Chapter 15 Brynn
brYNN
Three days. It's been three days since I kissed Ciaran in the village center like some lovesick fool, and I still can't stop thinking about it.
The memory burns through me at the most inconvenient moments—when I'm measuring ink for a customer, when I'm braiding Rhea's hair, when I catch sight of his tall frame through my shop windows as he moves through the square with that easy, confident grace that makes my stomach flutter like I'm sixteen again.
Stop it, I tell myself for the hundredth time this morning, forcing my attention back to the ledger spread across my counter. You know better than this.
But my traitorous mind keeps circling back to the way his mouth felt against mine, warm and sure and tasting of rirzed wine.
The way his hands had framed my face like I was something precious, something worth savoring.
The low sound he made when I kissed him back, like I'd answered a question he'd been asking without words.
Right before I panicked and pulled away like he'd scalded me.
The shame of that moment sits heavy in my chest. Not shame at wanting him—I'm past pretending I don't—but shame at my cowardice. At the way I let Cyprien's ghost stand between us, poisoning something that felt real and good and right.
Because it had felt right. That's the part that terrifies me most.
The shop bell chimes, pulling me from my brooding.
Rhea bounces through the door with Nya at her side, both girls pink-cheeked from the cold and chattering about the morning's festival preparations.
They've become inseparable over the past few weeks, thick as thieves and twice as troublesome when they put their minds to it.
"Mum, can we help sort the new parchment shipment?" Rhea asks, already shrugging out of her winter cloak. "Nya's brilliant at organizing by size."
I glance at Nya, who flushes with pleasure at the compliment.
The girl has flourished here in Eryndral, her health improving with each passing day.
Gone is the pale, wan child who first walked into my shop.
In her place is a bright-eyed eight-year-old with an artist's attention to detail and a hunger for quiet tasks that let her mind wander.
"Of course," I tell them, gesturing toward the supply room. "But mind the ink bottles on the top shelf."
They disappear into the back with the kind of excited whispers that usually mean trouble, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
Which promptly return to Ciaran and the way he'd looked at me last night during dinner—patient and understanding, like he could see straight through my careful walls but wasn't going to push.
Just... waiting. Ready to catch me if I decided to fall.
How long will he wait? The question gnaws at me. How long before he gets bored and moves on?
It's the same fear that's been eating at me since the moment I realized I was developing feelings for him.
Ciaran says he likes Eryndral, talks about how good the town is for Nya's health, but what happens when the novelty wears off?
When winter ends and the roads clear and he remembers there's a whole world beyond our little valley?
He's a poet, a novelist, a man who belongs in the great cities with their literary salons and sophisticated audiences.
What could possibly hold him here long-term?
A scribe shop? A woman with ink-stained fingers and a guarded heart?
The provincial charm of a market town that probably feels quaint for a few months but would drive any reasonable person to madness after a year?
I'm so lost in my spiraling thoughts that I almost miss the sound of footsteps on the shop's front steps. Heavy boots, measured pace—I know that walk by now. My pulse kicks up despite my best efforts to remain calm.
The door opens, bringing a gust of cold air and the scent of winter pine. Ciaran steps inside, stamping snow from his boots, his dark cloak dusted with white. He's carrying a canvas sack that looks heavy, his breath still visible in small puffs that speak to the morning's bitter cold.
"Morning," he says, his voice that low rumble that makes warmth pool in my belly. "Brought your order from Korin's forge."
Right. The order. I'd commissioned new hinges for the supply room door weeks ago, back when Ciaran was just another customer and I could look at him without my heart doing somersaults. "You didn't have to carry those yourself."
"Korin's swamped with festival preparations." He shrugs, setting the heavy sack down with careful precision. "Besides, gave me an excuse to check on you and the girls."
An excuse. My stomach does that fluttering thing again, and I hate how much I like the idea that he needs excuses to see me. That he's thinking about me enough to manufacture reasons for visits.
