CHAPTER 59: THE GIRL IN THE HIDDEN FRAME

FIA

I stayed frozen in his arms, my mind spinning with what the hell I should do. Moving seemed like the right answer, but the second I did, he’d wake up. And then what? We’d both lie there pretending this never happened while the awkwardness pressed down on us like a lead weight? Or worse, he’d realize how close we were and think I’d been the one to curl into him.

My eyes fixed on the wall across from me, where moonlight stretched pale and silver against the dark green paint. I watched it for what felt like forever, tracking the slow shift as the light thinned and the color of the room changed. The deep shadows softened. The green turned less hostile. Morning was crawling closer, and I needed to get out of this position before he woke up and made things unbearable.

I shifted my weight carefully, barely breathing. His arm was heavy around my ribs, his hand splayed across my stomach like he’d grabbed hold in his sleep and forgotten to let go. I eased forward, inch by inch, until I felt the grip loosen. My heart beat faster as I slid free, relief flooding through me.

Then his arm shot out and pulled me back.

I gasped softly as he dragged me closer, tighter than before. Now I wasn’t just pressed against him. I was right in his face. Our noses nearly touched. His breath warmed my lips with every exhale. My own breath hitched, shallow and unsteady, and I couldn’t move without our mouths brushing.

He shifted again, his face dipping until his nose pressed into my hair. A low, sleepy sound rumbled from his throat.

"You smell nice," he murmured.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought he’d feel it. I stared at him, wide-eyed, my pulse roaring in my ears. He didn’t open his eyes. His face stayed relaxed, peaceful, like he had no idea what he’d just done to me.

This was the first time I’d really looked at him without anger or bitterness clouding my vision. Without the need to turn him into something I could hate. It also help that he was scowling at me with those intense eyes. His dark hair fell across his forehead in messy curls, soft and almost boyish. His face had sharp lines, a strong jaw, but there was something gentler about him like this. Unguarded.

My gaze traced the slope of his nose, the kind you’d see on old statues, perfectly straight and somehow elegant. Then my eyes dropped to his mouth. His lips were parted slightly, the lower one fuller than the top. They looked soft. Warm.

The dream crashed back into my mind without warning. The heat of it. The way his voice had sounded when he told me to open wider. The way I’d felt when he pushed into me, deep and steady and overwhelming.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. Was he really like that? Commanding, confident and hungry? Or was that just my mind inventing things I had no business imagining?

My hand moved before I could stop it. My fingers reached out, hovering over his mouth, then brushed against his lips. Just barely. Just enough to feel how soft they were.

His eyes snapped open.

I shrieked and shoved him hard. He rolled backward, his body tipping toward the edge of the bed, and he caught himself at the last second. He sat up, one hand braced on the mattress, his hair disheveled and his eyes sharp with confusion.

"What the hell?" he said, his voice rough with sleep.

My mind went blank. He’d seen me. He’d woken up to me touching his lips like some kind of creep. Heat flooded my face and I scrambled to sit up, words tumbling out in a mess.

"You hugged me first!"

He blinked at me, still half-awake. "You were the one in my face. Assaulting my lips with your fingers." His eyes narrowed slightly, though there was no real anger in them. Just disbelief. "What were you going to do if I didn’t wake up?"

I stood up fast, my legs shaky, and I crossed my arms over my chest like that would somehow protect me from how stupid I felt. "You hugged me twice," I shot back. "You said I smelled nice. I was just..."

I stopped. The next words caught in my throat because there was no way to finish that sentence without sounding even weirder. I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. The red numbers glowed back at me. Five in the morning.

"It’s morning," I said quickly. "I should go."

I turned toward the door, desperate to escape before this got worse.

"No."

I froze. His voice was firm, not angry, just certain. I looked back at him. He was standing now, his pajama bottoms were wrinkled and his hair still a mess. He crossed the space between us in a few strides, stopping just close enough that I had to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.

"It’ll be odd if you leave at this time," he said. "It’ll look like we fought or something."

I opened my mouth to argue but he kept going.

"All is forgiven. Just stay."

I stared at him, my heart still hammering. I wanted to say no. I wanted to get out of this room and away from him before my brain short-circuited completely. But then he added, quieter, "I’ll stay in the lounge if it makes you more comfortable."

How could I say no to that?

I hesitated, my hands twisting together. "I didn’t mean to be weird," I said finally, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be. "You really did snuggle with me and I... I wanted to wake you up. When you suddenly roused, it scared me."

It sounded lame even as I said it. But I hoped he’d just accept it and spare me the embarrassment of trying to explain what I’d actually been thinking.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

Oh, he didn’t buy a fucking word.

He grabbed a pillow from the bed and walked toward the lounge area without another word. I stood there, watching him go, and whispered to myself, "He’s going to think you’re weird. You’re not going to get out of this easily."

I paced the room, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I needed a distraction. Something to stop my brain from replaying that stupid moment over and over. I glanced around the room properly for the first time, taking in the space I’d been too tense to notice earlier.

The bed was massive, the sheets a soft grey that looked expensive. The walls were dark green, rich and deep, the kind of color that made the room feel like a forest at dusk. One entire wall was lined with bookshelves, packed tight with spines of every size and color.

I walked over to the shelves, running my finger along the titles. The Art of War sat next to a thick volume on werewolf politics. There were histories, strategy guides, books on leadership and warfare. Nothing light. Nothing for pleasure. It felt like the library of someone who never stopped preparing for the next fight.

Then my eyes caught on something else. A row of picture frames sitting on top of a wooden drawer near the shelves. I moved closer, drawn in by the faces staring back at me.

The first one showed Cian as a child. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, his hair just as messy then as it was now. His mother stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, her smile warm and proud. And next to her was a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. With the same sharp jawline and straight nose as Cian.

His late father.

I picked up the frame carefully, studying the three of them together. They looked happy. Whole. The kind of family portrait you’d expect to see in any home.

I set it down and looked at the others. Four more frames, all with his mother in them. In one, she was laughing, her head tipped back, joy lighting up her face. In another, she stood with Cian at what looked like a ceremony, his hand holding hers tightly. The third one showed her alone, sitting in a garden, the sunlight soft on her features.

Only one of the four had his father in it. The same one I’d just looked at. It was clear which parent Cian cherished more.

I set the last frame down and started to turn away, but something metallic caught my eye. A drawer wasn’t fully closed. A sliver of space showed between the top and the frame, and something shiny reflected the dim light filtering into the room.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the drawer. Then I pulled it open.

Another picture frame lay inside, facedown. I picked it up and turned it over.

Cian stared back at me, older than in the other photos but still younger than he was now. Maybe eighteen or twenty. And beside him, smiling brightly, was a young woman. She had light hair, long and wavy, and she was staring intently at him. They looked close, the kind of close that said they knew each other well. That they mattered to each other.

I stared at the photo, my chest tightening for reasons I didn’t want to name.

Who was she?