ELEVEN

CIARA'S POV

Ronan was a terrible actor.

I watched from across the ballroom, my lips pressing together as he laid on the charm thick, his smirk lazy, his posture relaxed, as if he wasn’t a man desperate to claw back control. His words were smooth, but they had no weight. No real conviction.

And Saraphina, well—she wasn’t selling it either. Not toe at least. Everyone else in the room seemed to eat this shit up.

I tilted my head slightly, observing the way her lips curled when she spoke to him, the way she shoved the drink back into his hands, then turned on her heel without a second glance.

Had he turned his sights to a new prey?

That thought was almost laughable. Saraphina Maychild wasn’t in line for a title. She wasn’t pure royalty. She held no real power in the way that mattered to men like Ronan O’Donoghue.

Which meant it was for something else. Something nefarious.

The question was… could I help her?

Would she even want my help?

I had seen them talking. Their body language, the back-and-forth exchange—it wasn’t purely hostile. It had shifted. A deal had been made.

Were they in cahoots?

The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it.

A hand touched my arm, gentle yet firm, and I turned, finding my mother beside me, her face glowing with satisfaction.

“This is so good,” she murmured, eyes still lingering on the room, the couples, the festivities. “Two matches in one night. Perhaps the Goddess has chosen to be kind today.”

I swallowed, my mind still spinning from everything that had happened tonight.

Her gaze softened as she turned back to me. “And what about your mate?” she asked. “Is he your ideal man?”

I blinked, caught off guard.

Did I even have an ideal man?

I barely knew Darragh Byrne. He was a name, a face, a title, a sudden twist in a life I thought I had figured out.

But when I thought of him, I thought of steady hands and quiet strength. Thought of the way his ears had gone red when he asked me to visit Moonveil.

“He seems kind,” I said after a moment. “Does he not?”

My mother hummed in thought, her lips pursed slightly.

“A match of fate is more likely to work than a match of choice,” she said simply. “I know the Goddess knows best.”

I almost scoffed at that, but before I could, she reached for my hands, clasping them in hers.

And then, everything changed.

A blinding warmth exploded between our palms, heat searing up my arms, through my chest, straight into my skull.

A rush of images.

A barn. The scent of blood, thick, overwhelming. My mother—older, desperate, her face streaked with sweat and dirt. She was crying, whispering frantic prayers, her hands trembling as they pressed into deep wounds on her own body.

“Please,” she gasped. “Please, Goddess, save my daughter. Keep her from those monsters.”

The barn door slammed open.

And then—

The vision shattered.

I yanked my hands away from my mother, the warmth snapping back into cold reality, leaving me shaking. My breathing was uneven, my heart pounding against my ribs.

My mother frowned, stepping closer. “Ciara?” she asked gently. “What is wrong?”

I could still feel it. The sticky warmth of the blood in that barn, the tremor in her voice, the weight of her desperation.

Was that a memory? It was certainly not mine.

I stared at her, horror creeping into my veins. What happened?

How had I seen that?

Why had I seen that?

I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “We should go home,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Concern flickered across her face, but she nodded, brushing a gentle hand over my shoulder. “You look so stressed,” she murmured.

I let her lead me outside, barely registering the noise around me, the distant music, the murmurs of guests still caught up in their revelry.

The night air was sharp, biting against my skin as we stepped into the open. The chauffeur was already waiting, standing stiffly beside the limo. He opened the door for us, and I slid inside without a word, my mind still racing.

The door shut, sealing us in quiet.

The hum of the engine started, and the car eased forward, the movement smooth, practiced.

I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past.

My hands still felt warm.

My mother had been praying for my safety.

Begging the Goddess to keep me from monsters. Was she talking about the demons in that memory or was it more insidious than that? Had my parents found out about the intentions of the O'Donoghues back then? Is that why they had paid with their lives?

I shuddered, pressing my fingers into my lap to keep them from trembling.

The belief was she had died at the hands of a horde of demons for no particular reason—at least, that’s what I had always been told.

That had to be it. That had to be what I I had just seen.

The moment before it happened.

I sucked in a breath, forcing myself to stay still, to think.

I had never experienced something like that before.

Never had a vision. Never felt the rush of warmth that had surged between my mother’s hands and mine.

But maybe it was a sign.

Maybe tonight had changed something.

For reasons I still didn’t know, things had shifted. Fate had twisted in ways I hadn’t predicted, but that didn’t mean everything had changed.

Some things had likely stayed the same.

Like the deaths of my parents.

There was so much I didn’t know. So much that had been hidden from me, buried beneath the lies and deceit of the O’Donoghues. I had lived my past life trusting them. Following their rules, their words, their version of events.

And it had eaten me alive.

If I was going to truly understand what had been natural in my old life and what had been fabricated—molded to fit their version of the truth—then I needed to dissect everything.

Every detail. Every moment.

No more blind trust.

A soft sigh broke through the quiet hum of the car, pulling me back to the present.

