Private Tales The Loved and Lost Club

Cullen stiffened as her body collided with his. For a breath, his arms remained at his sides, rigid and uncertain, because it wasn’t an apology. It was Nadya taking what she wanted.

But then the sound came. A raw, guttural sob that cracked something in him. Then another. And another. Until her grief soaked through his shirt and into his skin, trembling and wild, unstoppable.

That was when his arms finally moved.Slowly, as if afraid she might shatter, he wrapped them around her, tight, anchoring and solid. One hand braced her back, the other slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head, guiding her closer. He held her up when her knees buckled before he lowered them both gently to the floor.

He held her there.

Her body curled into his, clutching as though he might disappear if she loosened her grip. He stayed silent, steady, a mountain unmoved by the storm. His thumb brushed against the side of her head, his fingers combing slowly through her hair, soothing silently.

He could feel the shape of her words in the sobs. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.. But he didn’t rush to meet them with forgiveness. That wasn’t what she needed, not yet. Not when the weight of her grief was still breaking over her in waves.

So he said nothing. No conditions. No demands. Just the quiet strength of a man who had been hurt, and still, he held her as though she was the only thing in the world worth saving.

Cullen stayed quiet even as Nadya pulled away, his hand slipping from her hair but not far from her. He watched her with a softness in his eyes, even as she sat beside him looking like the ghost of the warrior he’d always known. She was raw now. There was no armour left. No commands, no scowls, no stormfront to brace against, just Nadya.

And she was finally starting to see. How her grip had tightened the moment she learned of Eira. How jealousy had crept into her strength, and turned love into control.

She asked him what kind of person that made her and he didn’t hesitate. “It makes you the only person in my life who cares enough to want to protect me.”

Cullen leaned forward, closing the space between them again. His hand found her face, his thumb brushing the tears gently from her cheek, then the next, and the next. He frowned, but it wasn’t anger, it was grief. Something shared.

“Flawed as it was... I know you care.” His voice was quiet now. Not soft like a whisper, but grounded. Honest “You should’ve just told me that it was more..”

“Look at me, Nad. How could I have known, that it was more than that? Why would anyone ever see me as more than that? I felt privileged enough to have friends at all let alone anything else.. I didn’t think I had to look, because I didn’t know it was there. You’ve been my best friend since we were children. The only constant. The one person I’ve never had to question.”

He exhaled slowly, “You’re the most important thing in my life, Nadya. And I don’t want to lose you. You've already had your name tarnished by mine for being a friend. I know you're not, but I am afraid of what could happen to you if it were to become more than that. I didn't pull away because I don't love you, it's because I do."

Cullen’s heart ached in his chest at the sight of her. All that strength Nadya carried like a mantle had cracked, and what lay beneath it was just a girl. Frightened, vulnerable, honest at last.

He could see it all now. The fear she carried like armour. The pride that kept her from ever asking to be held. The jealousy that wasn’t born of hate or bitterness, but aching fear. Perhaps she had never thought anyone else would ever love him either.

As she spoke of the possibility of more between them, Cullen reached out again, gently tugging her toward him. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering longer than a friend’s should. His arms wrapped around her again, his sigh deep and quiet as if the weight between them had finally found a place to settle.

“You can't lose me..” he murmured into her hair. His eyes closed, his chin resting lightly against the top of her head. “Not unless you tell me to go, and mean it.”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye again, his hand cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed away one last tear..

"That said, I should get back soon. I doubt they'll take too kindly to me abandoning my post." he laughed under his breath, but there was no amusement in it. He was still a prisoner, whether he had bars around him or not. "And you should rest.. I'm sorry, if I made anything worse." he winced at the memory of how rough handed he'd been with her in his anger.

Cullen watched the way her expression shifted and softened, vulnerable in a way few ever got to see. He’d always known she was strong. But this? Asking him to stay? That was the kind of strength she rarely let herself show.

He stood slowly as she moved to the bed, his broad frame casting a long shadow as he stretched in the warm, fading light.

“Aye…” he rumbled “I can do that.”

He crossed the room and climbed onto the bed beside her, laying back into her pillows and opening his arms without a word, and when she tucked herself against his chest, he held her the way he always had when they were younger. Solid, warm, safe.

His hand found her hair, gently running through it in slow strokes. His chin rested lightly atop her head, the rise and fall of his chest easy, rhythmic.

“I’ll hold you as long as you need. No worries, no duties. Just this.” he murmured, almost a whisper, as her body relaxed further into his, his thumb tracing slow lines along her back.

