Chapter 23 Brynn
brYNN
Iwatch Ciaran's face as he lifts Rhea from the couch, his movements careful and deliberate despite the exhaustion etched in every line of his features.
My daughter—my precious girl who was blue-lipped and still just minutes ago—nestles against his chest with complete trust, her small arms looping around his neck like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I can carry her," I offer, my voice still rough from crying, but he shakes his head.
"I've got her."
The gentleness in his tone, the way he adjusts his grip to make sure she's comfortable, sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing through me.
This man who barely knew us a month ago just saved my daughter's life.
Used his own magic, risked his own strength, to pull her back from whatever edge she'd been teetering on.
"Mum, I'm sorry," Rhea whispers against Ciaran's shoulder as we make our way through the square. The festivities continue around us, but everything feels muted now, like we're walking through a dream. "We just wanted to make the cakes prettier."
"What do you mean, love?" I ask, falling into step beside them. Nya walks close to Ciaran's other side, her small hand resting on his arm like she needs the physical connection to feel safe.
"The flowers," Nya pipes up, her voice small and worried. "We picked some from behind the bakery because Rhea said they looked just like the ones Eda uses on her fancy cakes. The blue ones with the pretty petals."
My blood turns to ice. Blue flowers with pretty petals. I know exactly what they're describing—rirzed blossoms, which Eda does use for decoration. But there's another flower that grows wild in the alleyways, one that looks nearly identical until you know what to look for.
"Oh gods," I breathe, my steps faltering. "Numiscu blossoms."
Ciaran's violet eyes meet mine over Rhea's head, understanding passing between us instantly. "That explains the symptoms," he says grimly. "The paralytic effect, the respiratory distress."
"But why didn't Nya get sick too?" The question tears from my throat as we reach the shop door. I fumble with my keys, my hands still shaking so badly I can barely work the lock.
"My magic," Nya says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Dad says it protects me from lots of bad things. That's why I have to take medicine when other kids don't."
Ciaran's jaw tightens, and I can see the weight he carries in the set of his shoulders.
All those years of managing his daughter's condition, of knowing that her own magic could turn against her without warning.
"Her magical tolerance is higher," he explains as I finally get the door open.
"What would poison Rhea might only make Nya mildly ill.
Especially if it was only a few petals and her body is used to handling such things. "
We climb the narrow stairs to the apartment, each step feeling like an eternity.
Rhea's breathing is steady now, but I can't stop watching the rise and fall of her chest, can't quite believe she's really safe.
Every parent's worst nightmare had been playing out in front of me, and if Ciaran hadn't been there. ..
I push the thought away before it can take root. He was there. He knew what to do. My daughter is alive because of him.
"Both of you listen to me," I say as Ciaran settles Rhea on her bed, my voice carrying the kind of stern authority I rarely use. "You never, ever eat anything you find growing outside without asking an adult first. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Mum," Rhea whispers, her face pale but earnest.
"Yes, Miss Brynn," Nya adds, crawling up onto the bed beside her friend. "We won't do it again. Promise."
I want to lecture them more, want to make sure they understand how close we came to losing everything tonight, but the words stick in my throat. They're children. They made a mistake, and they've learned from it in the most terrifying way possible. Adding guilt to their fear won't help anyone.
"Good," I manage instead, pulling the quilt up around both girls. "Now rest. You've had enough excitement for one night."
But as I move toward the door, Nya's voice stops me. "Can I stay with Rhea tonight? Please? I don't want to go back to the inn."
The pleading in her tone makes my chest ache. Of course she doesn't want to be alone after what happened. Of course she needs to stay close to her friend, to make sure with her own eyes that Rhea is really okay.
"If it's alright with your father," I say, glancing at Ciaran.
He nods immediately. "Of course. We can collect her things in the morning."
Relief floods Nya's face as she burrows deeper under the covers beside Rhea.
Within minutes, both girls are breathing deeply, exhaustion finally claiming them after the trauma of the evening.
