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And now we walk.

My fingers twitch at my sides like they don’t know what to do with themselves. I want to say yes. I want to say it so badly my teeth ache from holding it in. But I can’t stop thinking about what bonding does—how it changes things. Not just the power. Not just the magic. The personality. Every time I bonded with one of them, something shifted. With Silas, I started craving chaos. With Riven, I started choosing silence more than I used to. With Elias—

Gods, Elias.

Elias is the reason I started snorting when I laugh.

And now Orin.

When I’m around him, everything inside me short-circuits. I turn into the most unhinged, awkward, vaguely feral version of myself. Like Silas infected me, and Orin is just too—too intense, too composed, too sexy—and now the only way I know how to function near him is to say the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.

I clear my throat. “You ever, uh, think about how weird it is that trees have skin?”

Orin’s gaze cuts sideways, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving me a full minute to re-evaluate that sentence before he commits to acknowledging it. “Bark?”

“Oh gods.” I groan. “Yeah. No. I meant—yes. Bark. Obviously. Not, like, sentient skin or anything. That would be... deeply alarming.”

His mouth curves. Just slightly. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re deeply nervous.”

I scoff. “I’m the definition of composed.”

“You’re the definition of unhinged.”

“I’m going to walk into this tree.”

“You almost already did.”

I curse softly under my breath and deliberately turn my head toward the willow. The branches sweep down like arms, the leaves pale silver in the early dusk light. There’s a hush here. Not quiet, not empty. Just… expectant.

My fingers curl tighter around nothing.

He doesn’t stop walking until we’re beneath the hanging veil of the willow, the world narrowing around us. Soft. Private. It feels like a secret place—like the kind of spot that remembers what it sees. My pulse kicks harder.

Orin turns toward me, and gods, he’s so calm about it. His face is unreadable—unbothered by the way I just spent half the walk talking about tree skin and existential root systems like a lunatic. I think that’s why I like him so much.

Because he doesn’t flinch.

“I want you to be sure,” he says. “Not because you think I expect it. Not because the others have.”

I look up at him. “And if I’m already sure?”

His gaze lingers on my face for a long, heavy second. “Then you say yes. And I’ll cut.”

I swallow hard.

“I want to,” I whisper. “But I—”

“You’re afraid you’ll start sounding like Silas.”

My laugh cracks out of me, sharp and embarrassed. “Too late. I already do. I tried to flirt with a window earlier.”

Orin doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flash with quiet amusement. “Did it flirt back?”

“It closed itself.”