"They're in the back, sorting parchment," I tell him, then immediately regret the words when his face lights up. Because now he'll want to go say hello, which means he'll be here longer, which means more opportunities for me to make a fool of myself by staring at him like he hung the moon.
"Mind if I—?"
"Of course not."
He disappears into the supply room, and I hear the immediate explosion of delighted greetings from both girls.
Their voices blend together—Rhea's bright chatter and Nya's quieter responses, with Ciaran's deeper tones weaving through their conversation.
He's telling them about the morning's work, about the massive pile of wood that needs chopping for tonight's festival fire, and I can hear the smile in his voice as they pepper him with questions.
He's good with them, I think, not for the first time. Both of them.
It should worry me more than it does. Should send up warning flags about getting Rhea too attached to a man who might disappear at any moment.
But watching Ciaran with our daughters these past weeks has been like watching something I didn't know I was starving for.
The way he listens to Rhea's endless questions with genuine interest, how he encourages Nya's quiet observations, the careful attention he pays to both their needs and moods.
Cyprien never showed the slightest interest in Rhea.
Barely acknowledged her existence beyond a few patronizing comments about "half-blood children" and their supposed limitations.
I'd told myself it didn't matter, that we didn't need him anyway, but seeing what fatherly attention actually looks like makes my chest ache with old hurts.
"Brynn?" Ciaran's voice cuts through my brooding. He's emerged from the supply room, alone—I can still hear the girls giggling about something in the back. "Everything all right?"
"Fine." The word comes out sharper than I intended, defensive in a way that makes his brow furrow with concern. "Just thinking about inventory."
He doesn't call me on the obvious lie, but something shifts in his expression. A kind of careful patience that makes me feel exposed, like he can see right through my flimsy excuses to the mess of fear and longing underneath.
"I should get back to the wood detail," he says after a moment. "But I wanted to ask—would you mind if I borrowed Rhea for an hour or so? She mentioned wanting to help with the festival fire, and we could use extra hands."
The request catches me off guard. Not because it's unreasonable—Rhea loves any excuse to be useful, and she's been chattering about the festival preparations all week.
But because it's another example of how effortlessly Ciaran has woven himself into our lives, how natural it feels for him to include my daughter in his plans.
"She'd love that," I hear myself saying. "Just make sure she stays warm."
"Of course." His smile is soft, genuine, and it does terrible things to my resolve. "Thank you."
He calls to the girls, explaining about the wood detail, and Rhea practically bounces out of the supply room. She's already reaching for her cloak, chattering about wanting to see how big they can make the fire this year, when Ciaran catches my eye over her head.
"What about you?" he asks quietly. "Any interest in lending a hand?"
The invitation hangs between us, layered with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to unpack.
It's not just about chopping wood or festival preparations.
It's about choosing to be near him, choosing to let myself be part of whatever this thing is between us instead of hiding behind my counter and my fears.
"I should mind the shop," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth I know they sound weak.
The truth is, I want to go. Want to watch him work, want to be part of the easy camaraderie I can see building among the volunteers.
Want to stop being afraid long enough to see what might happen if I let myself trust this.
"Of course." If he's disappointed, he hides it well. "Maybe later, then."
They bundle up and head out into the cold, Rhea's excited chatter fading as the door swings shut behind them. The shop feels suddenly empty, too quiet, and I find myself drifting to the front windows to watch them walk across the square.
Ciaran has one hand on Rhea's shoulder, guiding her around patches of ice with the same protective care he shows Nya. She's looking up at him with obvious adoration, hanging on his every word, and something clenches tight in my chest at the sight.
This is dangerous, I think. She's getting too attached.
But even as the thought forms, I know it's not really about Rhea.
It's about me. About the way my heart speeds up when I catch sight of Ciaran's tall frame moving through the square, the way I find excuses to be near the windows when I know he'll be passing by.
About how I've started looking forward to our shared dinners and quiet conversations after the girls go to sleep, how natural it feels to have him in my space.
I'm getting too attached. Have been for weeks now, if I'm being honest with myself.
