Page 26

CALLUM

T he laughter from Twyla’s glade had faded, but it still echoed in Callum’s chest.

He hadn’t known what to expect when he agreed to go to that dinner. Honestly, he’d planned to show up, grunt through a drink, and leave before the fiddles got warmed up. That was the safe choice.

But then he saw her.

Cora had been standing near the edge of the firelight, wrapped in a deep green dress that moved like forest wind. Her hair was half pulled back, loose strands curling around her face like vines reaching for light. She didn’t need to cast spells to shift the world around her, she just had to smile.

And he’d felt it, that shift, down to the marrow.

Hollow Oak had always been quiet with him.

The trees bowed, but never breathed. The Veil bent, but never sang.

But tonight, standing beside her with the town watching, he’d felt it all breathe in unison.

Not just the land. Him. His chest, usually tight with grief and duty, had cracked open just enough to let something warm crawl in.

They’d walked away from the glade in comfortable silence. No patrol to chase. No danger to track. Just her beside him, close enough to touch, her shoulder brushing his with every few steps.

Moonmirror Lake peeked through the trees like it was waiting.

When they reached the shoreline, Cora kicked off her shoes and stepped onto the pebbled sand, sighing as the lake breeze caught the skirt and tousled her curls. The moon shimmered on the surface like spilled silver, and the whole clearing lit soft and pale like a memory.

Callum stayed back a few steps, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I come here when I need quiet.”

She turned, that half-smile playing at her lips. “I thought you lived in quiet.”

“Too much of anything turns into noise.”

She tilted her head, studying him like she could hear the words he didn’t say. “Then why bring me?”

He took a breath and pulled the folded parchment from his pocket. “Because I wanted to give you this.”

She blinked as he handed it to her, a slow curiosity sparking in her eyes. She opened it gently, like it might crumble if she moved too fast. Then she read.

She walks like the wind is waiting for her to hum.

The forest bows when she passes,

not in fear ? —

in recognition.

Her fingers trembled on the edges of the paper.

Callum looked away, heart hammering, fists clenching inside his jacket pockets. “Wrote it when I should’ve been setting ward anchors. That first week you were here. Couldn’t get your voice out of my head.”

She whispered, “Even then?”

“I didn’t want to,” he said, voice gruff. “Did everything I could not to.”

She looked up, tears shining in her eyes. “But you did.”

“I saw you,” he said again, softer this time. “And I haven’t stopped.”

She stepped forward. Not fast, not dramatic—just one step. One moment where her body answered the same pull his had been denying for weeks.

“You kept that poem in your pocket?”

He managed a half-smile. “Didn’t know what else to do with it.”

Her hand rose, fingers brushing his cheek. Not forceful. Not needy. Just there, warm and real and unshaking.

“You’re still scared,” she said.

“Terrified,” he admitted.

“But you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

And then she kissed him.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t cautious. It was fire and forgiveness. Salt and sweetness. It was the sound of every wall crashing in, every “no” he’d told himself since Tessa’s last breath finally giving way to something that felt like living again.

He responded with everything he had. His hand went to her waist, the other to her back, pulling her flush against him as the lake glimmered behind them. Her arms wound around his shoulders, and her lips moved over his like they already knew the shape of him.

When she gasped softly, he let out a low groan and deepened the kiss, pressing her closer. The world narrowed down to her mouth, her warmth, her scent, all of it burning into him.

His lion didn’t pace this time. It purred.

He broke the kiss first, breath heaving like he’d just come through a sprint. “I can’t—if we keep going?—”

She nodded, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. “I know.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Cora…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “You don’t have to say it. Not yet.”

His heart slammed into his ribs. His lion settled. She wasn’t asking for declarations. She was offering trust.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “My cabin’s closer.”

She smiled, slow and knowing. “Then lead the way, ranger.”

They walked back along the trail, shoulder to shoulder, moonlight flickering between the trees like it was lighting the path just for them. His hand brushed hers once. Then again. And finally, he laced their fingers together.

He didn’t say what his lion was already shouting in his chest.

But he would.

Soon.