Page 37 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
"Okay," I breathe, and feel his body relax against mine. "Okay."
We lie there for a few more minutes, his hands continuing their gentle reassurance until my heartbeat finally slows to something approaching normal. But eventually, reality intrudes.
"I need to get the girls from Eda's," I say, already missing his warmth as I start to pull away. "They'll be wondering where I am."
"Can you bring Nya to the shop with you?" he says, sitting up as I reach for my clothes. "I promised to help haul firewood for tomorrow's festival."
Of course he did. He's been so deeply entrenched in this town I've rarely seen him do more than help with odds and ends.
I nod, stepping into my dress and working the fastenings with fingers that are steadier than they have any right to be. "I'm sure she'll be more than happy to go."
When I turn to leave, he catches my wrist, pulling me back for a kiss that's soft but thorough. When he pulls away, his violet eyes are serious.
"Don't overthink this," he says, echoing his earlier command. "Whatever's spinning around in that head of yours, just... don't."
I want to tell him it's not that simple, that my mind has been my protection for so long I don't know how to turn it off. But instead I just nod and slip out the door, my lips still tingling from his kiss.
The walk to Eda's should be calming—the morning air is crisp and clean, snow crunching softly under my boots, the whole town beginning to stir with pre-festival energy. But my thoughts are anything but calm.
I keep replaying last night, the way he touched me, the way he looked at me like I was something precious. The way he made me feel beautiful and wanted and safe all at once. It terrifies me how easy it would be to get used to that feeling, to start depending on it.
Memories of Cyprien creep in unbidden—how charming he'd been, how easily he'd swept me off my feet with his talk of art and beauty and the world beyond Eryndral. How he'd made me believe I was special, that what we had was real, right up until the moment he vanished without a word. I'd been so young, so naive, so ready to believe that love could be that simple.
But Ciaran isn't Cyprien. The thought comes with startling clarity, cutting through the fog of old hurt and fear. Cyprien had been all flash and grand gestures, painting pretty pictures with his words while never really seeing me at all. Ciaran listens when I speak. He notices when I'm tired, when I'm worried, when I need space. He puts Nya first always, the same way I put Rhea first.
He stays.
That's the heart of it, really. Cyprien had been passing through, using Eryndral as a brief stop on his way to somewhere more important. But Ciaran sold his equu. He's been here for weeks, making no move to leave, talking about finding somewhere for Nya to grow up safely. He's not running from anything—he's running toward something. Toward us, maybe.
The thought should terrify me, but instead it fills me with something that might be hope.
By the time I reach Eda's bakery, I've almost managed to convince myself that maybe—just maybe—I can trust this. Trust him. The smell of fresh bread and sweet pastries hits me as soon as I open the door, along with the sound of laughter from the back room.
The bakery is absolutely bursting with activity. Every surface is covered with goods for tomorrow's festival—elaborate pastries shaped like winter flowers, loaves of ceremonial bread decorated with intricate braids, and countless smaller treats that fill the air with the scents of cinnamon and honey. Eda bustles between the ovens with flour dusting her graying hair, calling out instructions to the handful of women who've come to help with the massive undertaking.
"Mum!" Rhea's voice carries from the back room, bright with excitement. I follow the sound and find both girls elbow-deep in dough, their faces streaked with flour and their eyes bright with mischief.
"Look what we made!" Nya holds up something that might charitably be called a roll, though it's more of a twisted lump. She looks tired—there are shadows under her eyes and a slight pallor to her gray skin—but she's smiling wider than I've seen in days.
"It's beautiful," I say, and mean it. Not because of how it looks, but because of the pride shining in her violet eyes, so much like her father's.
I wrap them both in a hug, breathing in the scent of flour and childhood and something that feels dangerously like family. Nya melts into the embrace as easily as Rhea does, and the casual trust in the gesture makes my throat tight with emotion.
I'm not just falling for Ciaran anymore, I realize. I've already fallen in love with this little girl who shares his eyes and his quiet intensity. The way she curls into my side like she belongs there, the way she looks at me with the same open affection she gives Rhea—it's everything I never let myself hope for when Rhea was small and asking why she didn't have a father or siblings like the other children.
"Come on," I say, keeping my voice light despite the sudden weight in my chest. "Let's get you both cleaned up and head tothe shop. Nya needs to rest before the festival tomorrow." She looks tired and I've become in tune with watching her for signs that she's been pushed too hard. Not because I promised Ciaran but because I care how she is doing.
As we walk back through the snowy streets, Nya's small hand tucked trustingly in mine while Rhea chatters about all the pastries they helped make, I'm struck by how natural this feels. How right. Like we've been a family for years instead of weeks.
The thought should send me running—this kind of attachment, this depth of feeling, is exactly what I've spent ten years protecting myself from. But instead of panic, all I feel is a fierce protectiveness that encompasses both girls equally.
The idea of losing them—of losing this—terrifies me more than I want to admit. More than staying does. More than trusting does.
Maybe that's what courage really is. Not the absence of fear, but choosing love despite it.
20
CIARAN
