Chapter 15 Cian Speaks
Malia's POV
The library is where I go now.
After Aiden last night—his confession, his anger, that crushed-up note—I need distance from his scent and the sound of his mixed emotions. After his tackle on Aiden last night–the admission, the rage, the ball of paper–I need space that doesn't smell like him, or sound like his confusing feelings.
So I’ve staked out a corner table on the third floor, surrounded by philosophy textbooks and assignment sheets, doing my best to think about anything but the mess in my mind.
Keep off my brothers.
But the words keep rolling around, unwanted. I shake my head and push my focus back to the essay prompt: "What are the ethical consequences of hierarchy within the packs of the modern world?"
Great. Exactly what I need—more proof of how messed up our society is. I've written three paragraphs when I know it.
That change in the air.
A presence.
I look up—and I freeze.
Cian Moonfall stands at the end of the table, a pile of books cradled in his arms, his gray eyes locked on the vacant seat opposite me.
"Is this seat taken?" His voice is low, almost a whisper.
Library-appropriate. But also... tentative?
"No," I manage. "It’s free."
He seats himself without Any formality, with absolute confidence. Then he opens one and starts reading. Just like that, no explanation, no small talk.
Just comfortable silence.
I stare at him for a moment, confused.
It's half-empty in the library. He could sit anywhere.
Why here?
Why with me?
But seeming Cian doesn’t feel like explaining, so I go back to my essay, hyperaware of his presence at the table behind me.
Minutes go by.
The only noise is that of pages being turned, the scratching of my pen, and the faint buzz of other students. It should be awkward.
Instead, it’s… peaceful.
Like sitting in the hidden courtyard that first night—Cian’s quiet energy making the space feel somehow safer.
After twenty minutes or so, he speaks.
"What are you working on?"
I look up, taken aback. "Essay on Pack Dynamics. On hierarchies.”
He nods once, thinking. “What’s your thesis?”
"That the system as it exists is fundamentally unfair, because it privileges blood over competence."
Something flickers on his expression, maybe interest, approval. "Bold stance. Especially here."
"It's true though."
"Truth isn’t exactly welcomed at Mooncrest." He closes his book, now giving me his full attention. "Particularly truths that question the foundations on which everything here is built.”
I put down my pen. “You don’t agree with the hierarchy?”
"I didn’t say that." His gray eyes are calm and reflective. "I said truth challenges it. It's a muddier question, whether the hierarchy is the right thing to do or the wrong thing to do.”
"Why is it complicated? Some wolves are born into power and privilege Many are born into nothing. That's not complex, it's unfair."
"Justice means there is some better alternative way of doing things, otherwise you wouldn't care about justice." Cian reclines in his chair, still looking directly at me. "Is there?"
I am broken. “I ... maybe? Democracy? Merit-based leadership?”
“Both have been tried. Both failed spectacularly. It’s not condescending, it's just factual. Wolf packs experimented with democratic councils in the 1800s. Resulted in permanent warfare, no clear authority in crises, and eventual collapse. Merit-based systems sound so fantastic until you realize 'merit' is subjective and still ultimately favors certain bloodlines.”
I frown, thinking. “So the hierarchy is the least worst option?”
“All systems are flawed, I’m not saying that.It’s not that question of whether ours is perfect—it isn’t. The real question is whether the faults are imperceptible or disastrous.”
I have never heard Cian speak as much as when he is in trouble.
And every word is a deliberate, considered, thought-out, thought-laden word.
“What do you think?” I ask quietly. “Tolerable or catastrophic? ”
He remains silent for a long moment.
Then: “For some, comfortable. For others…” His eyes slip to mine. “A disaster that planet-levels everything.”
That pronouncement’s gravitas sets between us.
He gets it. Not in the abstract, theoretical sense in which professors talk about it.
But really understands.
What it’s like to be on the bad side of the hierarchy.
“Can I ask you a question?” I risk it.
“You just did.” Twitch—his lips twitch—almost a smile.
“Can I ask you another something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you take this seat?”
Cyan ponders the query as seriously as everything else he gives.
“Because you seemed like you needed company, but not conversation.” He pauses. “And my brothers are idiots. Rowan means well but sometimes his kindness gets in the way. Draws attention you don’t need.” His face is impassive, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. “And Aiden...”
