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The next day was the same. He brought her breakfast. He followed her to work and stayed at what had become "his table" like a silent sentinel.

He brought soft, golden flatbreads stuffed with crumbled cheese and herbs, wrapped in foil and still warm. The scent of toasted cumin and butter filled the pub before she even opened it.

The day after that, it was a neat little box of flaky, rolled bread wrapped around a medley of vegetables sautéed in warming spices, tied with twine and accompanied by a thermos of steaming tea fragrant with ginger and cardamom.

Once, he showed up with a brown paper bag, from which he pulled a box of tiny, perfectly formed triangles-crisp on the outside and warm within, filled with mashed potatoes and peas spiced with coriander, green chilli, and something that made her think of childhood.

Each meal was a memory. A peace offering. And every day, he offered it with the same quiet persistence.

He was a constant shadow. Silent. Steady. Watching her like she was the only thing he'd ever wanted.

When a group of rowdy shifters got a little too familiar with her during their third visit, Hagan's low growl made the glassware rattle.

Threk smirked. "Jealousy looks cute on you."

Griff loomed over. "Scare off any more paying customers and I'll bill you, pup."

But Hagan didn't leave.

Not even when Ryn walked by - stone-faced, black eyeliner flawless as always - and casually drew a finger across her neck while locking eyes with Hagan.

Or when she called out, deadpan, "You break her heart again, pretty boy, I'll break your jaw. With a spoon."

And Seren?

Secretly, when she was in her bed, Seren allowed herself to wonder whether she wanted to kiss him... or kill him.

Chapter 61

Hagan stepped through the door of the apartment he'd been renting—one that had a direct line of sight to her balcony.

He dropped his keys on the counter and ran a hand down his face. His shoulders slumped. It had been a week. A week of showing up with food, of soft smiles, of being ignored or tolerated—but not welcomed.

He could feel her, sure. The muted flicker of their severed bond still whispered in his blood, like an echo of what used to be. But she was keeping him at arm's length. And he couldn't blame her.

He had barely shrugged off his jacket before freezing.

Veyr was back.

Sprawled on the couch like a man who owned it, he had a mug of something steaming on the armrest, a battered copy ofThe Art of Waropen in his lap. He didn't bother to look up.

Hagan blinked. "Didn't think you were due back for another three days."

Veyr's cobalt eyes flicked up. "Moved things around. The office can survive without me growling at interns for a few days."

The Vargrheim tribe's offices had long been set up in the Shifters' Quarter, a hub that managed their goods—carved wares, enchanted textiles, wild-harvested herbs, and the like—traded through bothmagical and human markets. Veyr had been buried in it for weeks: delegating, managing.

Now he was here.

Veyr took a sip of his tea—some foul-smelling herbal concoction Hagan could detect from across the room—and eyed him with that usual emotionless gaze.

Veyr's attention didn't waver from the small leather-bound book in his hand, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"The Art of War," Hagan muttered, raising a brow.

"'Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak,'" Veyr quoted, his cobalt eyes glinting over the top of the page.

Hagan grunted. "Any other sage pieces of advice?"