Cyan’s hand slides gently through my curls, anchoring me as my body shakes. He holds me like he’s built to weather storms, and me being a sobbing mess doesn’t scare him away. “What if–” I pause. “What if something happens through me… to you?”
His response is immediate. “You’re not a curse, Dove. You’re not responsible for the actions of others.” His thumb strokes my scalp, grounding me. “What that man did to your dad, that’s on him. Not you and your mom… not knowing what happened to her? That kind of loss eats at a person. I’m sorry.”
I nod, my chest tight with longing. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s still out there. Waiting for me to find her.”
“I knew about your parents,” he admits. “I looked into your mother’s case, found nothing… It’s like she disappeared without a trace. Her case is cold buried in Chicago PD files.”
“I figured you knew, but I needed to tell you myself. I want no more secrets between us.”
“Neither do I, tell me, how does your grandmother’s condition fall on your shoulders?”
A bitter laugh escapes me, dissolving into sobs. I’ve become a running faucet of tears. He might judge me for this. I wasn’t a child when I failed her. “I was in college. Finals week. We always decorated the Christmas tree together, but a guy I liked asked me out. I delayed my trip just one day—that’s all. When I finally got there—” I gulp, “she was unconscious at the bottom of the stairs. She’d tried to carry the tree up from the basement herself. She fell, hit her head. The trauma accelerated her Alzheimer’s. If I hadn’t.” I can’t finish.
His silence gnaws at me, and shame floods in. I try to pull away. I know how much he values loyalty, family, and duty, and I failed the woman who raised me. Cyan’s arms tighten instantly, holding me close.
“Actions and reactions,” he murmurs.
I pull back, enough to look at him. “What?”
“We all have moments we wish we could undo. But we live with the consequences.” His voice stays steady, but I feel the storm beneath it. “The night my family was killed, I lost my soul. If it weren’t for Collin, and pure luck, we’d be dead too. Because of my photographic memory, it never leaves me. Ciara, my older sister, was the first. With one sound, they shot her. She was the best of us.” His jaw tightens. “Then they dragged my Ma away and made us listen. I froze, did nothing, stood there, trapped in fear.”
My chest aches as he continues. “But Collin didn’t freeze; he took action and stabbed one of them.” A breath in. Out. “That was the moment my Da and I realized it was fight or die. I grabbed the bleeding man’s gun and pulled the trigger.”
I don’t speak. I just listen as his pain spills out. A red haze clouds my vision, each word fueling a quiet, righteous fury on his behalf. His mother’s last moments and the promise he made that still haunt him. By the end of that night, he and Collin were no longer boys. Their childhood was burned away with the house. “I helped my uncle Calum burn it down. My family’s bodies were inside. He said it was the only way we’d live.” His mouth hardens. “But I made my own promise that night. Lorenzo Rizzotto will pay… one day I’ll crush him beneath my boot.” By the time he finishes, my eyes are full, but his aren’t. To break a man to where his own sorrow can’t shed tears. Rosa was right—Cyan never had a choice. The world forged him in fire.
“I’m so sorry,” I lift my hand to cradle his face. “That you had to witness all of that.”
He shifts beneath me. “That night taught me something, Aria. The world teaches you to become a wolf or be devoured” His body tenses as emotion surges through him, barely contained. The bitterness leaks anyway in the tremor of his hands, the tightness of his hold. In that moment, I feel it clearly: the need to soothe him, to anchor him. Cyan MacBrady became a monster because he had to, and somehow, I am the harp meant to calm him.
The weight of our shared pain settles between us. It binds us tighter than any kiss or promise ever could. “Cyan,” I lean in until my lips brush his ear. “I know the weight of our family rests on your shoulders, and your past can feel like chains.” I draw back just enough to meet his eyes. “But you don’t have to face it alone.” I move up his chest to press my forehead to his, our breaths mingling. “I see the man you are now… not just the scars that tried to break you. When anger threatens to consume you, come back to us. To me.” My hand settles over his heart. “Let our love be your sanctuary, and if that’s not enough…” I kiss him. “Then give the darkness to me. I’ll carry it with you.”
Pulling away, our gazes meet, and I see all that he is–raw and unguarded, flickering there for me to see. “I’m your light, Cyan, walking in this dark world with you, hand in hand. I love you.”
I kiss his lips, his cheeks, his crooked nose, loving him soft, slow, and unhurried.
Our kiss becomes a thread, stitching us closer, binding something deeper than desire. When words are no longer enough, our bodies answer–not with hunger, but with reverence. Two broken pasts meeting, finding wholeness not through passion, but through trust.
Fifty-Three
“Peace is the most dangerous thing of all—because it convinces you the storm is over.”—Aria Boschett.
Early morning light spills across our tangled bodies, pale gold threading through the quiet. I trace the edge of the sheet draped low over his hip, grounding myself in the warmth beside me. We’re wrapped in the aftermath of something sacred and beautiful. Only one secret still lingers.Ethan.
“Cyan?” I whisper. He doesn’t stir. His breathing stays deep and even. I rise up from his chest and watch him for another moment. He’s asleep; the man needs his rest. I’ll tell him when we’re both awake.
When I wake again, sunlight cuts through a narrow gap in the blackout curtains. Cyan must’ve pulled them shut sometime earlier. He always thinks about what I need, even when I’m not aware of it. The thought warms my chest. I reach for him, but the bed is empty. He’s probably in the kitchen. I stretch, sighing, contentment settling deep in my bones until guilt punches straight through it. “Oh, shit.” The girls. I left them last night, swept away by the storm that is Cyan. Sure, he dragged me out of the dance floor. Once we started, I hadn’t exactly protested. Somewhere between the office, the desk, me against the glass, our night became a blur of heat and shadows. I’d turned into a sex-drunk nympho, and Cyan, ever the hypersexual deviant, had let me indulge. I glance at the clock.
1:04 PM.
I’ve slept half the day away. My body is sore, satisfied, and starving as I slide out of bed with three urgent thoughts colliding at once:I need a shower, food and to apologize to my friends. By the time I finish rinsing off and throwing on something comfy, I shuffle into the kitchen, still towel-drying my curls, and freeze. Tasha, Saaha, and Gracie are slumped around the table, heads down like hungover zombies. Rosa, meanwhile, stands at the stove, flipping something that smells heavenly.
“Rosa? Girls, you’re here?” I say, bright with relief.
“Yeah,” Tasha groans without lifting her head. “No need to shout. I already have drums playing inside my skull.”
“These not-so-smart girlfriends of yours let my boys challenge them to a drink-off,” Rosa adds, flipping a pancake with theatrical flair. “I don’t know what they were thinking. Those boys are Irish. You girls never stood a chance.”
“Well,” Saaha mumbles, cheek pressed to the table, “I am a natural overachiever. It’s in my DNA to aim for the top of every class.”