“You are out of it tonight, dear,” my mother said gently. “I don’t know what it is, but after that short nap, you’ve been on edge.”

I turned to look at her, taking in the warmth in her expression, the subtle crease of concern between her brows.

For years I had mourned this woman. For years I had wished for one more moment with her, one more conversation, one more chance to say what I hadn’t before she was ripped away from me.

Now she was here.

Alive. Whole. Safe.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

I reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “I love you, Mom.”

She blinked, then let out a light laugh. “My daughter being affectionate without being probed into it?” She gave me a playful nudge. “Adulthood comes fast, doesn’t it?”

I shook my head, my throat tightening. “I mean it, Mother.”

Her smile softened.

“In this life,” I whispered, holding her hand tighter, “I will be the best daughter to you. I will not be blind. I will do anything… everything… to keep you alive.”

A quiet beat passed before she gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze.

“I know,” she murmured.

Something inside me broke at those words, at the certainty in her voice.

She didn’t know why I was saying this. Didn’t know the weight behind my promise, the grief I carried from another life. But still, she believed me.

She trusted me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and leaned into her shoulder, closing my eyes.

“If I have a daughter,” I whispered, “I would name her after your mother, Mom.”

Her breath hitched just slightly.

“She would be Erin.” I let the name settle, feeling the way it curled on my tongue. The name of the daughter I had held in another life. “She would have your eyes.” I exhaled shakily. “And when she smiles… she would look like Dad.”

A soft kiss landed on my forehead, gentle and warm.

“You said you weren’t sure if Darragh was your ideal man,” she murmured, “and here you are, already imagining what your kids would look like.”

I laughed weakly, pressing my face further into her shoulder, trying to steady my breathing. If only she knew.

She chuckled. “Your father would be appalled to hear he’s losing his daughter so quickly.”

The car slowed, the motion barely noticeable, but the sound of the driver clearing his throat made me glance up.

“We are close to O’Callahan Estate, Luna Jade,” the chauffeur said.

My mother nodded, adjusting the folds of her gown as she prepared to step out. “I’m sure your father cannot wait to hear about his daughter’s streak of luck at her debutante ball.”

I forced a smile, though my mind was still caught somewhere between the past and the present.

“I think I’ll retire for the night,” I murmured, rubbing at the ache forming at my temples. “I’m more than exhausted.”

The chauffeur pressed a button, and the mechanical gates groaned as they slid open. The car rolled forward, tires crunching softly over the gravel path leading up to the estate.

The O’Callahan Estate stood tall and familiar, its stone walls bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. It felt both comforting and haunting all at once.

The car slowed to a stop at the foyer, and my mother stepped out first, gathering the hem of her gown. I followed, my heels clicking against the stone, but my breath hitched when my eyes landed on the figure standing at the entrance.

My father.

Cormac O’Callahan.

He stood with his hands behind his back, shoulders squared, the very picture of quiet authority. The years had not softened him. His dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was still neatly combed back. His strong jaw, covered in a short beard, was set in its usual firm expression, but his hazel eyes—so much like my own—were warm as they landed on me.

I hadn’t seen him in so long.

Not since his body had been laid in the cold earth.

My throat tightened.

He stepped down from the entrance, his steps even, measured, always in control. “How was the ball?”

I didn’t think.

I couldn’t think.

I rushed forward, wrapping my arms around him in a fierce hug before my mind could catch up.

He was here. He was alive.

His strong arms encircled me, firm and steady, just like I remembered. He smelled the same. Cedarwood and ink. The lingering scent of the pipe he used to smoke late into the evenings.

I squeezed him tighter. “It was great,” I whispered, feeling the warmth of his presence seep into my bones. “Better than great.”

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That’s wonderful to hear.”

My mother stepped closer, watching us with an affectionate smile. “She met her mate too.”

The moment the words left her mouth, my father stiffened.

The warmth in his hold vanished. He pulled back, hands settling on my shoulders as he studied my face.

“Oh?” His tone had shifted, careful now. “And when was this?”

I blinked, surprised at his sudden change in demeanor. “At the ball,” I said, my lips curving in a small smile. “His name is Darragh. Alpha Darragh Byrne.”

The reaction was instant.

His smile disappeared.

His jaw clenched.

His hazel eyes darkened, sharp as steel.

“What?”

I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

My mother glanced between us, her brows knitting in concern. “Cormac?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion. “Honey, what is it?”

My father stepped back, rubbing a hand over his mouth, his movements tight with tension. He exhaled sharply before looking at me with an expression I didn’t like.

“Ciara,” he said, voice firm. “You have to reject him.”

The breath left my lungs.

“What?”

I searched his face, waiting for the punchline, for the reason.

He met my gaze, steady and unwavering. “Is he not the son of Bastien of Moonveil?”

I nodded slowly.

His jaw ticked, his entire frame rigid. “You cannot be with him.”

I stared at him, stunned. Changing the past is harder than I thought.