Chapter Twelve
Cillian materialized with Julian on the rooftop of Shadow House, his form still half-feral from the violence in the alley.
Shadows churned beneath his skin, demanding he return to finish what remained of the attackers, to tear Marcus Vane apart piece by piece until nothing remained but scraps of flesh.
Julian’s hand pressed against his chest. “You’re vibrating.”
“I’m…” Cillian forced himself to breathe, to condense the rage back into something resembling human. “I’ve got a handle on it.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.” Julian’s clinical assessment shouldn’t have helped, but it did. “Your eyes are completely black. No iris differentiation at all. And your shadows keep manifesting as what I’m fairly certain are teeth.”
Cillian looked down. Dozens of shadow-tendrils had indeed sprouted tooth-lined mouths, snapping at the empty air. “Apologies.”
“Don’t apologize. Just breathe.” Julian’s fingers traced the line of Cillian’s jaw. “We’re safe. I’m safe. Vane’s men are dead. You protected me. Now you need to recalibrate.”
The touch anchored him, and Cillian longed to lean into it more.
But the roof of an abandoned warehouse wasn’t an ideal setting.
He pulled the shadows back, wrestling them into submission, although he understood their reluctance.
The teeth retracted, though, and his eyes shifted to the charcoal grey he preferred around his mate.
Another breath, and his skin stopped absorbing light quite so aggressively.
“Better,” Julian observed. “Now, you mentioned coffee?”
“Right. Yes. Coffee.” Cillian still felt unsteady, torn between the urge to wrap Julian in shadows and never let him interact with the world again, and the knowledge that Julian would find that deeply impractical. “The entrance is here.”
He led Julian across the rooftop to what looked like a rusted air conditioning unit. Cillian pressed his palm against the metal, feeding shadows into the concealed lock. The unit swung open, revealing stairs descending into darkness.
Julian peered down. “That’s an interesting security mechanism. Is it biometric?”
“Something like that.” Cillian went first, the shadows lighting their path with soft phosphorescence.
“The warehouse exterior is deliberately maintained to look abandoned. Anyone who enters through the front finds exactly what they’d expect - broken machinery, a lot of empty space, and evidence of vagrant occupation.
But this entrance leads to our actual living quarters. ”
“Clever misdirection.” Julian followed without hesitation. “How large is the interior space?”
“Approximately eight thousand square feet across three levels. We claimed this building forty years ago when the original business went bankrupt.” Cillian reached the bottom of the stairs and opened another reinforced door.
“The wards prevent humans from finding this entrance accidentally. Only those we bring through can access it.”
They stepped into what had once been the factory’s executive floor.
Cillian had never really looked at it critically before, but with Julian beside him, he was seeing it through a different lens.
They had left a lot of the original structure intact so there were exposed brick walls and industrial steel beams, along with massive windows that overlooked the warehouse district but were invisible from outside.
The furniture was expensive but sparse in the larger space.
A couple of leather sofas, which weren’t very comfortable and a tactical map table, made Cillian wonder if he should’ve transported Julian’s armchair.
It wasn’t good for sleeping in, but Julian seemed to like sitting in it.
“It looks like a very expensive bunker designed by someone who read exactly one interior design magazine,” Julian said.
Cillian’s shadows rippled with amusement. “Silas chose the furnishings, and that sounds accurate.”
“It explains the clinical aesthetic.” Julian set down his laptop bag and turned in a slow circle, cataloging everything. “I hate to keep asking, but where’s the kitchen? You said you’d handle coffee.”
“This way.” Cillian led him through an archway into what had been designed as a break room and transformed into something resembling a mansion kitchen.
There were granite countertops and professional-grade appliances, which Rook used when he was feeling antsy.
But Cillian spotted what he was looking for - a very large espresso machine.
Thorn had spotted one like it at a coffee shop once and was determined to get one.
Julian’s eyes locked onto the espresso machine immediately. “Is that a La Marzocco Linea?”
“Thorn insisted on it. He developed an obsession with coffee culture approximately six months ago.” Cillian pulled beans out of the freezer, then paused. “I should warn you - the others are here. They’ll want to meet you.”
“Your brothers.”
“Yes.” Cillian measured beans with hands that wanted to shake. “They’re...protective and very territorial. We’ve never brought a human here before.”
