Chapter 8 Cillian
Cillian
The blade slices through air instead of flesh, my arm following a practiced arc that sends fire racing from shoulder to fingertips.
I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Each movement flows into the next—parry, thrust, sidestep—the ancient combat forms drilled into muscle memory since I was old enough to hold a weapon.
My reflection in the cracked mirror shows a stranger—pale hair darkened with sweat, skin pulled tight over cheekbones, eyes too bright with pain or fever or both. The wound at my side pulses in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of how close I came to death. How close I still might be.
I shift into the next stance, teeth grinding together as torn flesh protests. The knife in my hand feels heavier than it should, the balance wrong, though I know it’s perfect. It’s me that’s off-balance. Broken in ways that go beyond physical injury.
Focus on the pain. Use it.
The mantra circles in my head as I force my body through another sequence, slower than usual but precise.
Pain is clarifying. Pain is present. Pain keeps me anchored in the now instead of drowning in memory—of Maya’s terrified eyes, of my own blood pooling on sterile tile as I tried and failed to protect us.
The bottle of painkillers sits untouched on the bedside table, a silent accusation.
Dr. Linden left them when she checked my stitches yesterday, her expression making it clear she knew I wouldn’t take them.
Not because I enjoy suffering, but because pain serves a purpose.
It keeps my mind from wandering to places I can’t afford to go.
Maya won’t ever be locked in a cage again.
I execute another turn, the movement pulling at my stitches. The pain sharpens, bright and immediate, driving out the whispers of emotion that aren’t mine. Better. I can work with this.
The knife becomes an extension of my arm as I flow into the next sequence, each movement a conversation between blade and air. My body knows these forms better than it knows rest. Even injured, even exhausted, I can still do this. Still be useful. Still protect what matters.
“You’re going to tear your stitches.”
The voice from the doorway doesn’t startle me. I’d sensed Ares’s presence seconds before he spoke, my senses too attuned to danger to miss the sound of his footsteps.
I wait to acknowledge him, completing the sequence with deliberate precision before lowering the knife.
“Good thing we have a medic available,” I say finally, voice rough from disuse. I don’t turn to face him yet, using the moment to regulate my breathing, to push back against the wave of pain threatening to buckle my knees.
“Stitching yourself up is a shit idea.” There’s an edge to Ares’s voice that might be concern, though he’d deny it if accused. “You nearly died once this week. Going for a record?”
I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, finally turning to meet his gaze. “Wasn’t talking about me.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Maya? Hate to break it to you, but she hasn’t left her room in days. You might bleed out before she does.”
“Still?”
Ares hesitates, not meeting my gaze. “She’s in heat, I think. A mild one, but still.”
The knife nearly slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers.
I set it down carefully on the dresser, using the moment to process this new information.
A heat. Now, of all times. When we’re all balanced on a knife’s edge, when the pack bonds are strained to breaking, when nothing is certain except danger.
When I’m too weak to be of any real use.
I close my eyes, lowering the walls I’ve built around my consciousness just enough to reach for the tattered remnants of the bond.
And there she is—Maya, her presence a distant flicker of warmth and need.
The familiar anger that’s become her constant companion now laced with something else.
Something that pulls at instincts I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing.
Longing.
It washes over me in a wave, not entirely my own. The need to comfort, to protect, to claim—all tangled up with the knowledge that I have no right to any of it. That I’m not what she needs. That I never will be.
I allow myself one moment—just one—to let her emotions pull at me. To acknowledge the answering call in my own blood. Then I slam the walls back into place, shutting out everything but the immediate physical reality of my own body.
Fuck, I’m exhausted.
The next fighting stance comes automatically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.
I push harder this time, ignoring the renewed pain that now feels sharp and tearing.
If I focus on the physical, I don’t have to think about Maya alone in her heat.
About Logan gone to meet rebels. About the precarious position we’re all in.
A disgusted sigh cuts through my concentration. Ares pushes off from the doorframe, crossing the room in three long strides. Before I can react, his hands are on me, adjusting my stance with the casual confidence of someone who’s spent years training alongside me.
