CHAPTER 60: MENDING

CIAN

I couldn’t sleep after that.

I lay on the lounge, staring up at the ceiling, my arm draped over my eyes like that would somehow block out what just happened. It didn’t work. The memory played on repeat. Her fingers brushing my lips. The way her eyes had gone wide when I opened mine. The panic in her voice when she’d scrambled to explain herself.

You hugged me twice.

I groaned softly and turned onto my side, punching the pillow into a better shape. It didn’t help. Nothing was going to help because I was stuck replaying the whole thing and realizing just how much of an idiot I’d been.

I’d woken up with her pressed against me. That much was true. But the dream I’d been having right before I opened my eyes? That was the real problem.

I kept trying to blame the dream, but I knew better. Somewhere in the fog between sleep and waking, I had reached for her first. I could feel it now, faint but certain, like a shadow of a memory. My arm pulling her closer. My hand settling around her waist. The warmth of her breathing against my chest before I even opened my eyes.

I hugged her. Twice. That was the truth I kept circling.

The dream had pushed me toward her, but the instinct had been mine. That was the part that made my throat tighten. I remembered the shape of her, the scent of her soap, the way her hair tickled my jaw. Even half asleep, my body had known exactly where she was.

I shut my eyes hard and dragged a hand through my hair. Every time I thought about it, heat crawled up my neck. The worst part was how natural it had felt. Like holding her was something I did all the time. Like I had every right.

She must think I lost my mind.

I rolled onto my back again, staring up at nothing. The room felt too quiet. Too heavy. My chest ached with a strange mix of embarrassment and something I did not want to name.

I kept seeing her face when she pulled away. Wide eyes. Breath caught. Her fingers trembling. Not because she hated it. Not exactly. More like she did not know what to do with it. With me.

And I had made it worse by pretending I did not remember anything. I did remember. Not clearly. Not fully. More like an echo clinging to the edges of my thoughts. Enough to know that I started it, even if I did not mean to.

It bothered me more than it should have. The idea that she sat there thinking she crossed a line when really, I had pulled her over it.

I groaned again and dragged the pillow over my face.

I was an idiot. A complete one. Because the only thing keeping me awake now was the truth I could not avoid.

I did not dream of her by accident.

I reached for her because some part of me wanted to.

And now I had no idea what to do with that.

The dream still lingered at the back of my mind.

Her voice in my ear, her knee between my legs, her mouth on mine. The ropes, the chair, the way she touched me like she already knew every weakness I had. I could still feel her breath, still hear her say my name. It was too real, too sharp, too much.

I dragged a hand over my face.

Then I’d woken up to find her face inches from mine and her fingers on my mouth.

For a split second, I’d thought the dream was still happening. That she was not really there, touching me like that because she wanted to. Then reality crashed in and I realized how close we actually were. How her breath had hitched when our eyes met. How quickly she’d shoved me away.

I sat up on the lounge and scrubbed my hands over my face. This was getting out of control. I couldn’t let it spiral into something even more awkward, especially not with Alpha Julius’s wedding coming up. We were supposed to go as a couple. A pretend couple. We were supposed to look like we could stand each other for more than five minutes.

Right now, we couldn’t even share a bed without one of us doing something weird. And I didn’t like weird.

That was dangerous territory for me.

I stood and paced across the room, my bare feet silent on the carpet. The chamber was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear the faint hum of morning traffic far outside, the occasional shots of guns by practicing sentinels at the range, but nothing else. It felt like the world had shrunk down to just me and this restless energy I couldn’t shake.

I glanced at the wall clock in the lounge. Five twenty-three. It was still too early to do anything useful. But it was also too late to go back to sleep.

I kept pacing.

The wedding was in days. We needed to look good together. Presentable. Like a real couple who actually liked each other. That meant I needed to fix this mess before it got worse. Before the awkwardness settled in so deep that we couldn’t even look at each other without flinching.