He trails off.
“Aiden what?” I press.
“Aiden is waging war against himself. And you’re in the line of fire.”
The truth in that takes my breath away.
“Where did you—”
“I notice things.” Cian flips open his book again, clearly finished with weighty talk. “People think I’m quiet because I have nothing to say. Really, I’m quiet because I’m watching. Listening. Learning the things people miss.”
“And what do you know about me?”
He lifts his head and holds my gaze long enough to make my wolf sit up and pay attention.
“That you’re stronger than you think,” he says, simply. “That this place is meant to wear down people like you, but you never snapped. That you’re sick of fighting but you keep doing it anyway.”
My throat tightens. I've never been so accurately described by anyone.
“You do understand,” he goes on, “that my brothers are straightforward. That Rowan’s kindness is not pity. That Aiden's cruelty isn't hatred. "
"What then is it?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Cian's expression remains unchanged. "Fear ."
"Of what?"
"Ask him."
He turned back to his book, definitively closing the door on that discussion. We sat silently for another hour.
But that’s different now.
Comfortable, yes, but also… connected.
Like Cian has given me something unique—his view, his understanding, his hushed recognition that I don’t get lost in the background.
The library’s alert chime sounds at last—fifteen minutes until closing.
Cian closes his book and begins to collect his things with the same meticulous care he does everything.
I pack up, too, but more leisurely, not quite ready to let this placid bubble burst. When we are walking toward the exit together, I muster the courage to say something.
"Thank you so much," I say quietly.
"For what?"
For sitting with me, and for talking to me as if I'm…” I around for the appropriate words. “As if the things I’m thinking have any value.”
Cian halts. We’re in the stairwell now, gloomy and caveat, no other students in sight.
He turns to look at me fully, and for once, there’s less armor in his expression.
“Your thoughts do matter, Malia.” and his voice is low, earnest. “So is your being here. Don’t let this place make you think otherwise.”
The words bite harder than they should.
Because coming from Cian—who almost never talks, who watches everything, who knows that all of us are wearing masks a little bit thicker than everyone else mask— they sound like the truth.
Not comfort, not sympathy. Only the truth.
“I’ll try,” I breathe. He nods once.
Then he steps out of sight.
Then he’s walking away, his steps fading on the stairs, and I am left in the stairwell with my heart doing unrecognizable things in my chest.
I see him turn the corner and vanish, then I lean against the wall, processing.
Cian Moonfall. The so-quiet one, the observer.
The implicitly least talkative brother who just gets it, in a way he has no right to get it.
He sees me. Really sees me.
Not as a Hybrid or a charitable or a complication case. Just... me. And for some reason, that recognition is more powerful than any big display.
—---
When I get back to the dorm, Aiden is there, sitting at his desk. We haven't really talked since last night.
Since his confession and since the note.
The tension is palpable and stifling.
"Hey," I say softly, feeling it out.
He doesn't answer.
Just continues typing with stiff shoulders.
I sigh and go to my side of the room, freeing up some space for him.
But I'm changing into my pyjamas when he speaks. "Where were you?"
His voice is cautiously neutral. Too neutral.
“Library,” I say. “Writing an essay.”
"Alone?”
I pause, seeing where the true question lies.
“Cian was there for part of it.”
The typing stops. Silence broadens and thickens.
Then: "Of course he was."
I turn to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
"Nothing." But his jaw is tight. "It’s interesting just how my brothers seem to keep finding reasons to be around you."
"Maybe because they're kind. Maybe because they recognize me as a person, not a problem."
These words are more cutting than I wanted them to be. Aiden suddenly gets up, the chair scraping.
“I see you,” he says, voice low and phone. “I see you more than you know. And that’s the problem.”
Before I can say anything, he takes his jacket and walks out. Twice now!
I’m standing there, irritated and flummoxed and tired of having my emotions whipsawed.
But as I lay down, Cian’s words echo in my head:
Aiden’s cruelty is not hatred. It’s fear.
Fear of what?
So why is it a problem for you to see me?
My wolf rouses restlessly, drawn to something in Aiden she does not understand.
Something complex and broken and possibly, if one isn’t too upset by what “broken” means, worth getting to understand.
If he’d ever allow me close enough to try.