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He didn’t ask for anything.

He didn’t even flirt.

He declared something. Quietly. Unshakably. And now I have no idea what comes next.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, the worn banister rough under my palm, the scent of something burnt floating from the kitchen like someone tried to cook and failed spectacularly.

A voice cuts through the air, too loud, too obnoxiously familiar.

"Luuuuna."

I groan before I even round the corner.

Silas.

And where he is—

"You look flushed." Elias’s voice slides in, sharp and smooth and trying way too hard to sound casual.

"Did you just wake up, sweetheart?" he continues, peering at me with mock concern and way too much interest. "Or were you—"

"Don’t," I warn, narrowing my eyes at him.

"—visited by a mysterious gentleman caller who speaks in ancient riddles and smells like stormclouds and betrayal?"

Silas pops up from behind the table, eyes gleaming. "Are we talking about Orin? Because I had him pegged as the hot-but-emotionally-inaccessible villain from the start. You can’t trust men who wear gloves indoors."

"He wasn’t wearing gloves," I mutter, brushing past them into the kitchen, grabbing a half-empty mug of something that used to be tea.

"Oh," Elias says, leaning against the counter with that lazy, crooked grin that means he’s about to make everything worse. "So he’s upgraded to formal courtship then?"

I freeze, mug halfway to my mouth.

They both erupt.

Elias nearly slides off the counter he’s perched on, laughing so hard his shoulders shake. Silas practically throws himself into a chair, hands over his heart like this is the greatest drama he’s ever witnessed.

"It’s phase one," Silas says solemnly. "Next come the riddles. Then the poetry. And finally, the blood oath and ritual braid exchange."

I give him a flat stare. "Are you making that up?"

He grins. "Probably."

But Elias sobers—just slightly—his smile dipping into something darker, more thoughtful.

"He’s serious, you know," he says, voice dropping. "Orin doesn’t do anything unless it matters."

The walk to the Fang takes longer than it should. It always does.

Maybe it’s the uneven path—the winding trail through trees that whisper too loudly, overgrown with things that shouldn’t grow in a place like this. Maybe it’s that none of us seem to move in straight lines anymore. Everything curves. Everything loops. And maybe it’s just easier to pretend we’re not heading into a den of whispers and watchful stares.

They surround me.

Not with intention, not in a formation they’ve planned. But I end up at the center anyway, their bodies falling into orbit around mine like it’s natural. Riven closest at my left, walking like he’s ready to maim someone for breathing wrong. Elias on my right, shoulder brushing mine every few steps, pretending it’s not on purpose. Ambrose is ahead of us, silent, unreadable. Silas hums behind me, kicking rocks into the trees and whispering spells into the dirt for reasons I don’t want to know.

And Orin walks behind me. Just behind. Close enough that I feel him without looking. Close enough that the back of my neck warms from proximity alone. I can still feel the echo of his voice in my head, the words he used. The way he never once asked.

There’s a weight to that kind of certainty. A danger, too. Because I haven’t decided what to do with it.