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The game is just beginning.
"What do you think?" I ask the zarryn, who huffs disinterestedly in response, more concerned with the patch of grass it's currently sampling. "Should we find accommodations in this quaint little village?"
It had been fun in the beginning, those monthly visits to her shop. The way her gray eyes would spark with irritation when I entered. The way she'd snap and snarl, all while her body betrayed her with subtle signs of arousal that my heightened senses never missed. I'd push and prod and charm until that iron will of hers bent just enough for us both to get what we wanted.
Then I'd leave, and spend the next month thinking about her far more than I should have.
"Time to start fresh," I decide, mounting the zarryn once more. "Show her what happens when she tries to take what's mine."
The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me. I've never been one to claim ownership of anyone. Women have always been a pleasant diversion—a night or two of mutual pleasure before we part ways, no strings, no complications.
But Ronnie... Ronnie was never just a diversion. I just wasn't ready to admit it until she disappeared.
As we make our way back toward the village, a plan forms. I'll find lodging, establish myself. Perhaps introduce myself to the locals, learn the rhythms of this place she's chosen to hidein. And then I'll begin my siege—slow, deliberate, calculated to drive her absolutely mad with want and frustration.
Just like old times, only better. This time, I won't be leaving after a night of satisfaction.
This time, I'm playing for keeps.
I spend the night in a modest inn at the edge of the village, paying extra for discretion and a private room where my wings won't draw attention. The innkeeper—a stout woman with shrewd eyes—asks no questions when I place three novas on her counter.
Morning breaks with golden light spilling through shabby curtains. I wake restless, my body still humming with unresolved tension despite last night's encounter. The taste of Ronnie lingers on my tongue—spice and sweetness I've craved for three years.
I dress quickly, choosing a simple dark tunic that accommodates my wings. My reflection in the small mirror shows a face sharper than I remember, golden eyes glinting with determination. I've spent too long being diplomatic, charming my way through court for a master who's now dead. Time to be direct.
The village is already bustling when I step outside. It's smaller than I expected—picturesque with its stone buildings and flower-lined paths. I keep to the shadows of buildings, my wings tucked close. No need to announce my presence just yet.
I follow the winding cobblestone street, memorizing each turn while searching for any sign of Ronnie. The air smells of baking bread and river mist, laced with wild herbs from nearby fields. The village feels... content. Settled. This peaceful existence seems at odds with the fiery woman I know.
A melody of laughter draws my attention to the village square. I halt, pressing myself against the wall of a nearby building.
There she is.
Ronnie steps into the morning light, her deep auburn hair caught in a loose braid that hangs over one shoulder. She looks... different. Softer somehow, despite the same lean, wiry strength in her arms. The sunlight catches the constellation of freckles across her nose and shoulders. She's wearing a simple dress that hugs her curves—curves I rediscovered last night.
But she's not alone.
My blood freezes as a tall male figure approaches her—a fucking xaphan with massive gray wings that brush the ground as he walks. He towers over Ronnie, lean but powerful with short white-blond hair and sharp features. Even from this distance, I can see his pale silver eyes catch the light as he says something that makes Ronnie's lips curve into a smile.
A smile I've been dying to coax from her. I mostly get her snarls.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
The knife twists deeper when a small child darts between them, all wild black curls and bubbling laughter. A little girl, no more than three years old. My breath catches in my throat when I see the tiny, downy wings sprouting from her back—silver-tinged and unmistakable.
Something visceral and ugly claws at my insides. Three years. She left me three years ago.
The timing fits perfectly.
The xaphan reaches down, scooping the child into his arms with practiced ease. She giggles, pressing her tiny palms against his face as he pretends to bite at her fingers. It's the casual intimacy of family.
A family that includes Ronnie.
"Stop!" the child squeals, loud enough for me to hear across the square. "Down! I can do it myself!"
The xaphan sets her down with exaggerated care, and she promptly runs circles around Ronnie, who catches her mid-spin and tickles her sides. The sound of their combined laughter feels like shards of glass in my ears.
Is this why she ran? To be with another xaphan? One with pure silver eyes and noble bearing, not a mongrel courier with wings the color of storm clouds?