Cullen huffed a laugh under his breath at her teasing, the sound rumbling in his chest where her head rested.

“Aye, well... I smell like a fucking flower garden,” he muttered, half-amused, half-grumbling. “Not exactly the scent of a hardened warrior.”

Still, his voice was warm, fond even, as his fingers trailed slowly down her shoulder, then along the line of her arm, soothing and absentminded.

When she spoke again, her voice so small, so unsure, Cullen’s breath caught slightly. Her words stirred something in him. He’d remembered that moment too, when she challenged him, pressed against him like she wasn’t afraid of anything. He’d been furious, yes, but his blood had heated with more than just anger.

Temptation had coiled in his gut like a brand. He hadn’t acted on it. But it had been there. Cullen swallowed that truth before it could leave his lips. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, letting it speak for the things he couldn’t say quite yet.

“Get some sleep, trouble,” he murmured, voice thick and rough, laced with a tenderness he rarely showed anyone but her.

He tightened his arms around her, drawing her fully against him, tucking her safely beneath his chin. The weight of exhaustion pressed in, melting the tension in his shoulders, and soon his muscles slackened, his breathing slowed. Sleep soon claimed him, despite himself.

It was the sharp, echoing bang of a fist on the front door that tore him from it. The early light of dawn crept in through the curtains as he stirred, his arms instinctively tightening around Nadya for a moment in protection, before the knock came again, louder this time.

Cullen exhaled harshly through his nose, already feeling the peace of the night slipping away.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, shifting just enough to glance toward the door, jaw tightening. Whoever was pounding on the door at this time in the morning, was undoubtedly here for him.

“Stay here,” he whispered low to Nadya, his voice graveled with sleep. “I’ll handle it.”

Cullen blinked against the blinding light outside, eyes still adjusting, hand braced against the doorframe as he stared at the man who dared to knock on Nadya’s door like he had every right.

Fedyr. Cullen’s frown deepened the second he registered who it was, and that he stood there alone. His voice was rough with sleep. “What the fuck are y—”

But he didn’t get the words out before Fedyr casually dropped the hammer.

Malennis is on his way to see the Wing Leader.

Cullen went rigid.

Ilir.

His breath stopped in his chest for half a second, and when it returned, it came with heat. Rage. It coiled in his gut, scorching every edge of his thoughts like wildfire. His fists clenched before he could stop them.

“The fuck does he want…” Cullen muttered under his breath, low and venomous, but not low enough that it didn’t carry. He didn’t look at Nadya. He didn’t trust himself to. Not when his anger might spill over, too raw and too loud.

But then Fedyr opened his mouth again. And whatever lewd quip had been on the tip of his tongue—Cullen nearly snapped.

The only reason he didn’t put Fedyr through the nearest wall was because Nadya got there first, her sharp words cutting his words short. Fedyr backed off with that same infuriating grin, but Cullen saw the flash of respect behind it.

“Piss off, clown,” Cullen growled anyway, voice a low rumble as he raked a hand through his already-mussed hair and down his face. Exhaustion still clung to him, but adrenaline was fast replacing it.

He was about to speak when he heard Meala's cries. He was already moving, shouldering past Fedyr and bursting out the door and sprinting into the open.

His eyes found the skies instantly, catching the glint of gold. He followed her gaze to the two distant shapes, and he called her down with urgency, assuming that Ilir would be arriving sooner than anticipated. Though, as the dragons grew nearer, he realised what they were.

Silver. White. Ethereal.

Moon dragons. Cullen’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

“Fuck.”

Not Ilir.

Eira.

Cullen’s jaw was tight as he watched the pair approach, his body a coil of tension, only loosening slightly when Eira’s gaze found him. It was a strange, sharp sort of ache that bloomed in his chest at the way she said his name, formal, cold, as though the fire between them had never existed. He gave only a short nod in return, his voice caught behind everything he wasn’t saying.

She looked well. She always looked well. Regal, distant, untouchable... What the fuck had he ever been thinking?

He listened to her speak, lips parted like he meant to interrupt her, meant to say something, anything, but the words tangled uselessly behind his teeth and by the time his thoughts had begun to crystallise, she was already turning away.

“Eira,” he breathed, her name barely a whisper that she didn’t hear, or pretended not to.

Then Greydon’s voice landed like a blow.

'He's going to want to claim the Wing Leader's hand..'

Cullen stiffened, staring at the man like he’d just sprouted a second head.

