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A promise hung in his husky voice and heated gaze. Evelyn’s throat went dry. She wanted to agree, wanted to tell him on the walk home, wanted him to understand—

“Saige!”

Aster appeared, pushing through the patrons. She carried a basket of apples, her cheeks matching the red of the fruit, a leaf garland hanging around her neck. She eyed Evelyn and Cyrus, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Saige, this is the part of the festival when things get a little rowdy,” she said in a whisper. “I’m headed home and wondered if you’d walk with me.”

“Go,” Cyrus said, nodding to the exit.

Evelyn’s heart soared, her feet planted in place. Her next words came out in a rush. “Will you come to my place for dinner tomorrow night?”

Cyrus blinked, swallowed, and searched her face. Evelyn almost took it back, ready to tell him to forget it when he said, “Yes.”

Dancers began to bump into them as the band started a faster jig. Miss Patricia called Cyrus’s name from the bar.

“Six o’clock?” she asked.

“Six,” he said, planting one final, parting kiss on her lips before heading to the bar.

Aster pulled Evelyn through the crowd, and they held hands the whole way home. Evelyn twirled and gushed, and Aster laughed.

“He’s my fated, Aster,” she said to her new friend. “Goddess, I can’t believe it. Cyrus Skender, a huntsman and human, is my fated.”

The Autumn Festival continued on for the night. The joy, the warmth of it, stayed thick in the air, lulling Evelyn to sleep, readying herself for the evening to come when she’d tell Cyrus everything.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Evelyn

Nerves as flighty as the butterflies in Aster’s shop swirled in Evelyn’s stomach.

She ran her hands through her hair a dozen times. Straightened the forks at the dinner table at least twenty times. Tasted the meal cooking away more than she wanted to admit.

With Cyrus as her fated, her union with Kade Drengr could never happen. She’d consider going back home and helping him defeat the darkness, but she wouldn’t bind her soul to him.

Not when it sang for another.

First, Evelyn had a plan. More of a speech, really, ready for Cyrus. She’d tell him over dinner, over the food, after their first glass of wine. Goddess knew she needed the wine. Then, if the conversation went well, they’d figure out what to do next together.

She spun her freshly made bracelet around her wrist. She’d debated keeping herself unhidden, but with Cyrus being her fated, she wanted to control what would happen next and had made another, woven with the same herbs. Whispers of a witch with flame would soon reach the shores of Sorin, but at least by then she’d have somewhat of a plan.

A knock sounded at the door. Evelyn froze, her pent-up anxiety rooting her in place. Could she do this? Would he understand? Would he even want her after he learned the truth?

Evelyn took a deep breath, tucked her hair behind her ear, checked the table, reined in her magic, and took a step toward the door.

Cyrus stood in the evening drizzle, eyes as bright as the lanterns down the street, and not for a single second more did Evelyn doubt her decision.

“Huntsman,” she said.

“Princess,” he said.

She opened the door wide, and he entered her apartment. He held a bouquet of flowers, marigolds, and tuberoses. Red and orange contrasted with the trumpet-shaped white petals, and something itched at the back of Evelyn’s mind, but her nerves didn’t let her think much more on it.

“They’re beautiful,” she breathed. He handed them over along with a bottle of wine, sea-green glass covered in time and dust.

“What’s this?” she asked, brushing away crusted dirt to read the label. She gasped as the date on the bottle became clear. “This is as old as I am!”

Cyrus laughed, but Evelyn noticed how he swallowed. His shoulders were taut, hands flexing.