I watch them for a long moment—my daughter and his, curled together like sisters, like they've always belonged in the same bed, in the same life.
"Come on," Ciaran says softly, his hand warm on my shoulder. "Let them sleep."
I follow him into the common room, my legs suddenly unsteady now that the immediate crisis has passed. The adrenaline that's been keeping me upright begins to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and hands that won't stop trembling.
Ciaran moves around the space with quiet efficiency, lighting the oil lamp on the mantle and stoking the dying embers in the hearth until small flames lick at the logs.
The warm light transforms the room, casting everything in golden hues that should be comforting but somehow make me feel more fragile, more exposed.
I sink onto the worn sofa, finally allowing myself to fully process what just happened. My daughter could have died tonight. If we'd been even a few minutes later, if Ciaran hadn't known what to do, if his magic hadn't been strong enough to counteract the poison...
"Brynn." Ciaran's voice is gentle as he settles beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "She's safe. You can breathe now."
But I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see Rhea's blue lips, her still form on Eda's couch. I see myself standing helpless while my daughter slipped away from me, unable to do anything but watch. The terror of those moments crashes over me again, stealing my breath and making my chest tight.
"I almost lost her," I whisper, the words barely audible. "If you hadn't been there..."
"But I was there." His hand covers mine, stilling the tremors that run through my fingers. "And she's fine. A little shaken, but fine."
The steadiness in his voice, the absolute certainty, cuts through my panic like a blade.
This is what he does, I realize. This calm competence in the face of crisis.
He's spent years managing medical emergencies with Nya, years being the steady presence his daughter needed when her own body turned against her.
"How do you do it?" I ask, turning to study his face in the lamplight. The sharp angles of his cheekbones, the exhaustion around his violet eyes, the way he holds himself like he's carrying the weight of the world. "How do you stay so calm when someone you love is in danger?"
Something flickers across his expression—pain, maybe, or recognition. "Practice," he says simply. "Too much practice."
The weight in those words settles between us.
I think of all the nights he must have spent watching over Nya, all the times he's had to make split-second decisions about her care.
All the fear he's swallowed down so his daughter wouldn't see it, all the strength he's had to summon when his own heart was breaking.
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, too small for what he's done. I turn my hand palm-up beneath his, our fingers intertwining. "For saving her. For knowing what to do when I..." My voice cracks. "When I was completely useless."
"You weren't useless." His thumb traces across my knuckles, the touch both soothing and electric. "You were terrified. Any parent would be."
"But you weren't. You knew exactly what to do, you never hesitated." I study his face, this man who's become so much more than a stranger passing through. "You saved my daughter's life tonight, Ciaran."
Something shifts in his expression, the careful control he always maintains slipping just enough for me to see the raw emotion underneath. Before I can process it fully, he's moving closer, his free hand cupping my cheek as he pulls me against him.
"I couldn't stand to see you like that," he says, his voice rough with feeling. "Couldn't stand to think that I might lose her. That I might lose any of you."
My breath catches. The warmth of his palm against my skin, the intensity in his violet eyes—it's overwhelming and perfect and terrifying all at once.
"I love Rhea," he continues, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "I love all three of my girls. Nya, Rhea, and you."
The world tilts. My heart pounds so hard I'm certain he can hear it, can feel it where our bodies press together. All the careful walls I've built, all the reasons I've given myself for keeping him at arm's length—they crumble in the face of those simple words.
His girls.
Not just Nya. All of us.
"Ciaran," I whisper, but I don't know what comes next. How do you respond when someone hands you everything you've been afraid to want?
He must see the shock in my face, the way I'm struggling to process what he's said, because his grip on me tightens slightly. Not possessive, but anchoring. Like he needs to make sure I don't flee.
"I can see you've been hesitant," he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that always makes something flutter in my chest. "And I understand why. Some bastard hurt you, left you and Rhea behind. But if you don't want this—if you don't want me—then tell me now."