“What?! Absolutely fucking not!” he snapped, the volume of his voice startling even a few of the fieldbirds from the hedgerows.

The idea of Ilir, the slimy, power-hungry bastard, laying claim to Nadya, had him seething. Rage burned so hot behind his eyes he barely heard the rest of what Greydon said.

But when he did, he exhaled a sharp, bitter breath. “How comforting,” he muttered. His tone was dry as dust.

He barely registered Fedyr’s knowing silence or the way Greydon was watching him as if weighing his every reaction. Nadya’s voice snapped his attention back. He turned to face her, and the storm that brewed behind his eyes softened only slightly.

'Aren't we popular today..'

He didn’t respond to the barb, not with the way his pulse was still thrumming from the news. Instead, he turned fully to her, one hand reaching out to her arm as if anchoring her would keep Ilir from ever touching her.

“You need to leave,” Cullen said, his voice low, but firm with urgency.

He glanced back to Fedyr. “Can you take her somewhere, please?"

Cullen’s lips twisted in frustration as Fedyr gave his response, and Nadya slipped her arm from his grasp like it had never belonged there. His hands fell uselessly to his sides, and he let out a breath through his nose, sharp and short.

“I’m not suggesting you drag her off kicking and screaming, Fed,” he huffed, shooting a glare the soldier’s way before turning to Nadya. “I just don’t want her to be here when he shows up.” He was pacing now, his fingers found the back of his neck, digging into the tension that had been building since the moment Fedyr had mentioned Ilir.

“Everyone outranks me, I don’t give a shit,” he snapped, waving a hand in irritation. “I don’t want him anywhere near you, Nadya.” Her name came out rough. Too intimate. Too raw. He stopped pacing long enough to look at her. Really look at her.

“Think?” he echoed, voice tight. “What is there to think about? You can’t marry him, and he’s not the kind of man who takes no for an answer.”

His jaw clenched as his gaze dropped, staring at the dirt, anywhere but her for a breath. Then he looked up again, fire in his dark eyes.

“Fuck, if he sees me here with you, it’s just going to make him more determined. You know how he plays this. He’ll turn it into a spectacle. A way to humiliate you. Force your hand in front of witnesses, box you in.” He shook his head. “I’m not letting that happen. Not again.”

Cullen flinched, barely, when she snapped at him, but it wasn’t fear. It was something deeper, wounded and raw. He took the heat of her words in silence, jaw locked tight, hands curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to argue. To tell her she was underestimating Ilir. That men like him didn’t need permission to do damage.

But then she crossed the distance between them, and the whole world narrowed to the feel of her hands against his face.

He didn’t want to hear strategy from her. He wanted her safe. Not bait in some dangerous game. But as her thumbs swept along his cheekbones and her voice steadied, his pulse slowed.

"You sound like a commander now," he muttered, eyes flicking over hers. A faint smile, bitter and fond, ghosted across his mouth. "Fucking terrifying, too."

He reached up, hands settling lightly over her wrists, not to pull her away, but to anchor himself.

“Fine..” He tilted his head slightly into her touch, searching her face like he was memorising the way she looked when she was like this, burning steady, not ablaze. “But you know what kind of man he is. He doesn’t care about the rules. He just cares about winning. And ruining people.”

His fingers tightened slightly. “He's already put his hands on you once. If he tries to touch you, I’m not going to stand there and smile.. And if he takes one step too far, I won’t need Kalyss’ warning shot.”

Cullen didn’t push her when her smile faltered, just let his hands fall away slowly, letting her have the distance if she needed it. The echo of that night still hovered between them, and it hit harder in the silence between their words than in anything spoken aloud.

His brow lifted slightly at her attempt to sidestep it, though, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward. "Commander Caliar," he repeated, rolling it over his tongue like he was testing the weight of it. “Yeah… has a nice bite to it..”

He gave her one last look, something quiet and fond, but braced for what was coming, before turning toward her house to go change.

A few minutes later, Cullen’s boots thudded against the earth as he rejoined Nadya’s side, dressed in leathers and blades. His hair was still damp at the edges from the wash he'd thrown over his face, but his eyes were sharp and scanning the skies.

He squinted upward, eyes narrowing as the dragons crested through the clouds. He recognised the ugly beast in the centre immediately, but it was the left flank that made Cullen’s gut twist.

“Shit…” he muttered, breath caught halfway between dread and anticipation. Yet another Malennis who had unfinished business with him. His hand brushed instinctively over the hilt of his dagger, eyes narrowing as the red dragon on the far right came into view.

