Chapter 7
Elara was warm, deliciously so, drifting through layers of velvet-soft darkness.
It felt lush, like sunlight through stained glass, spilling color into the hollow places inside her.
She floated between sleep and waking, wrapped in a lulling safety that drew a sigh from her chest. A scent lingered—embers and scorched earth, woodsmoke under a star-streaked sky. Familiar. Achingly so.
Home, it whispered through her veins.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Morning light spilled through the window, soft against her cheek. Birds trilled faintly, their songs threading through the distant stir of a waking world. Reality settled like a feather gently falling—and then abruptly snapped into startling lucidity.
She froze.
Reynnar’s breath ghosted through her hair. Strong arms wrapped possessively around her waist, drawing her against a solid chest. Their limbs tangled—one thigh fitted far too neatly between her legs, against her bare center. Elara’s heart leapt, tripped, promptly attempted to escape her body.
Shit.
This was…this was not ideal.
And yet—no smoke curled from her fingertips. No scorching heat rippled through the room. For the first time in days, she hadn’t woken to her the Cara clawing for control, hadn’t scorched the sheets or set anything aflame. Maybe, finally, it was settling.
Elara lifted her gaze, careful as a held breath, as if any sudden movement might detonate the moment.
Reynnar’s face was slack with exhaustion, dark hair spilling over his brow, his hand resting on her hip like it had every right to be there.
Blood flooded her cheeks. She needed to move.
Immediately. Preferably without dying of embarrassment in the process.
Limbs aching, back stiff, she shifted—the smallest, most delicate escape attempt—
—and Reynnar’s eyes snapped open.
Ember-bright, wide, unfocused—as if some part of him hadn’t quite arrived in his body yet. Wonder flickered there before settling into a recognition that rippled through him. His hold tightened the instant it did. His gaze drifted to her mouth.
A flash of fire tore through her, a searing, traitorous rush, moving to the press of his thigh against her, to his heat bleeding through the thin layers of fabric, through skin. Every nerve inside her lit.
“Rey—”
The moment broke.
Reynnar’s expression closed off. “Sorry,” he said roughly, pulling away.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then sank back onto the pillow with a weary sigh.
Elara pushed upright, wrapping her arms around her knees.
“It’s not—” she began, then stopped and swallowed.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” She looked away, throat tightening as she pushed down the memory of how right it had felt to be held by him—how simple, how easy, in a way nothing had been for far too long.
She shut her eyes and a hollow cold settled in her chest. What if it wasn’t simple at all?
The thought took hold.
The Draoth Cara linked hearts, minds, instincts—blurring the boundary between what was hers and what bled through from Ivan.
But what if it had done more than connect?
What if it had steered her, quietly shaping feelings that might never have taken root on their own?
How could the illusion of being bound not sway a heart starved for connection?
She had trusted Ivan. Leaned on him. That much had been real—she was certain of it.
But the rest? She’d had to piece their past together herself, force the truth out of him one guarded answer at a time.
Would she have felt it so deeply without the Cara pressing against her will?
Would she have chosen him—with that same desperate certainty—if it hadn’t already begun to guide her heart’s path?
She would never know. And the not knowing poisoned everything.
Now, with Reynnar, that pull returned—that frightening ease.
Was it real, or just another compulsion of a bond she’d never asked for?
They had grown close before the Cara, yes, but it blurred the very lines she needed clear.
Confusing. Maddening. Humiliating, to doubt the truth of her own heart.
She refused to be led by emotions she could no longer trust as entirely her own.
Elara’s hands curled into the blanket, bracing against the comfort she wanted to believe in. She wasn’t hiding it well—when she looked up, Reynnar was watching her, gaze unbearably knowing. He tugged a stray curl from her temple.
“Don’t worry, ealaín,” he murmured, letting the lock of hair slip through his fingers. His knuckles brushed her cheek—barely there—before falling away.
Ealaín, she thought, bright one.
“I know your heart’s already spoken for,” he said. Not bitter. Not jealous. Just…matter of fact. “I won’t mistake your warmth for something it’s not.”
Her throat tightened as his eyes closed again, like that was the end of it. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Not a single word. Because what was she even supposed to say? How did someone begin to put this kind of mess into words?
