Page 7

ARATON

I arrive at Ronnie's house as dusk settles over the village, excitement humming beneath my skin like a physical force.

The small wooden building sits exactly where I left it a month ago, though the summer wildflowers have climbed higher along the stone foundation, little rebellious bursts of color against weathered gray.

The gift box weighs practically nothing in my pocket, but I'm acutely aware of its presence as I approach her door.

The bracelet inside cost more than a month's worth of courier fees—an extravagance I can't entirely justify to myself, except that the moment I saw it, I thought of her.

The way sunlight catches in her auburn hair when she doesn't think I'm looking.

The defiant lift of her chin just before she tells me to get the fuck out of her bed.

Anticipation quickens my steps. Our pattern is always the same—I arrive, she pretends to hate it, we fall into bed together, repeat.

But this time feels different. I've caught myself thinking about her at the strangest moments over the past weeks—during formal dinners at Lord Ithuriel's estate, in the middle of negotiations with New Solas merchants, while flying over the Ridge Mountains.

I knock on Ronnie's door, the familiar three-tap rhythm that's become our unspoken signal.

Nothing.

I try again, louder this time, wings shifting restlessly behind me. The house remains silent – no footsteps, no caustic greeting, no reluctant slide of the bolt.

"Ronnie?" I call out, pressing my ear to the rough-hewn wood.

The absence of sound unnerves me more than any hostile reception. Ronnie's always here when I arrive—it's part of our unspoken arrangement. I come on the same day each month, and she pretends she hasn't been counting down the days.

I step back, scanning the small building. The shutters are drawn tight, unusual for early evening. No lamp glow seeps through the cracks. The small garden patch looks neglected, weeds sprouting between rows of drooping dreelk.

"Where are you, fierce one?" I mutter, my wings flaring with unexpected tension.

The shop. Of course. She must be working late, probably lost track of time tallying inventory or haggling with some merchant over prices. The thought settles me. That's exactly like Ronnie—practical to her bones, putting business before pleasure.

I walk around to the front of the building, where I don't often go anymore. She's told me not to, to avoid the stares of the other humans, but today, I will have to break that request.

But as I come up to the front, I see it too is closed. But it's not just that. The shop has clearly been closed for days—the windows carry a fine layer of dust, and a small pile of undelivered packages sits abandoned by the door.

"Looking for Rosalind?" a voice calls from across the street.

I turn to see the male—Tomas—that always seemed to be around her watching me. I bite down on my anger, hoping he has answers I need.

"Yes," I say, forcing charm into my voice, into the air between us. "Do you know where she is?"

His jaw works. "She's not there."

He doesn't look like he's going to be helpful. I can see she's not there.

"Did she mention taking a trip? Visiting someone?" I press, closing the distance between us.

He shrugs one shoulder and looks away. "How am I supposed to know?"

I can feel my composure slipping, the easy charm giving way to something sharper. "You were around her a lot."

His eyes snap to mine with the harsh tone. "If she wanted you to know, she would have told you."

Sucking in a deep breath, I force my wings to relax, to fold neatly against my back instead of flaring with agitation. The gift box seems to burn a hole in my pocket.

Swallowing back the urge to show this guy how little he is compared to me, I give a sharp jerk of my head. "If you see her, let her know I came by."

I stalk off, knowing he won't.

But at the back of her building, I stand there like an idiot, staring at the locked door of the entrance that leads up to Ronnie's room as twilight deepens around me.

The village is settling into evening quiet—lamps being lit in windows, the distant sound of someone playing a stringed instrument, the smell of cooking fires carried on the breeze.

Everything continuing as normal while my carefully established routine crumbles.

"She can't just be gone," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

I should leave. Return to Soimur and Lord Ithuriel with my messages delivered and forget about the fierce human woman with auburn hair who so expertly keeps me at arm's length.

This thing between us was never meant to last—it wasn't even supposed to start.

She was just another human in just another village, someone to charm for information and supplies.

Then somehow she became the one person who could see through my practiced smile, who never fell for my carefully calculated charm.

And I've been coming back every month like a starving man to a feast.

My wings stretch and settle against my back, betraying my agitation. I scan the village square, as if Ronnie might suddenly appear, arms crossed and lips pursed in that way that always makes me want to kiss her until she's breathless.

My eyes flick to the door again. I could get inside easily enough—the lock on her back door is flimsy, designed to keep out ordinary thieves, not a determined xaphan. I could look for clues to where she's gone, why she left without a word...

The thought brings me up short. Since when am I the type to break into a woman's house because she didn't wait around for me? This is exactly the kind of complication I've spent my life avoiding.

Still, I don't leave. In the gathering darkness, it looks abandoned, lonely somehow. I run my fingers along the doorframe, feeling the rough wood beneath my fingertips. The gift box in my pocket seems heavier now, a tangible reminder of expectations I shouldn't have developed.

"She's not there," a woman's voice calls from behind me.

I turn to find an older human woman watching me from the path, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical knot. She carries a basket of what looks like herbs, and the faint scent of healing tinctures surrounds her—the village healer, then.

"I can see that," I reply, letting a hint of impatience color my tone. How many people are going to fucking tell me that. Her eyes widen slightly at my voice—humans always seem surprised when we don't sound as ethereal as they expect. "Do you know where she went?"

The healer approaches cautiously, studying me with shrewd eyes that miss nothing—not the tension in my shoulders, the restless shifting of my dusky gray wings, or the way my fingers keep brushing against my pocket.

"You must be him," she says finally.

My eyebrow arches of its own accord. "Him?"

"The xaphan she never mentioned by name." The healer's mouth curves in the ghost of a smile. "The one she pretended wasn't important."

Something warm and uncomfortable unfurls in my chest. I smother it quickly.

"Where is she?" I ask, forcing lightness into my voice.

The healer's expression turns sympathetic, which is somehow worse than suspicion. "She's gone, young man. Left the village days ago."

"Left?" I repeat stupidly. "Where to?"

"She didn't say." The healer shifts her basket to her other arm. "Just sold what she couldn't carry, locked up her house and shop, and went. Guess she needed something different."

The information hits harder than it should. Ronnie, gone. No goodbye, no explanation. Just... gone.

"I see," I manage, my voice cooler than I feel. "Well, that's... unexpected."

The healer gives me a look that sees too much. "Was it, though? Whatever you two had going, it didn't seem built to last."

I can't argue with that, though the blunt assessment stings. Our arrangement had been about convenience and attraction, not permanence. I have no claim to Ronnie, no right to be standing here feeling this hollow ache beneath my ribs.

"No," I finally admit, my hand closing around the gift box in my pocket. "It wasn't."