Page 14

RONNIE

D usk settles around me like a well-worn shawl as I pull the last bunch of meadowmint from the garden's eastern corner. The fragrant herbs release their scent with each tug—sharp, clean, and comforting. Perfect for the tea Millie loves before bedtime.

"Tomorrow I'll harvest the brimbark," I mutter to myself, mentally cataloguing the garden's offerings. The sturdy stalks will fetch a decent price at market, especially with the summer festival approaching.

I straighten, arching my back to relieve the tension that's settled between my shoulder blades.

The basket at my hip grows heavier with each addition—zynthra roots for stew, dreelk leaves for salad, and now the meadowmint bundled neatly on top.

My fingers are stained green and brown, earth embedded beneath my nails despite my best efforts.

Night creeps toward the village faster than I anticipated. I need to get inside, check on Millie. My daughter sleeps soundly now, tucked into her small bed in our loft, wings tucked against her tiny back.

I scan the garden once more, ensuring I've left nothing behind.

The neat rows of vegetables stretch into the growing darkness, a testament to hard work and new beginnings.

Three years of starting over, of building something that belongs solely to us.

But now I have a shop and a nice home with a flourishing garden. The work has paid off.

The treeline beyond the garden stands sentinel, ancient silver-barked trees reaching toward the violet sky. Something about their shadows tonight feels... watching. I shake off the sensation. Paranoia serves no purpose here in Saufort, where we've found nothing but kindness.

"Time to make that tea," I murmur, turning toward home.

The path from garden to cottage is short, just twenty paces of packed earth. My small house stands solid against the darkening sky, windows glowing with warm lamplight. Home. The word still feels foreign on my tongue, too fragile to trust completely.

I'm almost to the door when it happens.

A rush of air, a shadow moving faster than thought, and suddenly my back slams against the cottage wall. The basket tumbles from my grasp, herbs scattering across the ground like abandoned promises. Panic floods my system—primal, immediate, overwhelming.

My first instinct is to fight. I thrash against the hold, but my wrists are pinned above my head by a single large hand.

A body presses against mine—male, tall, powerfully built—trapping me against the rough-hewn wood.

I can't see his face in the darkness, just the silhouette of broad shoulders blocking out what little light remains.

"Let me go," I hiss through clenched teeth, terror and rage battling for dominance in my voice. "I'll scream, and this whole village will?—"

"Did you think it would be that easy to get away from me, fierce one?"

That voice. Velvet-wrapped steel, dropping to a whisper against my ear. My blood turns to ice in my veins, then boils in the next heartbeat.

Araton.

Recognition hits me with the force of a physical blow. The particular breadth of his shoulders. The subtle scent that's uniquely his—mountain air and something spiced I could never identify. The brush of feathers against my bare arms as his wings shift behind him.

"No," I breathe, the word half denial, half disbelief.

"Yes," he counters, mouth too close to my ear. "Surprise, sweetheart."

Fear claws up my throat—not of him, exactly, but of what his presence means. Of what's at stake. Of Millie, sleeping peacefully inside, oblivious to her father's arrival.

"Get off me," I snarl, renewing my struggle.

His laugh is low and dark. "Still fighting me at every turn. Some things never change." He pushes me harder into the wall so I can't even turn to look at him. "Others do. Like loyalty. Like honesty. Like fucking disappearing without a word."

Anger bleeds through his tone, a razor edge that wasn't there in our past encounters. This isn't the smooth-talking courier who visited my shop monthly. This is something rawer, something dangerous.

"You have no right," I manage, my voice steadier than the trembling in my limbs would suggest.

"No right?" His fingers tighten on my wrists. "I have every right to know why my favorite little slut vanished into thin air."

The crude words send an unwelcome heat spiraling through me. My body—the traitor—responds to his proximity, to the dangerous edge in his voice.

"I was never yours," I whisper, the lie bitter on my tongue.

His body presses harder against mine, pinning me more thoroughly. I feel every hard plane of him, from the solid muscle of his chest to the unmistakable evidence of his arousal against my ass.

"Your pretty mouth says one thing," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear, "but your body has always told me the truth. Remember how wet you'd get for me? How desperately you'd beg when I had my fingers inside you?"