“You’re favoring your right side,” he says, voice gruff as he nudges my foot into proper position. “Keep training like this, and you’ll build a permanent weakness into your forms.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Clearly.” The sarcasm is thick enough to cut with a knife. “That’s why you’re bleeding through your shirt.”
I glance down, surprised to see a small stain of red blooming against the gray fabric. Damn it. I’d been so focused on the pain that I hadn’t noticed when it crossed from useful distraction to actual damage.
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, but I don’t resist when Ares guides me to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath our combined weight, the springs creaking in protest.
“Let me see.” It’s not a request. Ares’s hands are already lifting the hem of my shirt, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone whose knuckles are perpetually bruised from fighting.
I hiss as the fabric pulls away from the wound, dried blood making it stick in places. Ares’s expression doesn’t change as he examines the damage, but his concern is obvious.
“You popped two stitches,” he says after a moment. “Not as bad as it could be, but still fucking stupid.”
I pull back, letting my shirt fall. “It’s fine.”
“Logan will kill me if he comes back to find I let you bleed out.”
It hurts to admit the truth, but I do it anyway. “Doubtful.”
“They’ll be back soon,” Ares says. “Likely with some grand plan. Will you be ready to move?”
I lean back against the pillows, pain radiating from my belly in a way I know isn’t right but can’t quite manage to care about. “I’ll manage.”
My eyes closed, attention narrowing to the aching wreckage of my body. The silence goes on long enough that I assume Ares has left before he abruptly speaks again.
“Maya’s been asking about you,” he says.
Something tightens in my chest—hope or fear or some combination of both. I open my eyes again, wincing against the light. “What did she want to know?”
“If you were okay.” Ares’s mouth quirks in what might be a smile. “I told her you were too stubborn to die from something as trivial as blood loss.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“She’s worried about you,” Ares continues, his voice softening slightly. “Even through all this shit, even in heat, she’s worried about you.”
The words shouldn’t affect me as much as they do.
Shouldn’t send a warm current through my veins, shouldn’t make my heart beat faster.
I’ve spent years mastering my reactions, hiding my true nature behind a carefully constructed facade of beta normalcy.
One comment about Maya’s concern shouldn’t be enough to crack that control.
But it is.
“She shouldn’t be,” I say, the words coming out harsher than intended. “I’m fine.”
Ares snorts. “Yeah, you’re the picture of health. Bleeding through your shirt while practicing knife forms you used to be able to manage in your sleep. Totally fine.”
I shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. We both know he’s right. I’m pushing myself too hard, too soon. Risking the recovery I need to be useful to the pack. To protect Maya when the inevitable danger comes.
Because it will come. It always does.
“You should rest,” Ares says, standing abruptly. “Real rest, not this bullshit meditation-through-pain you’ve been doing.”
I don’t bother denying it. Ares knows me too well, has fought beside me too long. He recognizes self-punishment when he sees it.
“I need to be ready,” I say instead. “We won’t be safe here for long.”
Ares doesn’t have an argument for that. We both know that if the king’s guards found us now, he would be the only able to mount a defense. Alone, he might stand a chance, but not if he has the added burden of defended two weakened Omegas.
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with thoughts I’ve been trying to outrun through physical pain. Thoughts of loyalty and betrayal, of pack bonds and deeper connections, of what I owe to Logan versus what I owe to myself.
Of what I might owe to Maya, who saved my life in that clinic. Who looked at me afterward with eyes that held no judgment, only concern.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as exhaustion finally catches up with me. The painkillers on the nightstand remain untouched. I don’t need chemical dulling when fatigue will do the job just as well.
As consciousness begins to fade, I allow myself one last moment of weakness.
I reach for the bond again—that fragile, damaged connection to Maya—and let myself feel what filters through.
Her heat has intensified, bringing with it a loneliness that echoes my own.
A need that can’t be satisfied alone. A confusion of emotions too tangled to separate.
Rest, I think toward her, with no expectation the sentiment will reach her through our damaged connection. I’ll get strong enough to keep you safe again, or I’ll die trying.