Chapter 40
Cillian did not protest the idea of a warm bath, even if it was not within the comfort of his own home. Shaw Manor possessed more than enough bathing chambers and guest rooms to accommodate their entire group, though Evelyne had chosen to return outside to the pack.
He suspected she wished to be with her mate.
Or perhaps the open air had simply become more natural to her now.
The wilderness suited Evelyne in a way the walls of any manor never truly could.
He could not blame her for wanting to spend the night with them—to reassure the wolves that they were safe here. Or at least… that they hoped they were.
Aurelia, of course, had chosen a chamber within the manor.
Cillian hoped the solitude might grant her some measure of peace, something he suspected she desperately needed after all she had endured.
He had always been the quiet one, but quiet did not mean blind.
He noticed everything, and he knew Aurelia well enough to recognize the strain she tried so carefully to conceal: the bright conversation at dinner, the way she filled silences with light chatter rather than answer questions about where she had been.
They were defenses, subtle shields she had learned to wield.
Aurelia truly did love cosmetics, silk gowns, tea blends, and market gossip, but her habit of turning to them whenever matters grew uncomfortable was something else entirely.
It was how she avoided the deeper questions. How she protected herself.
They had never been close, not as he and Evelyne were, yet Aurelia had always cared for him in the only language she knew—offering tea when he seemed withdrawn, suggesting styles that might suit him, or sharing the latest court scandal involving girls his age.
He had never resented it. If anything, he understood it now.
And he knew, with a certainty that settled heavily in his chest, that when Aurelia learned the truth of their father’s death, it would shatter the fragile world she had so carefully built around herself.
Tomorrow. He and Evelyne had agreed. They would tell Aurelia after she had rested, after her mind had steadied, and when their mother could hear the truth beside her.
For tonight, silence would have to be enough.
Cillian sank deeper into the steaming water, lowering himself until the warmth surrounded his shoulders. He took a slow breath and slipped beneath the surface, holding it there as he tried—truly tried—to release the weight of everything he had seen.
The battles.
The fear.
The darkness that had followed them north and back again.
For a brief moment, he let himself drift into the empty space where thoughts dissolved and nothing demanded his strength. Yet as he tried to clear his mind, another image slipped in unbidden.
Alia.
The blonde-haired servant who worked for the Stonebridge family. The girl who had come from the grove.
Cillian had never seen anyone so strikingly beautiful. She carried the same stillness he often felt within himself, a calm presence that seemed content to observe rather than speak.
But he could tell she missed nothing.
Just as he did.
He was certain she was hiding something, though he had no wish to press her, nor would he allow anyone else to corner her with questions.
He could not explain the sudden urge to protect her, only that it had settled firmly within him; he had known earlier that night, without question, that she would not be walking back to Velenshire alone.
Even if it meant ignoring their carefully laid plans, he would have escorted her himself.
Whatever secret she carried, it was not dark. It felt… good. Right.
As he pictured her delicate face, he could almost feel her hazel eyes meeting his again.
In that imagined gaze, there was an unexpected sense of encouragement, as though she were gently drawing him toward something he did not yet understand.
How a stranger could affect him so deeply, he could not explain.
But when he finally rose from the water, droplets sliding through his hair and down his face, he exhaled slowly, the rhythm of the moment steadying him.
Then he let it come.
Warm light stirred within his chest, and he guided it gently toward his skin, careful not to startle the wolf instincts still lingering inside him or let the power flare too brightly. This was nothing like the violent magic he had witnessed before. This was different—clean, pure, and natural.
He reminded himself of that again and again as the light flowed down his arms and slipped from his fingertips in faint golden threads. It pulsed through his chest, down his legs, and rose along his neck until warmth spread through his mind itself.
A smile touched his lips as light glowed beneath his skin.
He was not broken.He was not corrupted.The darkness had not claimed him.
He was light.
And he had been chosen for a reason.