Page 27 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
The shame of that moment sits heavy in my chest. Not shame at wanting him—I'm past pretending I don't—but shame at my cowardice. At the way I let Cyprien's ghost stand between us, poisoning something that felt real and good and right.
Because it had felt right. That's the part that terrifies me most.
The shop bell chimes, pulling me from my brooding. Rhea bounces through the door with Nya at her side, both girls pink-cheeked from the cold and chattering about the morning's festival preparations. They've become inseparable over the past few weeks, thick as thieves and twice as troublesome when they put their minds to it.
"Mum, can we help sort the new parchment shipment?" Rhea asks, already shrugging out of her winter cloak. "Nya's brilliant at organizing by size."
I glance at Nya, who flushes with pleasure at the compliment. The girl has flourished here in Eryndral, her health improving with each passing day. Gone is the pale, wan child who first walked into my shop. In her place is a bright-eyed eight-year-old with an artist's attention to detail and a hunger for quiet tasks that let her mind wander.
"Of course," I tell them, gesturing toward the supply room. "But mind the ink bottles on the top shelf."
They disappear into the back with the kind of excited whispers that usually mean trouble, leaving me alone with my thoughts again. Which promptly return to Ciaran and the way he'd looked at me last night during dinner—patient and understanding, like he could see straight through my careful walls but wasn't going to push. Just... waiting. Ready to catch me if I decided to fall.
How long will he wait?The question gnaws at me.How long before he gets bored and moves on?
It's the same fear that's been eating at me since the moment I realized I was developing feelings for him. Ciaran says he likes Eryndral, talks about how good the town is for Nya's health, but what happens when the novelty wears off? When winter ends and the roads clear and he remembers there's a whole world beyond our little valley?
He's a poet, a novelist, a man who belongs in the great cities with their literary salons and sophisticated audiences. What could possibly hold him here long-term? A scribe shop? A woman with ink-stained fingers and a guarded heart? The provincial charm of a market town that probably feels quaint for a few months but would drive any reasonable person to madness after a year?
I'm so lost in my spiraling thoughts that I almost miss the sound of footsteps on the shop's front steps. Heavy boots, measured pace—I know that walk by now. My pulse kicks up despite my best efforts to remain calm.
The door opens, bringing a gust of cold air and the scent of winter pine. Ciaran steps inside, stamping snow from his boots, his dark cloak dusted with white. He's carrying a canvas sack that looks heavy, his breath still visible in small puffs that speak to the morning's bitter cold.
"Morning," he says, his voice that low rumble that makes warmth pool in my belly. "Brought your order from Korin's forge."
Right. The order. I'd commissioned new hinges for the supply room door weeks ago, back when Ciaran was just another customer and I could look at him without my heart doing somersaults. "You didn't have to carry those yourself."
"Korin's swamped with festival preparations." He shrugs, setting the heavy sack down with careful precision. "Besides, gave me an excuse to check on you and the girls."
An excuse.My stomach does that fluttering thing again, and I hate how much I like the idea that he needs excuses to see me. That he's thinking about me enough to manufacture reasons for visits.
"They're in the back, sorting parchment," I tell him, then immediately regret the words when his face lights up. Because now he'll want to go say hello, which means he'll be here longer, which means more opportunities for me to make a fool of myself by staring at him like he hung the moon.
"Mind if I?—?"
"Of course not."
He disappears into the supply room, and I hear the immediate explosion of delighted greetings from both girls. Their voices blend together—Rhea's bright chatter and Nya's quieter responses, with Ciaran's deeper tones weaving through their conversation. He's telling them about the morning's work, about the massive pile of wood that needs chopping for tonight's festival fire, and I can hear the smile in his voice as they pepper him with questions.
He's good with them,I think, not for the first time.Both of them.
It should worry me more than it does. Should send up warning flags about getting Rhea too attached to a man who might disappear at any moment. But watching Ciaran with our daughters these past weeks has been like watching something I didn't know I was starving for. The way he listens to Rhea's endless questions with genuine interest, how he encourages Nya's quiet observations, the careful attention he pays to both their needs and moods.
Cyprien never showed the slightest interest in Rhea. Barely acknowledged her existence beyond a few patronizing comments about "half-blood children" and their supposed limitations. I'd told myself it didn't matter, that we didn't needhim anyway, but seeing what fatherly attention actually looks like makes my chest ache with old hurts.
"Brynn?" Ciaran's voice cuts through my brooding. He's emerged from the supply room, alone—I can still hear the girls giggling about something in the back. "Everything all right?"
"Fine." The word comes out sharper than I intended, defensive in a way that makes his brow furrow with concern. "Just thinking about inventory."
He doesn't call me on the obvious lie, but something shifts in his expression. A kind of careful patience that makes me feel exposed, like he can see right through my flimsy excuses to the mess of fear and longing underneath.
"I should get back to the wood detail," he says after a moment. "But I wanted to ask—would you mind if I borrowed Rhea for an hour or so? She mentioned wanting to help with the festival fire, and we could use extra hands."
The request catches me off guard. Not because it's unreasonable—Rhea loves any excuse to be useful, and she's been chattering about the festival preparations all week. But because it's another example of how effortlessly Ciaran has woven himself into our lives, how natural it feels for him to include my daughter in his plans.
"She'd love that," I hear myself saying. "Just make sure she stays warm."
"Of course." His smile is soft, genuine, and it does terrible things to my resolve. "Thank you."
