CHAPTER 50: HIS LETTER 1

FIA

"Mother," Cian said hoarsely, setting his glass down. "That is not..."

"Not what?" Morrigan asked innocently. "You are mated now. Bonded. It is a natural question."

"It is not a natural question," Cian said firmly. "Not right now."

"When would be a better time?" she asked. "A year from now? Two? I would like to meet my grandchildren before I am too frail to hold them. Or worse... Dead!"

The words were light, teasing even, for the darkness that coated it. It was sort of a reminder of her illness. Of the time she might not have.

Cian’s jaw worked. He looked at me briefly, then away, like he could not quite bear to hold my gaze. "We have not discussed it much. But of course we will try."

"Well, perhaps you should discuss it a lot more," Morrigan said. She turned her attention to me and her eyes were bright with interest. "What about you, Fia? Do you want children?"

My throat closed. I had not expected the question to be aimed at me so directly. I glanced at Cian, but he was staring at his plate, his expression unreadable.

"I..." I started, then stopped. Did I want children? I had never really thought about it. Not seriously. Not in a way that felt real. "I suppose... eventually."

"Eventually," Morrigan repeated, as if testing the word. "That is a safe answer."

I felt my face heat again. "It is an honest one."

She smiled. "Good. Honesty is important." Her gaze shifted to Cian. "And you? Will you be honest? Marriage is a commitment and it would be disappointing if the only reason you got married is because you fear I am going to die."

Cian finally looked up. His expression was guarded, but there was something vulnerable in his eyes. Something that made my chest ache. "I have not thought about it. And I assure you, your sickness is not why I got married."

That was a lie. Even if he shielded himself from me, I knew it was a lie.

"I hear," Morrigan said after a moment, her tone light but her eyes too sharp for the words to feel casual, "that you two have been staying in separate rooms. And from what I gather, the conjugal night hasn’t even happened."

My head snapped up, but she was smiling as if she had merely commented on the weather.

Cian went completely still beside me. The fork in his hand hovered midair, his knuckles pale around it.

"Mother," he said quietly, warning in his voice.

She ignored him. "Why is that?"

I swallowed hard. I could feel Cian’s tension rolling off him, thick and suffocating. My palms were damp under the tablecloth. "I got poisoned by mourning moon," I said finally, the words coming out too fast, too defensive.

Morrigan’s expression shifted, surprise cutting through her calm facade. "Mourning moon?" she repeated. "But those plants grow deep in our own forest. How on earth did that happen?"

I hesitated. There was no good answer to that, not one that wouldn’t unravel too much. "It was my mistake," I said softly, forcing a small, embarrassed smile. "I wasn’t careful enough when gathering herbs."

Her eyes lingered on me for a long moment. The air felt heavier again, pressing against my ribs. Then she nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting in something that almost resembled approval. "I see. Well, I hope you are healthy now, my dear."

"Yes," I said quickly. "I am. Completely."

"I also had no idea you practiced healing."

I made a nervous chuckle. "I just try my best."

"Well, you should join Thorne to come treat sometime."

I looked at Cian and then back at her and managed a smile. "Of course."

"Good," Morrigan murmured. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass, and then she smiled again, that same knowing, mischievous smile that made me both fond and deeply uncomfortable. "I also hope that you can have your conjugal night soon."

Cian groaned softly beside me, rubbing a hand over his face.

"This is not—"

"This is no attempt to push," Morrigan interrupted, raising her hand in mock surrender, though amusement flickered in her eyes. "But the weather tonight does feel quite pleasant, doesn’t it?"

Silence fell, awkward and charged. The fire crackled in the hearth, its light glinting off the silverware. I stared down at my plate again, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or simply vanish into thin air.

Morrigan took another slow sip of her wine, as if she hadn’t just dropped a thunderclap into the middle of dinner. "You know," she said conversationally, "Cian’s father and I had our first night on a stormy evening, much like this. The sound of wind on the windows... it makes one feel rather close, don’t you think?"

Cian made a strangled sound that might have been a cough or a plea for divine intervention.

"Mother," he said again, his voice tight.

She only smiled, unfazed. "What? I am reminiscing. You two are married, not children hiding from the subject."

"That doesn’t mean we need to discuss it over dinner," he muttered.

"On the contrary," she said lightly. "Marriage is built on open conversation. You’ll find that avoiding the subject doesn’t make it go away. Besides..." She set down her glass and looked between us with that same blend of playfulness and quiet steel. "Life is shorter than we imagine. Why waste the time you’re given pretending you have forever?"

The words landed with a weight that pulled the air from my lungs. Beneath her teasing tone was something real and raw, the truth of her fading health lingering behind every syllable.

Cian’s face softened. "You should let it rest, Mother," he said gently.

She smiled faintly. "Rest is for the dying, my dear, not for those still meddling in their son’s marriage."

"Then perhaps meddle less," he said, though there was a flicker of fondness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

Morrigan looked between us once more, her gaze softer now, less probing. "You remind me of your father, Cian. Stubborn. Always certain time would wait for him. It never does." Her attention shifted to me, her eyes kind but still sharp enough to see through any polite smile. "And you, Fia, have the look of someone still figuring out what she wants. Take it from me, my dear. Love is rarely convenient. But when it comes, you should not let fear make you slow."

I felt my heart twist in my chest. I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded, my voice small. "I’ll remember that."

"Good," she said, her tone brisk again, as if she hadn’t just peeled back the air between us and left my emotions bare. "Now, Cian, you can pour me more wine, and Fia, you can tell me about the remedies you’ve been studying. The evening is too fine to waste on awkward silences."

The rest of dinner passed in relative quiet. Morrigan asked more polite questions about my family, about Silver Creek, about my mother. I answered as best I could, keeping my voice steady even when the memories stung. Cian ate in silence, his eyes fixed on his plate.

When the meal finally drew to a close, Morrigan rose with slow grace, her hand resting lightly on Dr. Maren’s arm for balance. The motion was careful, deliberate, as though every breath cost her strength she could no longer spare. Yet when she turned to me, her smile was soft and alive.

"It was lovely to meet you, Fia," she said, her voice low but warm, carrying the weight of sincerity that made it feel almost like a blessing.

"And you," I replied, rising from my chair. "Thank you for your kindness."

Her pale eyes studied me for a moment, quiet and knowing, before her lips curved again. "Between you and me," she murmured, her tone conspiratorial, "I am glad the universe brought you here in your sister’s stead."

She left before I could answer, Dr. Maren steadying her as they disappeared through the archway. The echo of her words lingered long after her footsteps faded.

Cian and I remained on opposite sides of the long table. The candles had burned low, their light flickering over untouched wine and scattered crumbs. The silence between us felt too full, too alive, pressing against my chest like a held breath.

He was the first to break it. "You did not have to defend me," he said quietly, his eyes fixed somewhere near his glass.

"I was not defending you," I answered. "I was only telling her the truth."

His gaze lifted to mine then, sharp but uncertain. "You were. You made me sound better than I am."

I shook my head. "No. I made you sound like the man you try very hard not to be."

Something shifted in his expression, something almost human flickering behind the usual restraint. The faintest curve of his mouth, then nothing. The silence returned, softer now, almost hesitant.

When he finally spoke again, his voice had changed. It was quieter, stripped of all the practiced calm he wore like armor.

"Tell me," he said, eyes searching mine, "why did you read my letters?"