Page 23 of Bitten & Burned

“Stop. Making it. About you.”

The words landed like the slam of a door—brutal in their simplicity.

I groaned. “Why is everyone saying that?”

“Because… you’re making it about you?” he said, with a shrug. “I don’t know for certain—just spitballing, based on what I know about you and the conversation that we’ve had…just now.”

His facetious tone made me want to knock over one of his crates. I pictured the contents spilling across the floor, anything to disrupt his maddening calm.

I didn’t.

But I wanted to.

“Look, everything else aside, I have some actual advice: You can’t fix it. So stop trying.”

“But I just—”

“No,” he said. One word. A command. Simple, monosyllabic—and the one I hated most. It cut cleaner than a blade, leaving no room to wriggle free.

“There’s no precise order of words you can say that’ll fix everything and make her not mad at you.

You fucked up. Now sit with it until you understand exactly where you went wrong. ”

The idea of marinating in my own failure made my shoulders knot tight.

“Do you know that yet?” he asked.

“No one’s in the wrong—” I began.

“So no?” He nodded, sharp and final. “Got it.” He folded his arms. “Listen. If there’s one thing I know about Rowena, it’s this: she’s not some fragile porcelain doll you tossed on the floor. She’s a grown-ass woman. She can manage her own hurt feelings.”

The certainty in his voice made it sound less like opinion and more like fact.

“She shouldn’t have to!”

He sighed heavily. “You can’t erase it. And you shouldn’t try.”

“I shouldn’t try to make it better? I shouldn’t try to make her better? What happened to owning my mistakes?”

“You’re not trying to make it better,” he said, dry and low. “You’re wringing your hands and crying because apparently your guilt is more important than what she wants right now.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” His eyes flashed. A quick, bright spark of temper, gone almost before I could name it. “She closed the fucking door on you. That’s what she wants. To be left alone. So give it to her—for fuck’s sake.”

“It feels bad to just… leave her alone, though.”

“Tough.” The word landed flat as stone, refusing sympathy. He turned, voice flattening with finality. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is sit in the mess you made, so she doesn’t have to.”

He paused, then said it low and steady, without venom—just truth.

“Own your mistakes, Vael. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.” No softness, no parting comfort—just the bare bones of truth, stripped of anything I could mistake for forgiveness.

He turned back to his crate.

“You can leave whenever.” But, as I stepped toward the door, he spoke again.“She still holed up in the conservatory?”

I looked back at him. “Yeah.”

He didn’t look at me, just kept digging through his crate like he hadn’t asked at all.

“Figures.”

That was all. But it felt like it meant something.

ROWENA

The air in the conservatory had grown stale since I’d closed the door. It clung to my skin like a forgotten perfume, heavy with the scent of dust and long-settled greenery.

I wanted to smell fresh air again, but going outside meant walking the halls. Possibly running into Vael.

And I did not want to see him. Even the thought of his voice in the hall made my stomach tighten.

I didn’t really want to see anyone.

Except possibly Dmitri.

I crossed to one of the windows. There were many, but I chose the one farthest from the door. Distance felt safer, even if it was only a handful of steps.

I didn’t know why I picked that one. But I did.

The latch creaked from disuse, but it opened fine. I stood nearby, letting the cool breeze hit my skin. It carried the sharp bite of autumn, threading through my hair and lifting the heaviness from my chest by degrees.

It occurred to me that a cross-breeze would help more than anything. So I walked to the opposite end of the room to open another window.

That was when I heard it. A small, intrusive sound in the otherwise soft hum of the conservatory—a sound that didn’t belong here.

The crunch of gravel.

From the window I’d just left.

I froze, then peeked through the glass toward the sound.

Quil.

I swallowed. Wondered if he saw me. The urge to duck out of sight warred with the part of me that wanted him to.

It would be silly to think he didn’t.

He set something down on the sill and stayed for a long moment before he turned and walked away. Like he was leaving more than just the bundle behind.

I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded. Until the gravel crunch was replaced by silence, and the soft whistle of the wind.

Then I walked back.

On the sill sat a small bundle, wrapped in a stained handkerchief and weighed down with a smooth river stone. Light green, no bigger than my palm. Just enough to keep it from blowing away.

The handkerchief—I recognized it. Quil’s. The one he used to clean his blades. Blackened with grease. Rust brown where blood had dried. A dirty scrap of fabric. And yet, I held it like it might burn me if I loosened my grip.

I picked it up and unfolded it.