An idea started to form. Shopping. I could take her shopping for a dress. Something elegant. Something that would make her feel confident and maybe distract her from whatever the hell had happened this morning. It was practical. It made sense. And it gave us something to do together that wasn’t lying in bed trying not to touch each other.

I stopped pacing and nodded to myself. Yeah. That would work.

I turned toward the bedroom door. I’d tell her now. Get it out of the way before either of us could overthink it. Before the silence stretched on so long that neither of us knew how to break it.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She was standing by my drawer. Her back was to me, her head tilted down, and she was holding something in her hands. A picture frame.

My chest tightened.

I knew which one it was before I even saw it properly. The angle she was standing at, the way her shoulders hunched slightly forward like she was studying it closely. There was only one frame she could be holding.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

The words ripped out of me before I could stop them. Too sharp, too loud, too much, but I did not care. She was holding that picture. The one she had no right to touch.

She jerked as if I had struck her. She spun around fast, eyes blown wide. The frame slipped from her hands at the same time.

It hit the floor with a crack that seemed to tear through the whole room. Glass burst across the carpet, small shards catching the morning light like broken stars.

"Oh my goddess," she breathed, her hands covering her mouth. "I am so sorry. I did not see you there."

I barely heard her. My eyes were fixed on the wreckage at her feet. The broken frame, the scattered glass, the photo inside lying open to the world when it was never meant to be seen.

Heat surged through me. It climbed my throat and took over my chest. Anger came fast and wild, choking out everything else.

"Why can’t you keep your fucking hands to yourself?" I said, my voice cracking with the rise of it. "Is that so hard for you?"

She flinched like I’d struck her. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed, confusion and hurt flashing across her face.

"It is just a picture frame," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I can fix it."

"No!" I shouted. "Get out!"

She stared at me for a long moment. I could see the shock written all over her face. The way her mouth parted slightly like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then she turned and walked quickly toward the door, her footsteps uneven.

The door clicked shut behind her.

I stayed where I was, breathing too fast, my hands curled tight at my sides. The anger still burned through me, sharp and bright, but something heavier dragged beneath it. Something that made my chest feel too tight.

My gaze dropped to the floor.

Madeline’s face stared up at me from the shattered frame. Her smile was soft in that picture, her hair catching the light the way it always had. She looked alive, warm, almost glowing. We both did. That was before everything turned cold.

I crouched down, my knees hitting the carpet, and reached for the frame. My fingers shook. A piece of glass cut into my palm as soon as I touched it. The sting came fast. Blood rose in a small bright line then dripped onto the photo, right across Madeline’s cheek.

The sight froze me.

Her smile, streaked with red. The crack that split the picture clean down the middle, cutting us apart. The ruin of something I had been trying so hard to hold on to.

My hand throbbed, warm and wet, but I did not move. I stayed there, kneeling among the broken pieces, holding what was left of the only picture I still had of us. It felt wrong to even breathe.

I should have hidden it better. I knew that. I should have put it somewhere no one else could touch. Somewhere her face would not risk being exposed or broken or seen by eyes that did not understand.

But I hadn’t because part of me couldn’t let go. Part of me still needed to see Madeline’s face every now and then, even if it hurt.

Now the frame was broken. The glass was shattered. And Fia had seen it.

I set the frame down carefully, my hand still bleeding, and I pressed my palm against my pants to stop the flow. The fabric darkened immediately.

In a few minutes, it would heal. So it was not really an issue.

I’d overreacted. I knew that. Fia hadn’t meant anything by it. She’d just been curious. Maybe a little nosy, but not malicious. She didn’t know what that picture meant to me. She didn’t know who Madeline was or why seeing that frame in her hands had felt like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed.

But I couldn’t take it back now. The damage was done.

I stood slowly, my legs stiff, and I looked toward the door. She was probably out there right now, confused and angry and hurt. And I had no idea what to say to her.

The wedding was in a few days.

We were supposed to be a couple.

And I’d just screamed at her to get out.