Reynnar pushed off the bed, the mattress shifting with his weight. He crossed the room to the window in three strides, broad shoulders haloed in the early light. He stared out the window like it held answers. Or maybe he needed a moment not to look at her.
“I want to show you something,” he said after a beat. “Before Eamon arrives and lectures us to death.”
She sank back into the pillows. “Is it a cliff I can throw myself off to avoid said lecture?”
A faint smile curved through his features. “Tempting, but impractical. I’d have to follow. And Aoife has enough to manage without arranging a double funeral.”
Elara bit back a laugh.
“Besides,” he went on, “I’ve only just ensured you’re fed and rested. Throwing yourself off a cliff would undo all my hard work.”
“I don’t recall asking you to work so hard.”
“I’m aware. You rarely ask for anything.”
She glanced down at her sleeve, thumb brushing the worn seam. “Force of habit, I suppose.”
“A habit I intend to break.”
She looked up at that—just a quick flick of her gaze—and the softness in his expression tugged something low in her gut.
“Come on. I’d hate for you to miss the one pleasant thing Cruithneach has to offer.”
She pushed herself off the bed. “What about the guards?”
The mountain air bit pleasantly at Elara’s cheeks as they stepped onto the winding stone path carved into Cruithneach’s cliffs. Below, terraced walkways spiraled along the mountain’s spine, smoke curling from vents in the rock, the distant clang of hammer on metal echoing from the forges.
Her steps faltered as a cluster of Turlaith passed, their conversation breaking off mid-word.
Stares followed—long, assessing—before belated decorum prompted them to step aside.
They kept their distance, as if standing too near might somehow stain.
One murmured something she couldn’t catch; another woman pulled her child close, turning the girl’s face away as though Elara were unfit to be seen.
Reynnar slowed so she could fall in beside him, though he pretended it was incidental—hands in his pockets, expression deceptively relaxed, as if he hadn’t just talked a drove of Turlaith guards into letting them leave the quarters unsupervised.
She still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed that.
The guards at the door had looked like they were swallowing nails when Reynnar murmured something low—too quiet for her to catch—but whatever it was, it worked. They stepped aside so quickly she suspected instinct rather than obedience.
Elara adjusted the new cloak at her shoulders, fingers brushing the pale fur lining.
The clothes fit better than she’d expected—soft, warm, built for the mountain’s harsh terrain.
Frost-blue trousers and high boots moved easily with her; leather and belts settled comfortably at her hips; the weather-worn cloak fell around her like mountain mist.
All hand-picked by Reynnar. Including the underthings.
Her mouth tugged at the memory. She hadn’t been embarrassed—just…startled he’d known she needed them without her saying a word. Or how he’d left them folded with a kind of understated care that made her want to crawl under the bed and never return.
“Are we circling the entire mountain?” she asked after a long silence, tugging her cloak closer as a gust of cold air swept across the ledge.
Reynnar threw her a look. “Impatient already?”
“Curious,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”
He exhaled a laugh and nudged her with his shoulder, pointing down a narrower path. “This way. It’s quieter.”
Quieter—and, she noted, far less populated.
Her curiosity prickled. About him. About this place.
About what exactly he intended to show her.
And—unfortunately—about Eamon. His impending arrival buzzed like a low static hum at the back of her skull.
She couldn’t decide whether to dread it or brace for impact.
Reynnar seemed unconcerned, which should’ve comforted her, and yet…
Eamon was Turlaith, and the mountain Sídhe had not been subtle in their distaste.
The stone walkway curved downward into pale morning light, flanked by carved pillars wrapped in thin strands of metal that chimed when the wind hit them just right.
They followed the narrow ledge as the sound of water swelled from a distant rush into a thunderous roar.
Ahead, the path bent—and the waterfall came into view, a sheer white spill cleaving the stone.
Mist thickened, clinging to Elara’s cloak in fine, glimmering droplets. Minerals bit at her tongue as the air cooled. Reynnar stopped beside the curtain of falling water, so bright it looked like shattered glass.
“Through here,” he said.
She blinked. “Through—Reynnar, that’s a waterfall.”
His mouth tugged in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’ll be fine.” Before she could argue, he stepped directly into the cascade and vanished.