, offering unhelpful advice, while the boy's face grows redder with embarrassment.
Ciaran steps forward, saying something I can't hear that makes the tension dissolve into good-natured chuckles. He shows the apprentice how to adjust his grip, how to read the grain of the wood, and within moments the log splits cleanly. The boy beams with pride, and Ciaran claps him on the shoulder before moving on to the next piece.
Patient,I think.Kind.
Not like Cyprien at all.
The thought hits me with surprising force, and I find myself really looking at Ciaran for the first time in days. Not through the filter of old hurts and borrowed fears, but as himself. As the man who's spent three weeks proving, day after day, that he's nothing like the ghosts that haunt my memories.
He hasn't pushed. Hasn't demanded explanations for my retreat after our kiss. Hasn't tried to corner me into conversations I'm not ready to have or pressed for more than I'm willing to give. He simply shows up, steady as winter stone, offering help and companionship without expecting anything in return.
Like now. Chopping wood for a festival fire he doesn't even have to attend, in a town that isn't his home, for people whoare still largely strangers to him. Because it's the right thing to do. Because someone needs to do it, and he's capable, so why wouldn't he help?
The realization settles over me like a blanket, warm and uncomfortable at the same time. Because if Ciaran isn't Cyprien—and he clearly isn't—then what excuse do I have for keeping him at arm's length? What right do I have to punish him for another man's sins?
You're falling for him,I admit to myself for the first time.Have been for weeks. Whether you want to or not.
The acknowledgment should terrify me. Should send me spiraling into all the reasons this is a terrible idea, all the ways it could go wrong. But standing here watching him work, seeing the easy way he fits into this community, the gentle care he shows both our daughters, I find I'm less afraid than I expected to be.
