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The woman, presumably Dreena, stops her kneading and eyes me suspiciously over the counter. She frowns. “Who are you?” In her country accent, it comes out more likewhoreya, the words merging into two syllables.

“My name is Reina,” I say. “I’m on my way to Lord Kahedin’s castle, but I got lost. I’ve come all the way from Corbinelle, though, and I’m absolutely starving.”

“What do you want with Kahedin?” she asks. “All the way from Corbinelle?”

“Someone on his staff wrote requesting my services. I’m an herbalist and a healer. They thought I might be able to help.”

“He already has her balls.”

I blink. “I’m sorry?”

“He already has her balls.”

“He has…balls?”

She sighs, exasperated. “He. Already. Has. A. Herbalist,” she says, pronouncing every word loudly and slowly.

I clear my throat. “Well, I don’t think she’s working out. Though itdidtake me ages to get here.”

“You’re too late. He’s getting a bed wetter.”

It takes me a while to untangle this rural accented phrase: he’s getting a bit better. I sigh loudly, giving the impression of a disappointed healer who has just realized she’s out of a job. “Oh. Well…that’s good news. I’m glad your lord is doing better.”

“Ha!” She smirks in derision.

“Who is this herbalist?” I ask. “It might be someone I know.”

I need her to repeat the name three times, and by the third time, I’m pretty sure it’sFermat.

“Oh. I haven’t heard of him. Well, if they don’t need me anymore, I want to make sure I have plenty of food for the ride home. Could I buy some bread, a pheasant pie, a bag of figs, a pie of boar and apple, cantal cheese, and two bottles of mead?” This is overkill, but my rumbling stomach got the better of me.

I pay her sixteen coppers, and she packs up my food for me. As I leave the bakery, I’m already nibbling on the bread and cheese, andgods,it’s delicious. It’s warmer now, the air more springlike, and ice drips from the trees as I walk.

I feel the villagers’ eyes following me as I climb the hill back the way I came. Let them look. I played the part perfectly.

The hem of my dress drags through the melting snow, getting soaked.

I keep eating, half-lost in thought, until a rhythmicthud—thud—thuddraws my attention near the hunting lodge.

Talan stands outside, swinging an axe in powerful arcs. In the warmth of the spring sunlight, he’s taken off his shirt, and I stare at the movement of his muscles and the sinuous lines of his tattoo. His muscles flex and coil under the sunlight. He doesn’t just chop wood—he punishes it with ruthless precision.

I don’t even pretend that I’m not watching. My eyes rake over him, and my mind drifts in a sensual haze. I’m imagining those powerful Fey hands gripping my waist, pulling my hair, grabbing the curve of my ass as he slams into me. Would he make me moan with slow, teasing restraint? Or would he rip off my underwear and take me hard up against a wall?

As if sensing my filthy thoughts, he glances up. Our eyes lock, and heat flares in my cheeks.

A slow, knowing smile curves his lips. “Hungry, are you?”

I press my lips together, trying to maintain a sense of dignity. “Pardon?”

He drops his axe.

As he prowls closer, my gaze brushes down his body, taking in each perfectly carved muscle. The power and the perfectionof his body could make a woman lose her mind.

“You brought back enough food to feed a small army,” he says softly.

I lift an eyebrow, my breath coming quickly. “And?”

His expression darkens, sliding over me like a slow caress. “And I was simply wondering how many of these delights you intended for your husband.”