Chapter 18 #2
“Up ahead,” Cillian said, starting to slow down.
A massive metal gate barred the way, looming buildings on either side.
I wasn’t sure what he expected to show me outside, but it looked like we headed to another high-rise.
He paused at a metal stand outside the gate and rolled the window down. “Mal, it’s me.”
A second later, the doors creaked open, and Cillian drove forward. A smug smile clung to his lips that I wanted to lick off, to run the tip of my tongue along his fangs, to drink in his intoxicating taste over and over again.
When I glanced forward again, my breath snagged.
We drove down a narrow road, but at the end of it lay another wrought-iron entrance.
Beyond that, though, all I could see was green.
A tunnel lay past the entryway, surrounded by dangling wisteria with its pale purple blooms, and the trees that towered in the distance were majestic, ones that must’ve taken ages to grow.
I rolled down my window, and the crisp, verdant scent traveled my way at once.
“What is this?” I asked as Cillian drove through the entrance and tunnel, the wisteria dangling overhead.
“The Slumbering Garden,” he said, taking the tunnel at a leisurely pace. “It’s a private garden my friend Mal owns, so there’s a reason why you wouldn’t have heard of it before.”
“Ah, is this something only high society knows about?” I asked. The sweet breezes through the window enchanted me, and we hadn’t even parked.
“Monsterkind,” Cillian said. “Mal’s a dragon shifter. Even though we’re thinly accepted in big cities like this, that’s not how the reception is farther out. And refuge is needed even here.”
Heat flushed through me. How little I knew about the people I’d walked alongside for years. “I can see that. I grew up outside the city, and the views toward monsters weren’t as tolerant…and that’s putting it mildly.”
“Surprising you turned out as open-minded as you are, then,” he said, pulling out of the tunnel. A small stretch of asphalt made for a parking lot, and beyond it lay the entrance with a pale green and gold sign that read “Slumbering Gardens,” along with more greenery than I could focus on.
“I was always the odd kid in my hometown,” I murmured, my chest tightening at the memories. Books had been my steadfast companions through it all. “Changes your perspective.”
Cillian pulled to a park and then placed a hand on my leg. “I hate to break it to you…but you’re still odd.”
I blinked. “Was that…a joke, Cillian Ashmore?”
He let out a bark of a laugh, as brilliant and sharp as sunlight, and cracked his door open. “You won’t get another from me.”
I stepped out of the car, and my knees wobbled for a minute, as the reality I was outside the Spires sank in again. The sun shone brightly today, the sky an aching blue, just puffy white clouds marching across the horizon.
“Come on, there’s a lot to see.” Cillian had started to walk toward the entrance, where the sweet breezes and the sound of trickling water beckoned. Flowers were in bloom, splashes of yellows and pinks, violets and blues, batches of them visible even from here.
We started down the pathway, where rosebushes of every variety and shade bracketed either side. The perfume was intoxicating, and I drank in the scent.
“This must be your favorite thing,” I commented as I knelt to smell one of the butter-yellow blooms.
Cillian arched a brow.
“Your rose tattoo? Unless that has some other significance.”
His eyes darkened. “They’re pretty, sure. But I don’t like them for their beauty—I respect them for their thorns.”
The statement felt loaded with so much more, and I filed that away with every other detail I’d accumulated on Cillian—plenty at this point.
In a way, his answer made me appreciate him on a deeper level, though.
So many found it far too easy to fall for pretty things, which was why Damian had been in such hot demand. Except that had never drawn me in.
No, I craved a substance beneath the surface that he would never have satisfied.
Not nearly like the endless mystery of the man before me.
“My favorite gem in this place is this way,” Cillian said, reaching back to offer his hand.
I accepted automatically, but when our palms brushed together, my pulse raced.
The effortless touch he gave, how tactile he was, surprised me every time.
I’d never anticipated it from the ice-cold man I’d first met.
We meandered down the rose path, and I savored our time out here, in the sun, exploring somewhere new. Like this, my troubles were miles away, and I enjoyed every second of it.
“Did you always want to be a librarian?” Cillian asked as we walked along.
“Yes,” I responded. “I used to hide away in the library at school. The librarian there took me under her wing. And books have always been a refuge of sorts.” I cast him an arch look. “Did you always want to be the owner and proprietor of the Spires?”
“Not in the slightest,” he responded, staring out at the expanse before us, the path lined by looming trees and interspersed with lilies of so many different shades and varieties. I soaked them all in with my eyes while waiting for his response. “I wanted to be an architect.”
I tilted my head to the side. A silent thrill rose inside me at being privy to this detail. “Why didn’t you pursue it?”
“My father had a strict path for me to follow. And he wasn’t the sort of man you said no to.” The grimness in his tone told the rest of the story, and I swallowed hard. “But he’s gone. No longer a problem.”
“Then why not now?” I asked.
Cillian shrugged. “I found ways to make owning the Spires mine.”
My eyes widened as the realization set in. “You’re the one who does most of the designing for it, aren’t you.”
He let out a low whistle. “Your sharpness is a constant delight.”
“It would certainly explain the gothic brooding with a side of edgelord in the décor upstairs,” I teased. Cillian’s sharp bark of a laugh was as infectious as this gorgeous day. We strode down the lily-lined path, the thick, velvety petals catching my attention left and right.
“Up ahead,” Cillian said, pointing to what lay farther down.
I squinted, a bright sparkle almost blinding me as the sunlight glinted off the surface of water.
We got closer, and the sight before me took my breath away.
The pond was huge and still, reflecting the brilliant blue sky above like a mirror.
On the far side of the pond lay a white structure with a large overhang, hulled out like an amphitheater.
I couldn’t help but wonder whether anyone ever performed there, but they’d have to be exclusive, private situations, since I’d never even heard of this place in all my time in Peregrine City.
Water lilies spanned the pond, dots of vibrant green and pale pink against the glossy surface of the water.
Cillian’s hand was in mine, the clutch possessive, and I basked in his touch, in the beauty of the day, in the freedom I experienced in this moment.
The past month had taught me not to take time like this for granted.
I’d spent years in this city, cycling through the same routine, and when I thought back on it, had I really been free?
Beyond my father, I hadn’t had any connections worth preserving. Those had withered away to dust.
“Worth it, right?” Cillian asked, tilting his chin in the direction of the pond.
The breath snagged in my throat. The sun highlighted the browns in his black hair, and the glossiness, the curve of his regal horns, and the lines of his chin, his neck were so clear I wished I had any drawing ability, just so I could capture them.
His skin glowed a rich red, and that solid frame held a sturdiness I craved.
But his eyes, when he stared at me with tenderness—fuck, the look curled inside me and settled there.
“Yeah, worth it.”
I wasn’t talking about the gardens.