Chapter 6: Ghostly Intervention
For a few suspended heartbeats, Ithan was a statue carved from pure rage. He saw them. Walking side by side. Her in her dark running clothes, hair messy. Him in his black clothes, an unhurried, goddamned stroll. The absolute normalcy of it, their joined hands, was the ultimate provocation. The Prince had not only corrupted her, he was now parading her back like a spoil of war. Right up to the door.
“Step away from her,” Ithan’s voice boomed across the yard, low and guttural, a sound not fully human. The wolves beside him shifted, their shoulders squaring. “Now.”
Daemian’s grip on Aria’s hand tightened, a reflexive show of solidarity. “We’re here to talk, Holstrom.”
That small squeeze was all it took.
“Talk?” Ithan exploded, launching himself down the porch steps. The controlled Prime vanished, replaced by a raw, feral male. “You think you can steal her out of my house and bring her back and we’ll talk? You slimy fucking snake!”
He didn’t run. He moved with the terrifying speed of an alpha wolf, closing the distance in three long strides. Aria tried to step forward, to put herself in the middle, but she was too slow. Ithan’s fist shot out, aiming for Daemian’s face.
Daemian jerked back, the blow grazing his jaw with a sickening crack. He stumbled, releasing Aria’s hand.
“Stop it!” she screamed, throwing herself against Ithan’s chest, shoving with all her weight. It was like pushing a mountain.
“Get out of the way, Aria!” Ithan roared, trying to bat her aside. His eyes were blind with fury, locked on Dae, who was already righting himself, his own expression hardening into something cold and lethal. Fae magic crackled in the air around him, a sharp, ozone smell cutting through the scent of grass and night.
“You touch her again like you did on that field, and you’ll find out what Avallen royalty can really do,” Daemian snarled, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip.
That did it. The reference to the bruises, to the evidence, was gasoline on the fire. Ithan roared again, a sound of pure anguish and fury, and lunged, shoving Aria so hard she spun and hit the damp grass. He didn't even seem to notice. His entire world was the Fae prince.
Daemian braced, magic swirling around his hands, ready to meet the charge with something far worse than fists.
“ITHAN. STOP.”
The voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through the night with the absolute, chilling clarity of a blade through silk. It was a voice from a memory, from a grave.
Ithan froze mid-lunge, his body coiled like a spring. He whipped his head around, his breath sawing in and out of his chest.
Conner stood under the sprawling branches of the oldest oak, maybe twenty feet away. He was more solid than he’d been in Aria’s room, a detailed sketch in silver and moonlight. He glowed softly, illuminating the dewy grass at his translucent feet. His arms were crossed, his expression one of profound, exhausted disappointment.
Aria scrambled to her knees. Daemian slowly straightened, the violent energy around him dissipating into a watchful tension. He’d known this was a possibility. He’d paid for the extra time, just in case.
Ithan stared. His face went slack, the violent red draining away, leaving a pallor that was almost grey in the porch light. His lips moved, but no sound came out. It was a punch to the soul, seeing the brother he’d mourned here, now, in the middle of this ugliness.
“What.” The word was a choked gasp. Ithan tried again, his chest heaving. “What.Do. You.Mean. Stop.”
“I mean,” Conner said, his ghostly voice eerily calm, “you do not touch him. You already left bruises on your own sister. Honestly, out of the two of you right now, I’m more pissed at you.”
Silence. The night insects held their breath.
“What?” Ithan breathed, the word barely audible.
Conner’s silver eyes fixed on him. “First off. You do not speak for me, Ithan. You never did. And you told her I’d be sick if I knew. Well, I do know. I’ve known for hours.” He took a step forward, a silent glide over the grass. “And two, did you even think to look at her arm from where you grabbed her the other morning? Before you started screaming about fae marks on her neck?” His voice sharpened, gaining an edge that hadn’t been there in the temple. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a fucking case of domestic abuse on her arm.”
Ithan flinched as if struck. His furious gaze, torn from Conner’s ghost, snapped to Aria. She was still on the grass, her sleeve pushed up from the fall, the dark, mottled purple and blue fingerprints standing in brutal relief against her skin in the mixed light.
He hadn’t truly looked. He’d been so consumed by the scent of fae on her, by the betrayal, that the evidence of his own violence had been irrelevant. Now, under the impartial glow of his dead brother’s judgment, it was all that existed.
“I…” Ithan’s voice broke. He took an involuntary step back, his hands coming up slightly, fingers splayed, as if seeing blood on them. “I didn’t mean to…”
“You never mean to,” Conner shot back, his calm finally cracking. A ripple of sorrow moved through his spectral form. “You just do. You crush things because you’re scared. You lock her up because you can’t lock up your guilt. You became Prime and you think that gives you the right to treat your family like subjects.”
