Page 2

RONNIE

ONE YEAR LATER…

I slip from beneath Araton's arm, his skin still burning hot against mine. The wooden floor feels cool under my bare feet as I stand, deliberately keeping my back to him. My discarded clothes lie scattered—evidence of how quickly we tore them off each other hours ago.

"Leaving so soon?" His voice slides over me like warm honey, rich with that self-satisfied tone that makes me want to both slap him and climb back into bed. "The night's barely begun, fierce one."

I snatch my shirt from the floor, pulling it over my head. "The night began and ended exactly as it was supposed to." My hair tumbles down my back as I yank it free from the collar, feeling his eyes tracking every movement. "You got what you came for."

"And you didn't?" He laughs, the sound rumbling through my small bedroom.

I turn just enough to glare at him, hating how magnificent he looks sprawled across my sheets.

He's propped against my pillows, all bronze skin and lean muscle, those dusky gray-blue wings draped carelessly over the edge of the bed.

Silver flecks catch the lamplight, making the feathers shimmer like stars.

His short black hair is more tousled than usual, thanks to my fingers running through it when I?—

No. I cut off that thought before it fully forms.

"Look at you," Araton purrs, golden eyes gleaming as they trail down my bare legs. "Standing there trying to hate me while your body still trembles from what I just did to it."

"Don't flatter yourself." I hunt for my pants, avoiding his gaze. "It's a physical reaction. Nothing more."

"Keep telling yourself that." He stretches languidly, wings extending slightly before settling back against his shoulders. "Maybe one day you'll actually believe it."

I locate my pants beneath the small table and tug them on, feeling a twinge between my thighs—a reminder of how thoroughly he claimed me. Again. Just like every month for the past year when he mysteriously finds a reason to pass through my village.

"Don't you have important messages to deliver for your precious lord?" I tie the drawstring at my waist with short, sharp movements. "I'm sure Lord Ithuriel wonders why his courier takes such lengthy detours."

Araton sits up, sheet pooling at his hips. That dimple appears in his right cheek—the genuine one, not the practiced charm he displays to get what he wants. "Are you asking about my work, Ronnie? How domestic. Should I tell you about my day next?"

"I'd rather drink poison." I toss his pants at his face. He catches them with irritating ease. "Put these on and go."

"You wound me." He places a hand over his heart, golden eyes wide with mock hurt. "After everything we shared tonight."

"We shared nothing but bodily fluids," I snap, though my voice lacks the conviction I wish it held. "Same as every other time."

He rises, gloriously naked and unashamed, wings arching slightly behind him. "For someone who claims to hate me, you certainly remember to clean your sheets before I arrive each month."

Heat floods my face. I hate that he noticed. Hate that I care enough to do it. "Don't read into things that aren't there."

"I read exactly what is there." He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. Not looking down. Definitely not looking down. "The hatred in your eyes when you see me. The way you fight it until you can't anymore. The way you surrender?—"

"I never surrender." I press a hand against his chest to stop his advance. His skin burns against my palm like a brand.

"No?" His hand covers mine, keeping it trapped against the solid wall of his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. "What would you call it when you're writhing beneath me, begging me not to stop?"

"Temporary insanity." I yank my hand away.

That dimple deepens as he grins. "Monthly temporary insanity. Like clockwork."

I turn away, focusing on straightening the items on my small dresser that got knocked askew during our... encounter. "Don't you have somewhere important to be? Some noble's correspondence to deliver? Some other woman to torment?"

His reflection appears in my small mirror as he moves behind me, still magnificently nude. Those golden eyes meet mine in the glass. "There's only one woman I enjoy tormenting."

"Lucky me," I mutter, but something twists in my chest at his words. Not jealousy. Definitely not jealousy.

His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing small circles that almost have me caving again. "Admit it, Ronnie. You wait for me. You watch for me."

I swallow hard. "I tolerate you."

"You want me." His lips brush the sensitive spot just below my ear. "Almost as much as I want you."