“Because you’ve never had fated mates before?”
“That and because we’ve never wanted to.” Cillian started the grinder, grateful for something to do with his hands. “We exist to eliminate threats. Humans are generally either targets or complications. But you’re neither,” he added quickly.
“No, I believe it would be disingenuous to apply either of those labels to me.” Julian hopped up to sit on the counter, watching Cillian work. “I imagine that creates an unprecedented category.”
“You have no idea.” Cillian tamped the grounds with more force than necessary. “Thorn wanted to kill you when he found out about the bounty.” He risked a quick glance at his mate as he said it.
Julian’s expression didn’t change. “Clearly, you convinced him otherwise.”
“I told him I’d tear down every shadow in this city if anything happened to you.” Cillian met Julian’s eyes. “I meant it.”
“I know.” Julian’s matter-of-fact acceptance of Cillian’s devotion was devastating. “What changed his mind?”
“Logic. You’re safer here, where we can protect you while eliminating Vane. Once the threat’s neutralized, you can return to your normal life.” The espresso machine hissed and gurgled. “If you want to.”
“And if I don’t want to return to my normal life?”
Cillian’s hands stilled. “Then you stay. For as long as you want. Forever, if you’ll have me.”
“That seems premature, given we’ve known each other for barely a week.”
“I’ve existed for four thousand years. Six days with you is the only time that’s ever mattered.”
Julian opened his mouth, closed it again. For once, he seemed at a loss for words. Cillian pulled two shots of espresso, doctoring Julian’s with the precise amount of milk and sugar he’d observed through Julian’s studio apartment windows.
“You remembered,” Julian said quietly.
“I remember everything about you.” Cillian handed him the cup, careful not to let their fingers touch because if they did, he’d pull Julian close and never let go.
“Your favorite coffee ratio. The way you seem to love oversized cardigans, and it never bothers you when they’re falling off your shoulder, how you touch your glasses when you’re about to correct someone.
The exact pitch of your voice when you’re genuinely curious versus when you’re being polite. ”
“That’s excessive observation.”
“That’s being mated to you.”
Julian sipped his coffee, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders. “This is perfect.”
Before Cillian could respond, footsteps echoed from the main room. All three of his brothers arrived simultaneously. Of course. They would want to be intimidating.
“The prodigal son returns,” Rook’s voice carried through the archway, bright with curiosity. “With cargo!”
Cillian moved to stand between Julian and the doorway, shadows rising automatically. “He’s not cargo. He’s…”
“Your mate, yes, we got the memo.” Silas appeared first, clinical grey eyes immediately fixing on Julian. He wore his usual pristine white shirt, and his silver-rimmed glasses caught the light. “The beacon. Very interesting. I can see what you mean about the light of his soul.”
Rook bounded in next, a combination of feral energy and his ever-present grin. His amber-gold eyes gleamed, and his leather jacket creaked with more buckles than were strictly necessary. “Oh, you’re tiny. Cillian, you didn’t mention he was pocket-sized.”
“I’m five-foot-six, which is perfectly average for an adult male.” Julian’s correction was automatic. “Your assessment is based on comparison to Cillian’s height rather than objective measurement.”
Rook’s grin widened. “I like him already.”
Thorn entered last, his massive frame filling the doorway. Six-foot-seven of ancient authority, shadows pooling at his feet like liquid obsidian. Silver streaked his dark hair at the temples. His granite-carved face gave away nothing.
“Julian Purdy,” Thorn said. Not a question.
“Thorn.” Julian met his gaze without flinching. “The one who wanted to kill me twelve hours ago.”
Cillian’s shadows exploded outward, teeth manifesting. “Julian…”
“It’s accurate, isn’t it?” Julian looked at Cillian. “You said he suggested eliminating me to end the threat. I’m simply acknowledging the information.”
Thorn’s expression shifted into something that might have been respect. “You’re not afraid.”
“Of you specifically, or of the fact that you considered murdering me for tactical efficiency?” Julian sipped his coffee.
“Because the answer is no to both. You were operating with incomplete data. Cillian provided new information. You adjusted your strategy. That’s rational decision-making, not personal animosity. ”
Silas moved closer, circling Julian like a specimen under glass. “Absolutely fascinating. Your heart rate barely elevated. Either you have exceptional control or genuinely don’t fear us.”