Mated with a human

chapter 22

Dyran’s car rolled through the narrow road that led into the woods, the mansion slowly coming into view between the tall trees. The place looked the same as always—quiet, cold, unwelcoming.

He parked and stepped inside.

The living room lights were dim. Cillian was seated on the couch, her posture stiff, hands folded on her lap. The moment she saw him, she lifted her head.

“Mom,” Dyran called, walking closer. “I came as soon as I could.”

She forced a small smile. “You didn’t have to rush.”

He sat across from her, studying her face. “Why was Dad so mad when he left? What happened between you two?”

Cillian’s fingers tightened around each other. She looked away, staring at the floor for a long moment.

“It’s… complicated,” she finally said.

Dyran frowned. “Mom—”

She inhaled slowly, then shook her head. “I can’t tell you, Dyran. It’s not something you should be involved in.”

He leaned back, clearly unsatisfied, but before he could push further, the front door opened.

Both of them looked up.

Gerald walked in, his coat still on, his expression unreadable. The air in the room shifted instantly.

Cillian stood up from the couch. “Gerald…”

Dyran also rose to his feet. “Dad, where have you been? Mom’s been worried sick.”

Gerald stopped in his tracks and turned to him slowly. “Since when do I need to report my whereabouts to my son?”

Dyran clenched his jaw. “I’m just asking because—”

“You should mind your own business,” Gerald cut in coldly. “And stay in your lane.”

The words landed hard.

Dyran glanced at his mother, then back at his father. “Mom was worried about you. She couldn’t reach you, and—”

“Dyran,” Cillian interrupted sharply, shaking her head.

He stopped, understanding immediately.

Silence stretched between the three of them, thick and uncomfortable.

Dyran exhaled slowly. “Fine.”

He grabbed his keys from the table. “I’ll give you both some space.”

Without another word, he walked out, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud.

Only Cillian and Gerald remained.

She stayed standing, facing him. “You didn’t have to speak to him like that.”

Gerald loosened his tie, avoiding her gaze. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“But it has everything to do with us,” she said quietly.

Gerald didn’t respond. He walked past her toward the hallway, leaving the words hanging in the air.

Cillian sank back onto the couch, her heart heavy, the mansion once again swallowed by silence.

Cillian followed him down the hallway, her steps hesitant but determined.

Gerald pushed open the bedroom door without a word and walked straight into the bathroom. Moments later, the sound of running water filled the room. Steam began to creep out as the shower warmed.

Cillian stood in the bedroom for a few seconds, her heart pounding. Something about the way he’d avoided her eyes earlier unsettled her. She slowly walked into the bathroom.

The glass door was slightly fogged. Through it, she could see his broad back under the falling water.

She pushed the door open.

And then she froze.

Her brows furrowed instantly. Marks—faint but unmistakable—lined his shoulder and trailed down his chest. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Gerald…” she gasped softly. “What happened after you left the house? Where did you go?”

He went still under the water.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, without turning around, he said in a low, tired voice, “Cillian… I don’t have the energy to talk.”

The water continued to run.

She swallowed, but she didn’t step back. Instead, she reached out and slid the shower door fully open, stepping inside. The warm water soaked the hem of her gown as she stood behind him, the marks now clearly visible.

Her eyes filled with questions. With hurt.

She slowly raised her hand and touched his arm, her fingers trembling slightly as they traced over one of the marks.

Gerald didn’t move.

He didn’t pull away.

He simply stood there, letting her touch him, letting the silence speak louder than words.

“Did you think about me at all?” she asked quietly, her voice barely louder than the water. “While you were out there… wherever you went?”

Still, he said nothing.

Cillian pressed her palm flat against his back, resting her forehead lightly between his shoulders. “You left angry,” she whispered. “And you came back like this.”

The shower continued to fall around them, wrapping the room in steam and unanswered questions, as Cillian stood behind the man she loved—feeling closer than ever, yet painfully far away.

