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"I'll take it," I decide, reaching for my coin purse. "And I'd like it wrapped, if you would."
As the vendor carefully packages the bracelet, I force myself to examine this strange impulse. In the year I've been visiting Ronnie's village, I've never brought her anything besides my company and the pleasure we take from each other's bodies. Why start now?
I haven't bedded another since our arrangement began—not from any sense of commitment, but simply because no one else has interested me enough to pursue. The courtiers and nobles with their coy games and transparent manipulations seem tedious after Ronnie's blunt honesty.
Is that it? Have I simply grown fond of having one person in my life who doesn't want anything from me beyond the physical?
Friend isn't the right word for what she is to me. Friends don't slam doors in each other's faces half the time. Friends don't pretend the other doesn't exist until clothes start coming off.
And yet, there's something there—something beyond mere physical compatibility that keeps drawing me back to her shop each month with increasing anticipation.
Whatever it is, I know better than to name it. Ronnie has made it abundantly clear she despises what I am, even as she desires what I can do. That contradiction is part of her appeal—the fire in her eyes when she tells me to leave, even as her body arches toward mine.
5
RONNIE
Morning light filters through the cracks in my shutters, stabbing directly into my eyes like some kind of divine punishment. I groan and roll away from it, only for my stomach to immediately clench in protest. Not again. I barely make it to the washbasin before emptying what little remains in my stomach from last night's dinner.
"Fuck," I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool wooden edge of the basin.
After several deep breaths, I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth, avoiding my own reflection in the small mirror hanging above. I already know what I'll see—the pallor that's taken up residence beneath my freckles, the shadows under my eyes that speak of restless nights.
I press a hand to my still-flat abdomen, trying to wrap my mind around the reality. There's a life growing inside me. Half-human, half-xaphan. The thought sends another wave of nausea through me that has nothing to do with morning sickness.
"Get it together, Ronnie," I mutter to myself, pushing away from the basin to dress for the day.
My shop won't open itself, and the new shipment of dried herbs from the southern villages needs cataloging. Life doesn't stop just because yours has fundamentally changed overnight.
I tug a loose cotton shirt over my head, cinch it with a belt at my waist, and step into my most comfortable work trousers. The familiarity of the routine steadies me, even as my thoughts race in chaotic circles.
A baby. Araton's baby.
My hand trembles as I braid my auburn hair, twisting it into a low knot at the nape of my neck. Wayward strands already escape to frame my face, but I don't bother fixing them. It's not like I have anyone to impress in this village.
Except for one insufferably handsome xaphan who appears on my doorstep every month like some kind of twisted clockwork, with his golden eyes and that goddamn dimple that only appears when he's genuinely amused and not just playing charming.
I yank my boots on with more force than necessary. Araton can't know. Not ever. The second he finds out, he'll swoop in with his wings and his smooth words, trying to take over. I can already hear him—"This changes things, fierce one."
The nickname makes me wince even in my imagination. Especially as I remember the day we met.
I shake off the memory and grab my apron from its peg by the door, securing it around my waist as I descend the narrow stairs that connect my living quarters to the shop below.
The morning sunlight paints golden rectangles across the wooden floor. Dust motes dance in the beams, highlighting shelves stocked with everything from practical necessities to exotic imports. It's not much, but it's mine—built from nothing after Aunt Mae passed and left me with little more than the clothes on my back and a lifetime of indifferent care.
I run my fingers along the countertop, the wood smooth from years of use. My shop has been my salvation, my independence, my entire life for the past five years.
And now all of it—every scrap of security I've carved out for myself—feels threatened by the life growing inside me.
"We'll be fine," I tell my still-flat stomach, surprised by the fierceness in my voice. "Just you and me."
But what if Araton finds out? What if he decides he wants this child? Xaphan are possessive by nature, especially over their offspring. Would he try to take the baby away? Or worse, insist that I come with him to his world of crystal spires and gossamer wings, where humans are barely better than well-treated pets?
My hands clench into fists, nails biting into my palms. "Not happening," I whisper to the empty shop.
This is it—the push I've needed for months now. Every time Araton leaves, I swear it's the last time. No more opening my door, no more falling into bed with him, no more watching the sky for a glimpse of dusky gray wings flecked with silver. And yet, when he returns, all my resolve crumbles beneath the weight of whatever this thing is between us.
Not this time. This time, I have something more important than my own weakness to consider.