“She’s with a fae,” Ithan pleaded, gesturing desperately at Daemian, who stood silent and watchful, his hazel eyes flicking between the ghost and the broken Prime. “The Avallen fae, Con! You know what they are!”
“I know what they were,” Conner corrected him quietly. “I also know what I was. A hot-headed idiot who got himself killed.” He looked at Aria, his expression softening. “And I know she’s not me. She’s not you. She’s trying to survive in a world that took her big brother and left her with another one who’s too busy being a monument to notice she’s drowning.”
Each word was a carefully placed chisel, cracking the stone of Ithan’s certainty. He looked at Aria on the ground, really looked at her. Not as his wayward sister, but as a person. He saw the tear tracks through the dirt on her face, the defiance in her green eyes, and the horrible, undeniable truth on her arm. His anger had done that. His love had done that.
His shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him, leaving a hollowed-out man standing in his sweatpants on his own lawn. “So what am I supposed to do?” he asked, and the question was directed at the ghost, raw and helpless. “Just let him have her? After everything?”
Daemian finally spoke, his voice measured but firm. “No one is ‘having’ her. She’s not a possession.” He looked at Ithan, a flicker of something that might have been understanding passing through his eyes. “She proposed a negotiation. A public courtship.With rules. Your rules, if you agree to them. So this isn’t a secret that could blow up in your face. It’s an arrangement. One that gives her some breathing room and gives you some control back.”
The political practicality of it was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Ithan’s mind, trained to think in terms of pack stability and alliance, latched onto it. A public courtship was manageable. A secret affair was a scandal. This… this was damage control he could work with.
He looked from Daemian’s waiting face to Aria’s expectant one, and finally to the silent, judging form of his dead brother.
Conner gave a slight, sad nod. “Listen to them, Ithan. For once, don’t just react. Listen.”
Ithan closed his eyes. The night air was cold on his skin. He could still smell the fae prince, the strange magic, the threat. But underneath it, he could also smell his sister’s fear, and his own shame.
“Inside,” he said, the word tasting like ash. He turned, his back stiff, and walked toward the house without looking to see if they followed. “We’ll talk. But it’s on my terms.”
As he climbed the porch steps, he couldn't bring himself to look back at the oak tree. When he finally did, from the doorway, the space beneath the branches was empty. Only moonlight and shadow remained.
Conner was gone again. The yard held only the living: his sister, her dangerous prince, and the heavy, complicated silence of a negotiation yet to begin.
The screen door clicked shut behind Ithan, a soft, definitive sound that echoed in the quiet yard. Aria pushed herself up from the grass, her palms damp and gritty. Daemian was already at her side, his hand extended not to pull her up, but to offer a steadying presence. She ignored it, getting to her feet on her own.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low. He was watching the house, his body still poised between confrontation and retreat.
She nodded, brushing dirt from her leggings. Her arm throbbed where she’d landed on it.“Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”
They walked to the house. The porch light felt clinical, exposing everything. Inside, the foyer was too bright. Ithan stood in the doorway to the main living room, a space of worn leather and stone. He’d put a t-shirt on. He didn’t look at Aria’s arm.
“Sit,” he said, the command devoid of its earlier heat. It was just tired.
Aria took one end of the large sectional. Dae remained standing, leaning against the stone fireplace mantel, putting distance between himself and Ithan’s territory. The air was thick with unsaid things, with the phantom scent of Conner’s ghost and yesterday’s screamed curse.
Perry appeared in the archway, his face drawn. “Ithan? You need anything?”
“Coffee. For everyone. Then we’re not to be disturbed.” Ithan didn’t look at him. Perry nodded and vanished.
“A public courtship,” Ithan began, his eyes fixed on a crack in the hearthstone. He spoke like he was reading from a terrible script. “Define ‘public.’”
Daemian crossed his arms. “No sneaking. We see each other openly. Dates. In the city, mostly. She tells you where we’re going, when she’ll be back.”
Ithan’s gaze flicked to Aria. “And if I say no to a location?”
“Then we discuss it,” Aria said, her voice clear. “You don’t just veto. You give a reason based on actual, credible threat. Not just because you don’t like him.”
A muscle ticked in Ithan’s jaw. “Credible threat. His entire bloodline is a credible threat. His father orchestrated the poisoning of the River Queen’s court two decades ago. His brother was a sadistic piece of work, and everyone knows it.”
“And I am neither of them,” Dae replied, his tone flat. “I’m the one who inherited the mess they made. I’m the one trying to clean it up, which is considerably harder if the Vanir Prime is declaring me a personal enemy over who I choose to see.”