I close my eyes, hating my body's instant response to him. Hating myself for this weakness. Twelve months of this dance, and I still haven't found the strength to turn him away when he appears at my door with that hungry look in his eyes.

"Get dressed," I whisper, the command lacking all force. "Please."

His sigh stirs my hair, but he steps back. "As you wish, fierce one."

I watch Araton dress with practiced efficiency, his movements fluid and graceful even in such a mundane task.

His wings twitch and shift as he pulls his shirt over his head, the fabric specially designed with slits to accommodate them.

I've always wondered how the xaphan manage clothing around those massive appendages, but I'd rather die than ask him and reveal my curiosity.

"You're staring," he says without looking up, fastening the toggles at his collar.

"I'm waiting for you to leave." I fold my arms across my chest, leaning against the doorframe.

He secures the leather bracers on his forearms—courier's equipment, with small pockets for emergency messages—and finally looks up at me with that infuriating smile. "One of these days, you'll admit you enjoy my company."

"One of these days, zarryn will fly."

"Always so prickly." He crosses the room in three long strides, standing close enough that I can smell the lingering scent of sex on his skin mingled with something uniquely him—like summer storms and burnt sugar. "It's one of your more endearing qualities."

I tilt my chin up defiantly. "Get out, Araton."

Instead of moving away, he cups my face in one hand, his thumb brushing my cheekbone with unexpected tenderness. The gesture catches me off guard, making my breath hitch traitorously in my throat.

"Until next time, fierce one." His voice dips lower, intimate in a way that feels more invasive than when he was inside me. His lips brush mine in a feather-light kiss that's nothing like the devouring hunger from earlier.

I stand frozen, unwilling to reciprocate but unable to pull away. When he steps back, his golden eyes hold something I refuse to interpret.

"Next time," I repeat flatly, opening the door in pointed dismissal. "Safe travels or whatever."

Araton pauses in the doorway, wings folding tight against his back to fit through. The moonlight catches the silver flecks in his feathers, making them glimmer like scattered stars.

"I'll be passing back through in three weeks. Official business in New Solas." He says it casually, as though he's not giving me a timeline to anticipate his return. As though we both don't know exactly what will happen when he reappears at my door.

"I won't hold my breath."

His right cheek dimples. "Liar."

Then he's gone, wings extending as he steps into the night. He doesn't immediately take flight—xaphan rarely do in human villages, a courtesy or perhaps an acknowledgment of how it makes us uncomfortable—but I know he'll be airborne the moment he clears the last houses.

I close the door harder than necessary and press my forehead against the rough wood. The silence in my small home feels abruptly oppressive.

"Damn him," I whisper to nobody.

My bedroom still smells like him. Like us. The sheets are a tangled mess, and I know I should strip them now, wash away the evidence of my weakness. Instead, I sink onto the edge of the bed and run my fingers over the indentation his head left on my pillow.

Three weeks. He's never told me before when he'd return. Always just appeared, his arrival a surprise I pretended not to welcome.

Something squeezes in my chest—a feeling I refuse to name. This arrangement was supposed to be simple. Physical release with a man who wouldn't get attached, wouldn't expect more from me than I was willing to give. A xaphan who'd never want a human for anything beyond occasional pleasure.

So why does my small house feel so empty every time he leaves?

I lie back on the sheets, staring at the ceiling beams. Is this what my life has become? Waiting for scraps of attention from a xaphan courier who passes through my village only when duty requires it? A few hours of passion once a month, then days of silence until he deigns to return?

The worst part is knowing I'll welcome him back. Every time. Like a starving woman grateful for crumbs.

"Is this all I get to have?" My whisper hangs in the air, unanswered.

No family. Few friends. A small supply shop that barely keeps me fed. And Araton—who isn't mine, will never be mine. Who comes and goes like the phases of the moon, predictable yet untouchable.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, fighting the hot pressure building behind them. I won't cry. Not over him. Not over this arrangement I willingly entered into.

The hollowness expands inside me anyway, familiar and unwelcome. A little empty. A little lonely. A little heartbroken.