“Three of them. He’s making a fucking show of it.” He glanced sidelong at Nadya, and then to Greydon and Fedyr, his jaw tight.

Cullen’s eyes cut sharply to Fenton at Greydon’s reminder, then dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “Well aware…” he muttered with a quiet huff, though there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the faintest ghost of a smile. But his attention didn’t linger.

His dark gaze shifted to Ilir, watching the self-important prick dismount like he thought he was storming a battlefield rather than a family estate. Cullen didn’t flinch at the barked threat about desertion. That wasn't why Ilir had come here. Still, any punishment Cullen faced would no doubt be a shiny bonus for the bastard.

As Nadya shut him down with a few clipped words and a title downgrade, Cullen’s expression didn’t shift, but his cheek dimpled with a half grin as he watched the man approach.

Meala stayed close beside Cullen, the weight of her presence unmistakable. As if responding to the atmosphere, or simply reading Cullen’s pulse, she lowered her huge body to the ground. A rumble passed through her chest, and she released a controlled puff of fire that hissed across the grass. The heat danced inches from Ilir’s boots.

“Bless you,” he murmured to the dragon with a smirk, then lifted his voice as he leveled his stare at Ilir.

“Careful, My Lord.” he called in mock-formality. “She’s got a bit of a cold. Bit of fire in the throat, you know how it is.”

Ilir stopped short, his madness coming to the forefront as the Marked One spoke out of turn. He did not come here for Morvane. He did not truly care his traitorous cousin was present, as Greydon Tomyris was ever so loyal to Eira due to them each having a Moon Dragon. Even the other Marked One was insignificant despite his promotion from infantry to dragon rider.

None of them mattered.

His dark eyes fell onto the Wing Leader.

"I am here to give your father a proposal for your hand in marriage and an alliance between Caliar and Malennis. Your Storm Dragons will cone under the protection of my House and our Moon Dragons."

Nadya's face was forged with steel. He knew she would be hard to crack when the mask of being important was being worn, but he still remembered how it felt to have his hand wrapped over her throat. The same hand flexed at his side, as if the memory was not too far off.

Nadya's head tilted to the side, daring to look at Morvane before a smile dragged along her lips as she turned to look back at Ilir. "Marriage?"

Ilir had expected outrage.

He lifted his chin. "I owe you a great debt for saving my family's future. The chance to correct my sister's wrongdoings before she was taken advantage of her naïveté. She will become a Solherre, an alliance between our alliances, and the same can be done between our houses, Nadezhda Caliar." Her true name was not one commonly known. All her sisters had similar, longer names, but all went by the diminutive versions. Ilir had been doing his research, had spent time plotting this.

She had too much power for who she was. He knew she would become a High Ascendant after a few more years, and by then, it would be too late. She was of higher rank, yes, but he knew her father's worry was to see his daughter's married off. Her mother wanted to prove the Caliar name was not out of favour. To be matched with a Malennis will only catapult their name to the forefront.

Nadya snorted at the sound of her name.

"Go home, Cadet Malennis."

He was grateful now for Eira’s warning. Without it, the words might have prompted a far more violent reaction from him. But even with the foreknowledge, hearing the proposal from Ilir’s own mouth was enough to send heat flooding through his veins. Still, Cullen remembered Nadya’s words, and kept his expression carved from stone. He met her gaze with a light smirk, then turned his eyes back to Ilir.

If only the bastard had stopped speaking there. Instead, Ilir pressed on, speaking of Eira with calculated cruelty, claiming Cullen had taken advantage of her, painting her as naïve, and declaring she would become a fucking Solherre as if it were some triumph. It was salt in a wound Cullen had barely begun to dress. And then, as if that weren’t enough, he spoke Nadya’s true name—an intimacy he had no right to wield.

Cullen's restraint stretched thin, every muscle coiled tight, his temper a thread away from snapping.
Only when Ilir finished with that oily flourish of Nadya’s full name did Cullen finally speak.

“Interesting courtship custom your House practices, my lord. ” He tilted his head, eyes sharp. “Is it always hands round a woman’s throat before a ring round her finger?  Or is that honour reserved for ladies who outrank you? Those alliances, though." he whistled. "How romantic.”

Then he dipped his chin, the ghost of a smile, nothing warm, touching his mouth.

“Think you have your answer though, bud. Best do as your Wing Leader commands, Cadet Malennis.."