The word ‘choose’ hung in the air. Ithan finally looked at Aria, really looked at her. “You choose this? The politics, the danger, the… the everything that comes with him?”
She held his gaze. “I choose not to be suffocated. If this is the shape that takes, then yes.”
Perry returned with a tray of mugs, setting it on the low table with a clatter that made everyone flinch. He left again without a word. The bitter, rich smell of coffee did nothing to cut the tension.
Ithan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Rules,” he said, his voice muffled. “My rules, if this happens.”
“Let’s hear them,” Dae said.
“One.No marks. Nothing that smells like you, nothing that shows. However you’re… managing that.” He gestured vaguely toward Aria’s neck, his own cheeks flushing with uncomfortable heat.“Two. She keeps her phone on her. She answers when I call or text. Not an hour later.Immediately. Three. No private rooms. No apartments, no palace suites, no closed doors. Public spaces only. Four. A curfew. Midnight, unless there’s a pack event you’re both attending, which we will discuss well in advance. Five.” He looked directly at Daemian now, his green eyes hard. “You touch her with violence, you manipulate her with so much as a whisper of a glamour, you use her for one second against this pack, and the courtship is over. And so are you.”
The final threat was delivered with cold, absolute conviction. It wasn’t a brother’s rage. It was a Prime’s decree.
Daemian didn’t blink. “Agreed. On one condition of my own.”
Ithan scoffed. “You’re not in a position to make conditions.”
“You’re right. She is.” Dae pushed off the mantel and looked at Aria. “The condition is hers. She can end it, at any time, for any reason. No argument from you. She walks away, and you don’t hold it against her. You don’t lock her up again because she ‘failed.’ She gets to try this, and she gets to leave it if it’s wrong.”
The stipulation was a surprise. It shifted the power, subtly but completely, back to her. It wasn’t about them negotiating over her head. It was them building a structure she could control. Ithan saw the logic, saw the trap in refusing it.
He gave a single, tight nod. “Fine.”
“And you don’t touch her like that again,” Dae added, his voice dropping into something dangerously quiet. He nodded toward her arm.“Ever. You have a problem, you come to me. You and me. We handle it. She’s not the battlefield between us.”
Silence stretched. The furnace kicked on, a low hum in the walls. Ithan’s throat worked. The memory of his fingers digging into her skin, the look on her face in the training ground, merged with Conner’s ghostly condemnation. “Agreed,” he whispered.
It was done. The terms were crude, brittle, but they existed. Aria felt no victory, only a vast, hollow relief. She had a framework. A treacherous, narrow ledge to walk, but it was out in the open.
“Good,” Dae said. He picked up a mug of coffee, didn’t drink it, just held the warmth. “We’ll start tomorrow. There’s a new exhibition at the Photographic Arts Museum. I’ll pick you up here at seven.”
“I’ll have a guard drive her,” Ithan said.
“You’ll have a guard follow us,” Dae corrected. “Not drive her. She’s not a prisoner in transit. She’s on a date. With me.”
Ithan’s nostrils flared, but he dipped his head again.Another concession. Another defeat. “Fine.”
Daemian set the mug down, untouched. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Aria.” He didn’t try to touch her, didn’t try to kiss her goodbye in front of her brother. He just gave her a look that was all his own—a look of shared, exhausting complicity—and turned for the door.
Ithan didn’t move from the couch. He listened to the front door open and close, a far gentler sound than the screen door’s earlier snap. The house settled into a deeper quiet. He could feel Aria watching him from the other end of the sofa, a space that felt like a canyon.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the empty fireplace. The words were inadequate, stones dropped into a deep well. “For your arm. For… all of it.”
“I know,” she said. Her voice was small, but not weak. “I’m sorry for what I said. About Conner.”
He nodded, a stiff movement. The ghost of her scream was still in the room, in the very air he breathed. “Did he really come? To you?”
“Yes. After… after you left me in the yard. Dae paid for more time with the Underlord. He wanted a witness you’d trust.” She drew her knees up to her chest. “He told me you were terrified. That it made you cruel.”
A raw, broken sound escaped Ithan’s throat. He put his head in his hands. “He’s not wrong.”
They sat in the quiet for a long time. The coffee grew cold in its mugs. The negotiation was over, but the harder work, the work of living with its terms, had just begun in the silent space between them. Outside, a car engine purred to life and faded down the street, taking the dangerous prince away for the night.
Aria watched the taillights dissolve into the dark. Inside, the silence was a physical presence. It pressed on her eardrums, thicker than before Dae had left. The negotiated truce lay between her and her brother like a layer of brittle ice over a deep, cold lake.
