Touch me and burn

Chapter Four: The Devil at My Table

‐Amara POV

I never thought I’d see Ciaran Vale in my kitchen, sipping tea like he hadn’t been accused of murder five times over.

He leaned against the counter, bare forearms exposed, tattoos crawling up one wrist like shadows in motion. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were wide awake, tracing every inch of the space like he was cataloguing my weaknesses. Or deciding where to hide a body.

I didn’t offer him food.

I wasn’t sure I wanted him fed.

“Nice place,” he said, glancing at the rows of dusty art books and the giant canvas I hadn’t touched in weeks. “Didn’t peg you for the bohemian type.”

I lifted my cup to my lips. “Didn’t peg you for the type who talks to women after f*****g someone else twenty minutes earlier.”

His gaze flicked to mine. A smirk curled his lips. “Jealous, love?”

“I’ve seen bloodier scenes than what you left behind this morning,” I muttered. “You’re not that memorable.”

He chuckled, low and dark. “You keep telling yourself that.”

I rolled my eyes, set the cup down, and grabbed the file Dean had given me earlier. “We’re not here to flirt.”

Ciaran raised both hands like I’d pulled a gun. “Shame. You’d be fun if you relaxed a little.”

“I don’t relax around men who keep knives in their boots.”

“That’s just good practice.”

I tossed the file onto the table between us. “I think whoever’s playing with us is using the old Pagan sites as a pattern. The murders line up with them—Brixton, Deptford, Tower Hamlets. All once part of Druid land.”

Ciaran looked down at the map, then back at me. “And that means what? We’ve got a killer with a flair for the dramatic?”

“No,” I said, voice sharpening. “It means they’re trying to finish what was started centuries ago. Ritual sacrifice. Blood magic. Binding spells. This isn’t just a murder spree—it’s a curse being completed.”

Ciaran leaned forward, resting his weight on his hands, gaze pinned to mine. “And you think I’m the reason it’s back?”

“I think you’re the spark,” I whispered. “You woke something up the night that girl died in your club. And now it’s following you.”

A beat passed.

Then: “So what now?”

I hesitated.

Because the truth? I didn’t know. I’d been chasing pieces of this curse since my nightmares started two years ago. I’d read the old texts. Seen the paintings. Felt the heat of the flames licking at my skin when I dreamed of being Aine, burning at the stake, screaming a name I couldn’t remember.

And now he was standing in my kitchen, sipping tea like we weren’t both halfway to hell.

“Now,” I said, “we find the next site. And we stop whoever’s behind it before another girl ends up dead.”

He nodded once. No argument, no snide remark. Just... agreement.

That scared me more than anything.

Later that night, I was alone again. The flat felt too quiet after Ciaran left, like he’d sucked the air out when he walked out the door. My walls, once comforting, now seemed to lean inward.

I stripped down, showered, stood under the hot water longer than necessary.

But no matter how hot it got, I couldn’t wash away the memory of his eyes.

Or the fact that, deep down, I wanted him to come back.

I didn’t trust him. I shouldn’t even like him. He was dangerous, ruthless, probably armed even in the bath. But when he stood close, something in me flickered to life—something that felt ancient, raw, and terrifyingly familiar.

I dried off, pulled on a loose shirt, and walked barefoot to my studio. The canvas I’d been avoiding stood in the center like a ghost. I dipped my fingers in red paint and, without thinking, smeared it across the surface.

A curve. A line. A shadowed jaw.

It was him.

Ciaran.

Even when I tried to forget him, my body remembered.

And in the dark of the room, I whispered the name I only ever said in dreams.

“Niall.”

And the paint bled like blood.