There's steel beneath the gentleness, a determination that speaks to everything I've learned about him over these past weeks. He's laying it all on the line, putting his heart in my hands with the same courage he showed when he stepped between my daughter and death tonight.
"Because I'm done pretending this is casual," he continues when I don't immediately respond. "I'm done acting like what we have isn't, and if that's not what you want, Brynn, then tell me—"
"I do." The words burst from me before I can think them through, cutting off whatever he was about to say. "Want you. Want this. I'm just..." I take a shaky breath, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "I've been burned before. When Cyprien stole my heart and left me behind."
The name tastes bitter on my tongue. I've never said it out loud before, not to anyone in Eryndral. It's been my secret shame for ten years, the mistake that gave me Rhea but nearly broke me in the process.
Ciaran goes very still. Something flickers across his face—recognition, maybe, or disbelief. "Cyprien?" he repeats slowly. "Is he the sculptor?"
I nod, my throat tight. Of course he'd know the name. The art world isn't that large, especially on Kaynvu. Cyprien was brilliant, charismatic, the kind of artist whose reputation preceded him into every room.
"Is he..." Ciaran's voice is carefully controlled, but I can see the tension in his jaw. "Is Cyprien Rhea's father?"
Another nod. This one costs me more, dredging up all the old pain I thought I'd buried.
The memory of believing I was special, that he loved me enough to stay.
The crushing realization that I was just another conquest, another pretty face to warm his bed before he moved on to the next commission, the next city, the next woman naive enough to fall for his charm.
To my complete shock, Ciaran chuckles. Not mockingly, but with what sounds almost like relief. The sound is so unexpected, so at odds with the gravity of what I've just confessed, that I can only stare at him.
"That makes a lot more sense now," he says, shaking his head slightly. "When I felt Rhea's magic tonight, when I was working to counteract the poison... it felt so familiar. So much like Nya's."
My brow furrows. "I don't understand."
"My brother," he says simply. "The sculptor I mentioned when we first met, the one I said I haven't seen in years? His name is Cyprien."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I feel the blood drain from my face, my hands starting to shake again for an entirely different reason. "Your brother?"
"My older brother." Ciaran's grip on my face gentles, his thumb stroking across my skin in a gesture that's probably meant to be comforting but only makes my head spin faster. "Cyprien Delyth. Talented, charming, and utterly incapable of thinking about anyone but himself."
Delyth. Rhea's father's surname. A name I never knew because he never bothered to share it, never stayed long enough for such mundane details.
But now, looking at Ciaran's sharp features, the aristocratic line of his nose, the way he holds himself—I can see the family resemblance I was too blinded by attraction to notice before.
"Rhea is my niece," he continues, wonder creeping into his voice. "That's why teaching her poetry felt so natural, why her magic responded to mine tonight. Why her eyes always felt like looking in a mirror and she made me think so much of myself."
I can't speak. Can't think. The man I've been falling for, the one who just declared his love for my daughter, is the brother of the man who shattered my heart and left me pregnant and alone. The cruel irony of it steals my breath, makes my chest tight with something between laughter and tears.
"Brynn." Ciaran's voice cuts through my spiral, anchoring me back to the present. "Look at me."
I force my eyes to focus on his face, on the concern etched in every line. He's watching me like he's afraid I might bolt, like he's already calculating how to convince me to stay.
"This doesn't change anything," he says firmly. "Not between us. Not between any of us. Cyprien may be Rhea's father by blood, but he's never been her parent. And blood or not, I've come to love her just as much as you do."
The certainty in his voice, the way he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, cracks something open in my chest. Because he's right.
Cyprien gave Rhea life, but he's never been part of it.
Never held her when she was sick, never taught her to read, never stayed up all night worrying about her future.
"And now I understand," Ciaran continues, his other hand finding mine again. "I understand why you've been so careful, so afraid to trust. Because now I really know what you went through."