“And you managed to build yourself a community here,” I murmured. “Color me jealous. Even out in the world, I barely had anyone I trusted, let alone wanted to spend time with for long.”
“Bullshit,” Cillian said. “You probably had boys lining up outside your door. Look at whats-his-fuck, the one we ran into.”
“Guys interested in fucking me, yes,” I responded. “But that only made me feel lonelier.”
He squeezed a little harder, and I soaked in every ounce of the way that made me ache. As if he tried to cram my broken pieces back together. Somehow, he’d transformed from someone I loathed to someone I didn’t want to be without.
“In a week, the Spires is hosting the National Dealer’s Conference,” Cillian said, changing the topic at whiplash speed.
“I’m aware, since I’ve been the one printing documents and coordinating with vendors for it,” I murmured.
“Attend with me,” he said.
My mind reeled, even though the immediate words jumped to my lips. “Fairly certain I’ll be there working that night.”
“No, by my side.”
His words lingered in the air, a declaration that both excited me and terrified me in the same breath. What could that mean? It was one thing to declare our relationship in front of his friends, but another entirely to do so in front of his colleagues, in front of representatives of the city itself.
“Thorin will be there,” Cillian murmured. “If he tries something with you while we’re apart—” His grip around me tightened to the point that I struggled to get a breath in for a moment. But I didn’t try to move him. The claim of his limbs warred with the fact he just wanted me there as a protection measure. It tangled up in my heart, which was already confused as hell.
“I’ll go, but don’t expect me to be like any of your high-profile exes. I’m a mere librarian, used to dusty bookshelves, not soirees for the rich and powerful.”
“That sounds perfect to me.” He reached past me and snagged a book from the pile on top of his nightstand—The Death and Demise of Riordan James. It was the biography of a significant figure during the Awakening, who had eventuallybeen murdered in the chaos of the supernatural world melding with humanity’s. He’d become a figurehead for the perseverance of monsters during that time, and yet my education was limited on him. Cillian had recommended the title earlier in the week, and since I’d spent most nights in his room, I’d begun to read it.
“What part are you at?” he asked, paging through to where I’d left the bookmark. “Ah, right around the unrest during the Awakening?”
“It’s fascinating. There’s so much I was unaware of,” I murmured, the heat of shame rising to my cheeks again, that so many of my kind were so ignorant.
“Let’s continue here,” he said, cracking the book open a little further. To my surprise, he began to read from the page I was on, his low, sonorous voice lulling me into a deep, restful comfort.
One thing I’d learned this year was how much could change in the span of seconds. Tonight, I’d savor our date in the gardens and getting to fall asleep in his arms.
Tomorrow, I’d get ready for what guaranteed to be danger at the upcoming National Dealer’s Conference.
Chapter 22
“Do I really need to wear this?” I asked Amelia, gesturing to the burnished gold tuxedo she’d provided. It was a finely tailored affair, and she had my size down pat. I’d never worn fitted clothing until I’d arrived here, and I couldn’t say I hated it.
Amelia crossed her arms and leaned against the side of the open door. “You’ll be on Cillian’s arm tonight, so yes. Musty librarian chic won’t cut it for this affair, since he’s the host of this event.”
“Rude,” I responded as I closed the distance to snag the suit from her.
“I’m glad you’re going,” she murmured, her gaze softening. Getting those slips from Amelia was rare, and I froze mid-grab. “He’s been…lighter recently. And I’m aware of what changed things.”
I swallowed hard. “Maybe he’s just out of his seasonal depression.”
Amelia let out a sharp laugh. “Right. Do we call seven years of sulking seasonal depression now?”
“If it fits,” I responded. “Do you have to don a fancy getup too? Some sort of ballgown?” Though the idea of Amelia in a ballgown broke my brain a bit.
She tossed her head back and laughed. “Security uniform for me. I’m on high alert tonight with the amount of threats lining up at our door. Someone has to keep Cillian safe, since he won’t.”
I swallowed hard, the weight of the comment sinking in deep. Cillian was immensely powerful, not just in size but in the way he strategized, how he thought ahead. Yet his recklessness, how he flirted with danger, how he showed up covered in gashes, only intensified the melancholy air that sometimes settled in around him. As if he were living moment by moment but knew he didn’t have many left.
As if death had chased him for a while, gaining on him with every passing day.
“I’ll try to keep him out of trouble,” I commented.