Twenty minutes later, I abandon any pretense of working and position myself at the front window with a cup of kaffo and a ledger I'm not actually reading. From here, I have a perfect view of the square, where a growing group of volunteers has gathered around an impressive pile of wood and kindling.
Ciaran is in the center of it all, his dark cloak abandoned on a nearby bench.
He's rolled up the sleeves of his tunic despite the cold, and I can see the lean muscle of his forearms as he swings the axe with practiced efficiency.
Each strike splits wood cleanly, economically, like he's done this kind of work before.
Stop staring, I tell myself, but I can't look away. There's something hypnotic about watching him work—the fluid motion of his body, the way he pauses to wipe sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the easy confidence in every movement.
When he reaches for the hem of his tunic to pull it over his head, my mouth goes dry.
He's beautiful in the way that dark elves often are—all lean lines and sharp angles, his pale skin marked with old scars that speak to a life more complicated than poetry salons and literary discussions.
There's a tattoo on his left shoulder blade, some kind of intricate knotwork that catches the winter light as he moves.
I'm definitely staring now, my kaffo growing cold in my hands as I watch him bend to gather more wood. The muscles in his back shift and flex with the movement, and I have to grip the window frame to keep myself steady. Because that man looks far too good for me to stand.
This is ridiculous, I think desperately. You're acting like some silly girl with her first crush.
But I can't make myself move away from the window.
Can't stop cataloging the way he looks when he laughs at something Korin says, the careful attention he pays to Rhea when she tugs on his sleeve to ask a question.
The way he pauses in his work to make sure she's staying warm, adjusting her scarf with the same gentle care he shows Nya.
He's going to leave, I remind myself. Just like Cyprien did. Just like they all do.
But even as I think it, doubt creeps in.
Because Cyprien never chopped wood for festival fires or carried heavy supplies without being asked.
Never spent hours helping children with their art or listened to my stories about the shop with genuine interest. Never looked at me like I was something worth staying for.
A commotion in the square draws my attention back to the present. One of the younger volunteers—Thalen's apprentice, I think—has managed to get his axe stuck in a particularly stubborn log. The men are laughing, offering unhelpful advice, while the boy's face grows redder with embarrassment.
Ciaran steps forward, saying something I can't hear that makes the tension dissolve into good-natured chuckles.
He shows the apprentice how to adjust his grip, how to read the grain of the wood, and within moments the log splits cleanly.
The boy beams with pride, and Ciaran claps him on the shoulder before moving on to the next piece.
Patient, I think. Kind.
Not like Cyprien at all.
The thought hits me with surprising force, and I find myself really looking at Ciaran for the first time in days.
Not through the filter of old hurts and borrowed fears, but as himself.
As the man who's spent three weeks proving, day after day, that he's nothing like the ghosts that haunt my memories.
He hasn't pushed. Hasn't demanded explanations for my retreat after our kiss.
Hasn't tried to corner me into conversations I'm not ready to have or pressed for more than I'm willing to give.
He simply shows up, steady as winter stone, offering help and companionship without expecting anything in return.
Like now. Chopping wood for a festival fire he doesn't even have to attend, in a town that isn't his home, for people who are still largely strangers to him. Because it's the right thing to do. Because someone needs to do it, and he's capable, so why wouldn't he help?
The realization settles over me like a blanket, warm and uncomfortable at the same time. Because if Ciaran isn't Cyprien—and he clearly isn't—then what excuse do I have for keeping him at arm's length? What right do I have to punish him for another man's sins?
You're falling for him, I admit to myself for the first time. Have been for weeks. Whether you want to or not.
The acknowledgment should terrify me. Should send me spiraling into all the reasons this is a terrible idea, all the ways it could go wrong.
But standing here watching him work, seeing the easy way he fits into this community, the gentle care he shows both our daughters, I find I'm less afraid than I expected to be.
Still afraid, yes. But maybe... maybe fear doesn't have to be the only thing driving my choices.