Ithan hadn’t moved from his slumped position. He stared at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. The red marks on his knuckles from where his fist had grazed Dae’s jaw were fading. The memory of the violence, of Conner’s ghostly censure, wasn't.
“…I don’t…I don’t wish you had died instead.” The words left her lips as a faint breath, a truth she had to excavate from the wreckage. She dug her fingers into the rough weave of the sofa. “I was angry and… I reached for what I knew would hurt. I’m sorry.”
Ithan’s head lifted slowly. In the low light, his face was all sharp angles and hollows. The rage was gone. What remained was something bleaker, more desolate. He looked at her, and for a second, she saw the boy he’d been before the mantle of Prime, before the grief, before all of it. “I wish it had been me.”
The quiet, absolute conviction in his voice punched the air from her lungs. It wasn’t self-pity. It was a cold, settled fact he’d been living with for years. Aria’s composure shattered. A choked sob ripped free from her chest, then another, a torrent she couldn't stop. Her vision blurred with hot, rushing tears.
“No… Ithan. No.”
She got up, her legs unsteady. She stumbled the two steps across the worn rug. She didn't think, just collapsed into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck. She buried her face in the cotton of his t-shirt, her body shaking with the force of her crying. For a long moment, he was rigid, a statue absorbing the impact. Then, with a shuddering exhale, his arms came up and closed around her. He held on just as tight, his face pressed into her hair.
They didn’t speak. Words were useless now. The raw, syncopated rhythm of their grief filled the room—her choked sobs, his ragged breathing, the unspoken years of loss and fear and misdirected love. He rocked her slightly, a faint, automatic motion from their childhood. The familiar scent of him—wolf, cedar, the particular soap he used—was a anchor in the storm her world had become.
She cried for Conner, for the ghost who had blessed her rebellion. She cried for the ugly marks on her arm and the beautiful, dangerous ones on her neck. She cried for the terrifying bond humming in her veins and the suffocating cage of this house. She cried until her throat was raw and her eyes burned, until the storm inside her dulled to a weary ache.
His shirt was damp beneath her cheek. His own breathing had evened out, but the tension in his muscles was a live wire. “I don’t know how to do this,” he murmured into her hair, his voice gravelly. “I don’t know how to be your brother and your Prime when both feel like they’re failing you.”
She pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. His green eyes were red-rimmed, glassy. “Stop trying to be my Prime right now,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Just be my brother. Please.”
He nodded, a jerky movement. His thumb brushed away a stray tear on her cheek, his touch impossibly gentle compared to the grip from before. “The rules stand,” he said, the leader in him surfacing for a second. “But… we can negotiate the curfew. Maybe one a.m. on weekends.”
It was such a stupid, mundane concession.It was everything. A watery, hiccuping laugh escaped her. “Okay.”
He didn't let her go. They sat like that for a long time, in the quiet living room, as the night deepened outside. The silent house felt less like a prison and more like a shelter, for the first time in months. The ice had cracked. The water beneath was freezing and dark, but at least they were both acknowledging the dive.
Finally, he loosened his hold. “You should sleep. Big day tomorrow.” The words ‘with him’ hung, unspoken. “You want me to have Sasha sit outside your door? Or… not?”
The fact that he was asking, that he was offering a choice, made her chest tighten. “Not tonight,” she said. “Just… leave the hall light on?”
A faint, sad smile touched his mouth. “Always.” He helped her up. She felt boneless, drained. At the foot of the stairs, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Aria. If he hurts you… you’ll tell me? Not as your Prime. As me.”
She saw the real fear there, the one that had nothing to do with politics.She nodded. “Yeah. I will.”
She climbed the stairs to her room. The door was open, the room just as she’d left it, the faint imprint of her body still on the duvet. The balcony doors were closed, the lock engaged. She changed into soft pajamas, her movements slow. As she slid into bed, her phone, now hers again, buzzed on the nightstand.
A single message from Dae.
Ghosts and brothers. You survived.
A pause, then another message.
See you at seven. Wear something you can run in.
She stared at the screen, a flicker of that old, wild feeling cutting through her exhaustion. He wasn't referring to shoes. He was offering an escape clause, even on their first sanctioned date. A promise of chaos, held in reserve.
She typed back.
I always can.
She plugged the phone in and turned out the light. The hall light bled a soft, golden line under her door. Downstairs, she heard the faint creak of floorboards as Ithan paced. The house was still full of ghosts, but for now, the screaming had stopped. Tomorrow was a museum, and a guard tailing them, and the careful, terrible dance they’d all agreed to. She closed her eyes, the phantom sensation of Ithan’s arms and Dae’s magic a confusing, parallel warmth on her skin, and let the deep, silent dark take her.