Sofia cried until her chest ached and her head throbbed. Her tears soaked into the pillow, her body curling in on itself as exhaustion slowly pulled her under. Without realizing it, she fell asleep.

Some time later, a soft knock echoed through her room.

She stirred, her eyes fluttering open, but she didn’t move. She just stared at the ceiling, her mind heavy, her body unwilling to obey.

“Sofia,” her aunt’s gentle voice came through the door. “It’s time for supper. Come downstairs and eat with your parents.”

Silence.

A few seconds passed, then footsteps retreated down the hallway.

Sofia remained where she was. Her eyes burned, puffy and red from crying. She had no appetite. No strength. No intention of facing anyone.

After a while, another knock sounded—firmer this time.

“Sofia,” her mother called. “Open the door and come down to eat.”

Still, Sofia said nothing. She turned her face slightly to the side, pressing her lips together to keep herself from breaking down again.

The knock came again. Louder.

Nothing.

Then she heard her father’s voice, low and controlled, speaking to her mother through the door.

“Let her be,” he said. “She’ll come out when she wants to.”

“But she can’t go like this,” her mother replied, worry edging her tone. “She has to eat.”

There was a pause. Then her father spoke again, firmer.

“Let her. Come, let’s go.”

Footsteps followed, moving away down the corridor.

Sofia let out a long, shaky sigh when the house fell quiet again. The tension in her chest loosened just a little. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, turned onto her side, and closed her eyes.

Soon, sleep claimed her once more.

On the other side, the bathroom was warm and quiet.

After the shower, Cillian returned with a small jar of ointment. She insisted on tending to the marks on Gerald’s body, her movements careful and gentle. Gerald didn’t protest. He simply sat there, allowing her to apply it, her fingers brushing lightly over his skin.

Neither of them spoke much.

When she was done, she capped the jar and set it aside.

They went down to supper together and ate in near silence, the weight of everything unspoken sitting heavily between them. Once they were finished, they returned upstairs.

That night, they went to bed—side by side, yet wrapped in their own thoughts, the quiet stretching long into the darkness.

Monday Morning…

The house stirred to life as the first light of morning crept in. Across the city, school kids dragged themselves out of bed, uniforms laid out, bags half-packed, minds already bracing for another long day.

Luke woke up early.

He didn’t waste time.

The moment his eyes opened, his thoughts drifted—unwanted—back to the night before. The girl. The men. His voice. His strength. He pushed it all aside, got out of bed, and prepared himself quickly. No hesitation. No lingering.

On the other side of town, Sofia was already awake.

She took a quick shower, letting the water run over her face a little longer than usual, as if it could wash away everything weighing on her heart. When she was done, she finally unlocked her bedroom door—the same door she had locked herself behind the night before—and stepped out.

She had one goal: leave without talking to her parents.

Keeping her head down, she walked toward the front, passing the dining area. She almost made it.

Almost.

Her parents were seated at the table, having breakfast.

“Sofia,” her mother called.

She stopped.

Taking a slow breath, Sofia turned and walked into the dining area. Standing upright, she greeted them, but her face was cold—void of the warmth and smiles she usually wore so effortlessly.

Her mother gestured to the chair. “Sit down.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sofia replied calmly. “I’m leaving for school.”

Her father turned to look at her. “Since when do you leave the house without having breakfast with your parents?”

Sofia met his gaze briefly. “Today. I don’t feel like eating.”

She turned to leave.

“Your mother and I are going to work,” her father added. “We don’t know when we’ll be back.”

Sofia didn’t turn around this time.

“Travel safe,” she said, her voice flat, and walked out.

The door closed behind her.

Her parents looked at each other, the silence between them heavy and uneasy.

Outside, Sofia got into her car, started the engine, and drove off to pick up her friends. Soon after, they were on their way to school—another day beginning, carrying unresolved storms with it.