Prince of Devotion

Ciaran's POV

She sighed in her sleep, soft and warm, curled beneath the black sheets like a secret only he was allowed to keep. Ciaran sat on the edge of the bed, shadows dancing along his bare arms, watching her with a hunger no time or rebirth had ever dulled. He touched her hair gently at first, fingers combing through the silky strands. Then, slowly, he wrapped them around his hand and tugged her head back, exposing her neck.

He leaned down, lips brushing her pulse point—possessive, reverent. "Mine," he whispered into her skin.

Her body responded even in sleep. A breath caught in her throat, her fingers curled into the sheets. That was all the permission he needed.

Ciaran traced the slope of her collarbone, his hand lingering over her chest, then lower, pausing just above the line of her waist. He wasn't cruel; he wasn't careless. Every touch was a memory, a reclamation. He had waited lifetimes to hold her again.

He whispered in the old tongue, a spell of tethering, ancient and forgotten by most but him. She stirred, eyes fluttering, a murmur leaving her lips—his name.

He kissed her then. Deep and consuming. Her body moved against his instinctively, lips parting, sighing into him as if her soul remembered what her mind did not. When she relaxed into him, he pulled back slowly and brushed his thumb over her bottom lip.

"You belong to me, mo duinne," he murmured.

She blinked up at him, dazed, caught between dream and waking. "Say it again."

"You are mine. As I am yours."

Her hand lifted, fingers curling weakly into the front of his shirt, and she pulled him close, whispering back, "Then stay."

He did—until her breathing deepened again and sleep claimed her fully. Then, with reluctance, he rose, the shadows gathering around him like a cloak. He walked out into the cold night, barefoot, silent, disappearing into the treeline.

She was here. He could feel her.

The Mistress.

He didn't kneel when the shadows parted to reveal her form. She stood beneath the trees like a queen carved from night itself, her long silver hair glowing faintly beneath the moonlight.

"You're late," she said, voice smooth as still water.

"I was busy," Ciaran replied, eyes narrowing.

The Mistress gave a thin smile. "Loving her again?"

He said nothing.

"You're forgetting our agreement."

"I never forget anything," he said coolly. "But let's be clear. You don't own me. You never have."

She moved closer, her eyes sharp. "No. But we both want her. For different reasons. You promised to help guide her down the path of shadow."

"I promised to protect her from what's coming."

"And if protection means possession?"

He didn't answer. The wind shifted, and his gaze returned to the cabin in the distance.

"She's already changing," the Mistress said. "You see it, don't you? The darkness wakes in her bones. The part of her that remembers you… and what she once was."

Ciaran's jaw tightened. "I don't need reminders."

"No," she said, smiling. "But Dion does."

Dion's POV

He hadn't stopped moving since morning.

After the fight—after Therrin had gone quiet, unreachable, unreachable even in their bond—he knew he had to find Grimm. It had taken hours. The forest grew thicker the farther he traveled, and the shadows felt denser, darker, as if something ancient breathed just beneath the surface.

Dion didn't rest.

Not when he finally found the old path. Not when his legs ached. Not when his heart did.

He spotted Grimm perched on a moss-covered stone near a shallow creek, two tails twitching lazily. He looked up as Dion approached and blinked like he'd been expecting him.

"Took you long enough," Grimm said.

"I need answers."

"Then sit."

Dion dropped to the ground, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Something's wrong with her. I can feel it. It's not just the dreamwalking. It's something else. I saw shadows move around her. But I couldn't see who they belonged to."

Grimm's gaze flickered toward the trees. "You saw nothing because the one she dreams of… is already here."

Dion's breath caught. "He's real?"

Grimm nodded. "He was never just a memory. He's part of her history. One that predates even your bond with her."

"She's pulling away. I tried—" Dion paused. "I kissed her. She started to kiss me back. And then… something threw me into a tree."

Grimm didn't even blink. "You're lucky you weren't torn in half."

Dion stared at him. "So what do I do? How do I stop this? I love her."

"I know. And that may be the only thing keeping her from being fully claimed by him already."

Dion stood and began to pace. "So I have to win her back?"

Grimm tilted his head. "No. You have to remind her who she is. Not who she was. Not who he wants her to become. But who you see."

"And if she chooses him anyway?"

Grimm gave him a long, unreadable look. "Then she'll become something none of us can stop."

Silence fell between them. Dion clenched his fists. "Then tell me what I need to do."

Grimm hopped off the stone and walked toward him. "Find her again. Not with force. Not with fear. But with truth."