SEVEN
CIARA’S POV
Darragh’s hand was steady on mine, his grip firm but not forceful. He led, and I followed, our movements flowing in time with the music. The dance had started slow, measured, but there was an undercurrent of energy beneath it, a tension that neither of us spoke aloud.
“What now?” I asked.
Darragh’s gaze flicked down to me. “What do you mean?”
“The party will end. The people will go home.” I tilted my head slightly. “What do you do now?”
I searched his face, looking for hesitation. I had not yet asked if he wanted to keep the bond. I had not given him an easy way out, an escape from whatever fate had decided for us.
“You haven’t even told me if you want to keep the bond,” I murmured.
His response was immediate. “Of course, I do.”
Something sharp twisted in my chest. He was so sure.
“Why?”
Darragh’s eyes held mine, steady and unshaken. “There must be a reason the goddess handed you to me.”
I let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “That’s interesting,” I said, tilting my head. “Because I heard a nasty rumor about you.”
He arched a brow. “Oh?”
I smirked. “That you’re not a man who believes in fate. Or one who likes the goddess very much.”
Darragh’s lips twitched, but he didn’t deny it.
I hummed, shifting in his hold. “I guess they’re just untrue rumors then.”
“I didn’t realize I was so popular,” he said dryly.
“Infamous,” I corrected.
His grip on my waist tightened slightly, and then the music shifted. A wilder tempo, more bodies pressing into the dance floor. The rhythm picked up, a call for faster steps, for sharper movements.
I barely had time to react before I was spun, my body turning with the flow of the dance. The world tilted, the blur of color and movement wrapping around me. Then, just as quickly as I had been sent twirling, I was caught.
The hands on me were not Darragh’s.
The scent was wrong.
I looked up.
Ronan.
Something ugly burned through me. A sharp crack of emotion I barely had time to suppress. He wasn’t going to give up, was he?
I scoffed, only in my mind, but something in my expression must have given me away because Ronan’s grip on me flexed, his fingers pressing into my waist as his gaze searched mine.
“Did I do something to you?” he asked, voice low enough that only I could hear.
I didn’t answer.
“You look at me like you hate me.”
I met his stare, my own eyes unreadable. “I don’t know you,” I said simply. “Why would I hate you?”
Ronan held me too close for my liking. “You tell me.”
My eyes flicked past him, searching the dance floor, searching for—
Darragh.
He was moving with another woman, one I did not recognize. Red hair, cornflower blue eyes. Distinct features. Not someone easily missed.
Ronan followed my gaze. “That’s Sara Maychild.”
I arched a brow.
He smirked slightly. “Cousin to your new mate.”
A witch in wolf territory. Odd.
I looked back at Ronan. “A witch among wolves?”
“She’s not all witch,” he said. “She manifested only werewolf traits.”
I hummed, a thoughtful sound.
Ronan’s grip remained steady. “I’m glad you’re talking to me,” he said after a beat. “Maybe now you’ll tell me why you seem so sick around me.”
I forced a small smile, light and easy. “While I was outside, I heard some rumors.”
Ronan’s fingers tensed slightly against my waist. “Rumors?”
“Yes.”
His voice dropped lower. “And who exactly did you hear them from?”
"Enough to wonder," I replied. I glanced back to where Darragh still danced with Sara. They seemed deep in conversation, her hand resting on his shoulder perhaps a bit too comfortably.
“Jealous?” he asked.
I chuckled, tilting my head slightly. I would not allow him to shift the conversation to me. Ever. “I would have expected you to ask what the rumors were about first.”
Ronan didn’t so much as blink. “I didn’t think it was something to be worried about, considering they’re nothing but rumors.” His lips curled slightly. “But humor me.”
I exhaled, letting my gaze travel lazily across the room before landing on a familiar figure in the distance.
“Your eleven o’clock,” I said.
Ronan’s muscles stiffened beneath my hands as he turned in the direction I told him to look.
“Your twin brother has been staring at us the entire dance,” I continued. “Intently.”
Ronan’s breath hitched slightly.
“Does he want to dance with me?” I asked, my voice light and conversational. “Or is it you?”
Ronan’s face paled.
His reaction was instant.
He tried to cover it up, to mask the crack in his composure, but it was already too late.
“What could you mean by that?” His voice was even, but the tension in his grip betrayed him.
I smiled, slow and knowing. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I am just telling you what I heard.”
Ronan’s lips parted slightly, his expression carefully schooled, but I had already seen the crack beneath the surface. His grip on me didn’t loosen, though his fingers twitched, like he was considering his next words carefully.
“People hate to see brothers be close,” he finally said, voice softer now, almost reflective. “They make things up, twist them into something ugly.” His jaw tensed, his eyes flickering toward where Ewan stood, watching us. “He’s all I have.”
I hummed, keeping my expression neutral. “And yet, he’s been staring at us for a while now. Why do you think that is?”
Ronan’s throat bobbed slightly. “Probably because my mother asked him to keep tabs on me. Maybe I offended an O’Callahan tonight.”
I let out a small laugh, feigning amusement. “I had no idea we were that famous.” I tilted my head slightly. “Is that why you approached me? The reputation and power behind the name?”
Ronan didn’t answer immediately. His lips pressed together, his hesitation telling me more than words ever could.
Finally, he muttered, “No.”
Weak.
I smirked, shifting my weight slightly in his hold. “Then it must be my face.”
His grip on me tightened, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “No, it was your—”
I arched a brow, waiting.
“My personality?” I supplied, voice laced with amusement.
Ronan’s silence stretched between us.
“But you know nothing about me,” I continued, tilting my chin up slightly.
The music slowed, the final notes stretching across the ballroom.
Ronan didn’t say anything.
I exhaled through my nose, my amusement fading. “It was nice talking to you,” I said, my smile slipping into something colder.
I stepped away before he could respond, moving through the shifting crowd as people clapped politely for the musicians. My steps quickened as I found Darragh, who was watching Ronan with narrowed eyes, his body tensed like he was already expecting trouble.
The moment I reached him, his gaze flicked back to me. “What did he say to you?”
I forced a smile, brushing nonexistent dust from my dress. “He wanted to apologize.”
Darragh didn’t look convinced.
Before he could press further, I turned to the redhead standing beside him. Up close, she was striking in a way that felt deliberate, like she knew exactly how to present herself for maximum effect. Her features were sharp, refined, her blue eyes cool and unreadable.
“You must be Sara,” I said.
The woman blinked once, her lips curving—not into a smile, but into something close to mild amusement.
“It’s only people who are close to me who call me that,” she said, voice smooth, detached.
Her gaze was steady, unblinking.
“For you, It’s Saraphina.”