Inside: something small. Gray. Worn.

A toy rabbit.

Pocket-sized. One eye missing. Nearly threadbare in places. The kind of wear that only years—decades of love could leave behind. The stuffing shifted under my fingers, loose and uneven with age.

My heart thudded in my throat.

I brushed my fingers over the top of its head. One ear popped back up as I did. I brought it to my nose—and was flooded with scent. It hit with the force of memory, even if it wasn’t mine.

The woods. Smoke. Soap.

Quil.

It had to be from before he was turned.

Something of his. Something he’d kept. Something he’d… given me.

I hugged the little rabbit to my chest, then pressed a kiss to one of his ears. The fabric was cool against my lips, but my chest felt warmer for it. Carefully, I tucked him into my pocket alongside the river stone.

The handkerchief was filthy. I turned it over in my hands. I could wash it. Or… return it. Maybe he’d want it back.

I hesitated. Then reached into my skirt pocket.

I carried several black handkerchiefs—ones I’d embroidered myself, meant for fieldwork. Practical things, made to be used and dirtied without regret. Black, so they didn’t show dirt. Or blood, when applicable.

I unfolded one and ran my fingers over the stitching.

This would do.

I’d give it to him. Trade it for the one he’d left behind.

A small thing. But gods… it meant everything. A weightless gift that somehow anchored me more than anything else had today.

Quil.

People could still be surprising.

A knock startled me.

I prayed—not Vael. Not Vael. Not Vael—as I crossed the room. Each step felt like pressing my luck with the gods.

When I opened the door, Fig darted into the hallway, his tail high, his escape triumphant.

Anton chuckled. “Oops. Sorry—didn’t mean to let him escape. Want me to chase him down?”

“No,” I said, laughing a little. “He’ll be back when he’s ready.”

I looked at him, expectant.

He just leaned against the doorframe like he belonged there, one shoulder propped against the frame, and he filled the space languidly as if he owned it.

A bottle of wine dangled from one hand, catching the last of the light.

The glass glowed deep ruby where the sun hit, the color rich enough to make my mouth water.

“I also come bearing gifts. A fine vintage, questionable company, and a proposal.”

“A proposal?” I repeated, holding out my hand for the wine.

He gave it to me, pausing a second longer than necessary as I took it.

“Run away with me,” he said smoothly. “We’ll steal a boat, fake our deaths, start a perfumery in the East… you’ll name the scents, I’ll seduce the clientele. It’ll be perfect.” His voice painted the fantasy so vividly I could almost smell the salt air and perfume.

“You rehearsed that,” I said, laughing.

“Only in my head. And only every time you look at me like you might actually laugh. It gives me hope.” The way he said it made my pulse skip—too light to be serious, too sincere to be a joke.

I smiled, but it faded almost immediately.

If only it were that simple. But nothing in my life had been simple in a very long time.

Anton would be the perfect person to run away with. It would be big smiles, good food, good sex… The kind of inference that warmed my skin just for thinking it.

I swallowed at that thought. Not that I knew—but I could guess by looking at him.

Anyone could.

“I can’t,” I said softly. Reluctantly.

His smile curved with just the faintest trace of something sad. It was gone almost before I could name it, replaced by his usual charm. “It’s just as well. I already own a boat.”

“Wait… what?” I blinked. “What kind of boat?”

“Darling, please,” he said with a grin. “Don’t ruin the mystery that is me.”

I glanced down at the wine bottle and then back at him. He wasn’t lying—fine vintage, indeed.

“Thank you,” I said, looking back at him. “For the wine, your company,… and the proposal.”

“It was my pleasure,” he replied. Then, with a softened voice: “And thank you for your gift, as well.” The softness in his tone brushed against me like a hand I almost leaned into.

I tilted my head. “What gift?”

He grinned broadly.

I laughed.

“That, right there.” The words landed warmer than the wine in my hand.

He gestured to me.

“Your laugh is like a song I want stuck in my head, Rowena.” My chest tightened at the thought of being something he wanted to keep.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that a line?”

He smirked. “Depends… did it work?”

I tried not to smile. Failed.

“Maybe,” I said, voice soft.

He tapped two fingers to his temple in mock salute. “Then I’ll take my win and vanish like a gentleman.”

And just like that, he turned down the corridor and was gone.

I watched Anton go, the wine bottle cool in my hand, his words still echoing in my chest. I wasn’t sure if it was the wine cooling my palm or the man himself that left me warmer than before.