Chapter 98 A Walk With Cian And Something Else.
Malia’s POV
...I nod.
It is only a movement—barely the faintest tilt of my head— but Cian see it. He always sees everything, he can tell when someone is lying or hiding something by the way their eyes flicker or if their body language changes even a little bit.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”
He’s first up, and then he extends his hand. I take his hand and he pulls me off the couch. My legs are shaking as though I've been running for hours instead of sleeping. Or trying to sleep. Or I’m caught in dreams that are more real than waking.
As Cian and I make our way to the door, he still isn’t letting go of my hand. He only pauses to retrieve his coat from over the back of a chair—dark gray, much loved, smelling faintly of pine and something uniquely him.
We walk out of the suite quietly, taking care not to disturb Rowan and Aiden. The hallway was deserted, there was nothing but the faint sound of the boiler in the distance. At dawn, campus is another scene — with rounded corners, soft colors and all holding its breath before the day breaks.
Cian leads us down the stairs, still holding my hand. His palm is warm and soft in mine, grounding, palpable. I hone in on that—the significant weight of his fingers intertwined with mine, the way his thumb slides in absent touches along the nape of my hand.
We push through the main doors and step outside.
The air is upon me at once—cold, sharp, and bearing the faint odor of moist grass and dead leaves.
There are no students yet. No voices, no footsteps, no life of any kind apart from a solitary bird calling from the oak trees surrounding the quad.
Cian doesn't say anything. Just walks with me, matching my pace, our hands still connected. We take the sidewalk that bisects campus, by the library, which is almost pretty in this light, by the student center with its windows dark.
I take a deep breath, trying to get something other than terror into my lungs.
"You want to talk about it?" Cian asks finally.
I don't answer right away. Slowly, I just watch my feet on the path beneath me, one step after another, the rhythm going is almost hypnotic.
“The nightmares,” I say eventually. "They're getting worse."
"How worse?"
I swallow hard. “Dreams within dreams. I wake up but I'm really still asleep. I don’t know what’s real anymore. And the things I see—” My voice catches. “Silver claws. Faceless people. Voices telling me I don’t belong. That you’ll all leave. That I’m—” I stop myself.
"That you're what?" His voice is gentle but insistent.
“A mistake.” The word is barely more than a whisper. "An abomination. Something that should never have existed."
Cian stops in his tracks, turning to look directly at me. His pale eyes are harsh in the, dawn light, they are now locked on mine with a breath stealing intensity.
"That's bullshit," he says flatly. "Complete and utter bullshit."
"Is it?" I pull my hand away from his and cross my arms. "Because sometimes it feels true. Like everyone can see something I'm trying to ignore. Like I'm pushing myself into places I don't belong."
"Malia—"
"The previous nightmare—just now—I was changing." The words begin to tumble out faster now, more desperate to be spoken. "Claws breaking through my skin, bones shifting, and my wolf is trying to claw its way out and I couldn't stop it. I was losing control totally. Then I looked in the mirror and I saw—” I stop, shaking my head. “I saw a monster.”
Cian is quiet for a long moment. Then he takes my hand once again but this time he brings it to his chest, and he presses my palm against his heart. I can feel it beating—steady, strong, alive.
“You feel that?” he asks.
I nod. “That’s real. I’m real. This—" he motions between us, “—is real. The nightmares lie. They take your fears and twist them into weapons. But they’re not telling the truth.”
“They feel like truth.”
"I know." His thumb slid over my knuckles.“ But feeling that way about something doesn’t make it true.”
I want to trust he’s telling me the truth. I want to believe him so much. I want to believe him so badly it hurts. We start walking again, slower this time. The path bends around the science centre, toward the gardens that are kept by the students of horticulture. Even now, I can smell the roses—lightly, but unmistakably, sweet and earthy.
“How long have they been that bad?” Cian asks.
“Since we got back. Since classes started. Since it all began tearing us apart.”
“We’re not being torn apart.”
Cian halts again. This time he's not content merely to hold my hand—he enfolds me with both arms, pulling me close to his chest in a hug that's fierce and protective and completely unexpected.
I freeze for a second before melting into it, my face pressed up against his shoulder, his chin on the top of my head.
“Listen to me,” he says in a quiet but firm tone. “You are not too much. You’re not a burden. And you are not something we’re trying to weigh up against our lives. You are our lives. A piece of us. The bond doesn’t function like that—you can’t decide one day we’re too much and walk away.”
We stop for a moment, clinging to each other as the sun continues to rise slowly, turning the world in golden and rosé hues.
Then I feel it— the small tremor within me I have been fighting against. The chill that’s been creeping into my bones since the nightmare, making my teeth chatter even though Cian is warming me.
He sees it right away. Of course he does.
“You’re freezing,” he says with- out hesitation, pulling away.
“I’m fine— ”
“No you’re not.” He’s already sliding off his jacket—the dark gray one that’s too big on me but perfect on him. “Here.”
He lays it on my shoulders, pulling it closed around me with gentle hands. The fabric is still warm from his body heat, smelling like pine and clean laundry and safety.
I draw it closer and huddle in it like armor.
“Better?” he says.
I nod, not daring to speak.
We begin walking again, veering from the path to cut across the dew-soaked grass toward the gardens. I’m shoes get wet immediately but I could care less. It’s something about the—peaceful—the quiet, the soft, light, and the fact that Cian doesn’t go any farther than my side and our shoulders brush with each step.
“The nightmares,” he says after a bit. “Do they always end the same way?”
“But I always have myself screaming. Or waking up to realize I never actually woke up the first time.” I huff out a humorless laugh. “It’s unsettling. Terrifying. Makes me want to stay awake.”
“Have you been sleeping?”
“Not exactly. Three or four hours a night. And even then it’s—“ I gesture vaguely. “Not restful.”
Cian is quiet, processing. We’re at the garden now—rows and rows of meticulously tended beds, some still bearing blooms even though fall is coming, some already going dormant. There’s a bench crammed in the corner underneath a trellis wrapped in withering wisteria. He leads us there, sits at that table, and shuffles me down next to him. Close.
He turns to face me more, one hand moving to cup my cheek. His hand is warm on my cheek, and his thumb grazes under my eye where I know dark circles have made a home.
I shut my eyes and press my body into his, letting his words reach me beyond the fear, beyond the fatigue, beyond the voices I hear in dreams telling me I am unworthy of this.
"Thank you," I exhale.
His forehead rests against mine — that private gesture that seems more vulnerable than a kiss.
"Always," he murmurs.
We stay like that as the sun comes up higher and higher, drenching the garden in golden light that makes everything look softer, brighter.
When Cian finally pulls back, it’s only by inches. His hands continue to hold my face, his thumbs are still running patterns on my skin.
And then slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, he leans in—