Shame and desire collide within me, creating something molten and unstable. My cheeks burn with it, my skin too tight to contain the conflicting emotions.

"You left marks on my skin for days," he continues, voice dropping to that register that always melted my resistance. "Such a good girl when you were coming around my cock, weren't you? But such a fucking coward when it came to anything else."

My breath catches painfully. Every crude word strikes with precision—hitting the places within me that remember exactly what his touch felt like, exactly how completely I surrendered every time.

"I hate you," I whisper, the words lacking any real conviction.

His laugh ghosts across my skin. "Hate me all you want, but don't lie to me. Not again."

My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird. Three years of running, three years of building walls around us, and he's dismantled everything with just his voice in the darkness.

"I don't owe you anything," I hiss, still struggling against his grip.

His laugh is a dark rumble against my neck. "Oh, but you do." His free hand slides down my side, mapping the contours of my body through the thin fabric of my work dress. "Three years of your sweet cunt, for starters."

Gods , the memories that those words bring back send an unwelcome jolt of heat between my thighs. I hate this—hate how my body responds to him even as my mind screams in protest.

"Get your hands off me," I snap, even as his palm skims the curve of my hip.

"Not yet," Araton murmurs, and I feel the fabric of my skirt begin to bunch as he slowly draws it upward. "Not until I collect what you've kept from me."

The night air kisses my thighs as my dress rises inch by agonizing inch. My skin prickles with goosebumps—from fear or anticipation, I can't tell anymore. His breathing grows heavier against my ear.

"You owe me years worth of pleasure, fierce one." His voice drops to that velvet whisper that used to make me melt against him in my old shop. "And I always collect what I'm owed."

My dress reaches my hips now, and I'm acutely aware of how exposed I am—how vulnerable. His hand slides over the curve of my bare thigh, and I bite my lip to suppress a whimper.

"Stop," I say, but the word lacks conviction.

"Your mouth says stop," Araton counters, "but your body..." His fingertips trail higher, brushing against the edge of my undergarments. "Your body remembers who it belongs to."

"I belong to no one," I manage to say, even as my legs tremble with the effort of staying upright.

His laugh ghosts across my skin. "Still lying to yourself, I see."

Before I can respond, his hand slips beneath the thin fabric and finds me—wet, traitorous, ready. I gasp at the contact, arching involuntarily against him.

"Just as I thought," Araton says, satisfaction dripping from every syllable as his middle finger slides through my folds. "Are you always this wet for people you claim to hate?"

My cheeks burn with humiliation and arousal. I want to deny it, to maintain some shred of dignity, but my body betrays me with every passing second. His finger circles my entrance, teasing but not entering, and I have to bite back a groan.

"If you want something," I bite out, "just get on with it."

He jerks my wrist up, bowing my back further. "So impatient," he chides, sliding one long finger inside me with agonizing slowness. "But I've waited three years for this. I think I'll take my time."

My head falls against the cottage wall as he begins to move his finger in and out, setting a leisurely pace that makes me want to scream. When he adds a second finger, I can't hold back a moan.

"That's it," he encourages, his thumb finding and circling the bundle of nerves that makes my knees buckle. "Let me hear how much you've missed this."

"I haven't," I lie, even as my hips rock against his hand.

"No?" His fingers curl inside me, hitting a spot that makes me see stars. "Your greedy little cunt says otherwise. It's squeezing my fingers so tight... always so desperate for me."

His praise washes over me, degrading and exalting all at once. I hate how it affects me—how it makes me wetter, more desperate. The pressure builds low in my belly as he increases his pace, driving me toward the edge with practiced precision.

"You're prettier when you beg for it," Araton says, his voice rough with desire. "Go on, let me hear you."

I clench my jaw, determined to deny him this victory at least. His fingers thrust deeper, harder, and I feel myself teetering on the brink of release.

"I won't," I gasp.

"Then you don't get to come," he replies simply.

And just like that, his hand is gone. The sudden emptiness is almost painful, my body clenching around nothing. I cry out in frustration, unable to stop myself.

"Fucking bastard," I curse, trembling with unsatisfied need.

"Such a filthy mouth," Araton taunts, his own breathing ragged. "Tell me what you want, Ronnie. Say it."