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Another dream, though Broderick wished it was more like the first one he had of Davina.

That one had left him panting, spearing her with his cock as they tumbled over the edge together in a fever of flesh and heat.

But tonight, Davina haunted him in a different way—pacing, plotting, too far to reach.

No matter how he strained toward her, she slipped further from his grasp.

He awoke with a raging hard-on and more frustration than a stallion locked from its mare.

Needing release of a different kind, Broderick prowled the village. He drained a would-be thief—some lowlife who’d been poised to rob a woman just steps from her door. Broderick left the bastard unconscious in a heap of filth and delirium, the Hunger sated, justice served in shadow.

He returned to the Romani camp just as music swelled through the trees—wild and pulsing with life. Drums, clapping, the chant of celebration echoing through the fire-lit circle of wagons. A crowd had gathered, villagers mingling with the tribe, joy catching like wildfire.

At the center, Veronique spun.

The firelight kissed her skin as she swayed to the rhythm, hips rolling in a dance older than memory.

She tossed her golden curls, bare arms lifted to the stars, her well-shaped breasts thrust toward the heavens with unrepentant abandon.

Cheers rose from the crowd. Coins showered the earth around her like rain.

Young Anthony—the guard from the castle—stood slack-jawed at the edge of the circle, elbowing his companion with a grin.

Broderick folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.

She was being too bold. Again.

His scolding glare met her mischievous one the moment she turned toward him, crimson skirts swirling, bare legs flashing in the firelight. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Veronique sauntered over, the beat slowing as if it, too, watched her every move. She placed both hands on his chest and rose on her toes, her voice playful and low. “Dance with me, Rick.”

Before he could answer, she spun away with a laugh, hips swaying, hair catching the light like a silken whip. Her skirt flared wide, coins jingling with every step. She was using the crowd to her advantage—knowing full well Broderick wouldn’t cause a scene while coin flowed, and villagers lingered.

Little minx.

His jaw tightened.

Broderick remained where he stood, his eyes barbed with warning. The crowd roared with approval, Romani men clapping him on the back, urging him into the circle. He scowled, but Veronique returned with a wicked smile, unfolding his crossed arms and slipping her fingers into his .

Damn her.

Despite himself, he allowed her to tug him forward, feet dragging with reluctant weight.

The tempo surged again as he stepped into the firelight.

He clapped once, twice, a half-hearted attempt to play along while Veronique spun around him in teasing arcs.

Her hands grazed his back, his chest, his hips—each touch bold, calculated.

She pressed her back to his, grinding in a way that drew hollers from the crowd, then twisted away to twirl before him.

Broderick’s jaw clenched. His face burned—not with desire, but frustration.

Veronique was beautiful, aye, but to him, she’d always been like a little sister.

Her closeness, in the wake of dreams still thick with Davina’s scent, only aggravated his tightly coiled lust.

The music climbed, untamed and unrelenting. Veronique matched it beat for beat, her body trembling with every thrum of the drum, her gaze locked to his.

And then it stopped.

She dropped to her knees before him, spine arched, arms outstretched in theatrical offering. The crowd erupted in whistles and applause. Coins scattered like autumn leaves. The Romani children rushed forward to scoop up the treasure.

Broderick helped her to her feet without a word and turned on his heel, stalking toward their caravan with long, irate strides.

Seconds later, her hot palm found his. Her chest rose and fell with exhilarated gasps, but he sensed more than excitement—he felt the sting of embarrassment she masked with pride. Still, it wasn’t remorse that burned brightest in her—it was defiance.

He patted the back of her hand and let go. “Behave, little sister,” he muttered.

She froze, fists landing on her hips. “ Petite s?ur ?” she hissed.

Broderick turned. Before he could issue a proper warning, she lunged forward and kissed him hard, her mouth possessive and sure.

He pushed her back with ease, hands firm on her shoulders. “Veronique. Amice will blister your backside. Behave.”

She giggled, licking her lips with deliberate provocation.

Broderick spun her around and smacked her backside, drawing a yelp.

“ Je vais te donner une fessée, ” he growled, making the same threat.

As he approached the tent, Veronique still pouting behind him, Amice stepped out. Broderick winced. He couldn’t shut out their rapid-fire exchange in French, no matter how much he wished he could.

“Come here!” Amice ordered. “You are fortunate I did not march into that circle and pull you away, kicking and screaming in front of all those people!”

“Grandmother—!”

“Hush! Broderick is not for you! You are too young for him. You chase after him like a bitch in heat and make a fool of yourself! I will not have any more of this!”

“You know very well he can hear you!” Veronique hissed.

“He can hear you now, so stop your whispering.”

Veronique stomped up the caravan steps and slammed the door behind her.

Broderick faced Amice and crossed his arms. “ That was unnecessary ,” he told her, his thoughts pushing over her mind.

Amice’s glare hardened. “ She needs to know where she stands. You do not tell her that. Your gentle rejections only make her more determined. ”

“ But humiliatin’ her will only deepen her resolve, ” he countered with a sigh. “ She has a childish infatuation. It’ll fade. One day she’ll find a lad her own age an’ forget about me. ”

Amice shook her head slowly. “ No, my son. That is where you are wrong. She has too much of her mother in her. I have seen that fierce heart before—and I know how it ends. ”

Broderick looked away, jaw clenched. He remembered well how that story ended. Amice’s daughter had loved like wildfire—and been left in ashes.

“ You may be wrong about her, ” he thought. “ Give her time. ”

A heavy sigh deflated the old woman’s frame. She spoke aloud this time, her French soft and worn. “Think what you wish, my son, but I know different.”

She turned and climbed the caravan steps with careful precision. The door creaked open just a crack.

“Fetch my basket of herbs and come with me.”

Amice descended, collecting her heavier shawl from the little table fashioned from a tree stump. “One of the villagers needs a healer,” she told Broderick. “Petro will accompany us. We should not be gone long.”

“Aye, lass. I’ll watch over the camp.”

The caravan door slammed again, Veronique emerging with her grandmother’s basket in hand. She avoided Broderick’s gaze, her shoulders tense, expression dark.

Pouting, she followed Amice toward the edge of the camp, where a broad-shouldered chap waited in the shadow of the buildings, staff in hand and expression grim.

The night swallowed them one step at a time.

Broderick shook his head. Embarrassing the lass in front of him might’ve been meant as a lesson, but Broderick doubted the tactic would work. If anything, the public reprimand might only drive Veronique to pursue him harder, out of sheer rebellion .

A burst of laughter rose from the edge of the camp, where a group of young men had gathered. Their easy banter wove through the crackle of fire and the pulse of music. One among them—clearly the youngest—was being nudged forward by the others, their jabs full of mischief.

“Go on, Jamie,” one of them urged, clapping the lad on the back. “What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll read yer future and tell ye how many sheep ye’ll marry.”

Another barked out a laugh. “Or tell ye when ye’ll finally grow a beard.”

Jamie flushed but stood his ground, caught between annoyance and uncertainty. Still, he squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

Broderick watched, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and his gaze softened. Mischievous lads reminded him of his younger brothers—long lost but never forgotten.

“Come along, lad,” Broderick said, tone easy and inviting as he swept an arm toward the tent. “I dinnae bite—unless ye ask nicely.”

That earned a roar of laughter. Jamie groaned as his friends doubled over with glee.

Broderick held open the tent flap with a mock flourish. “Well? Ye’ve come this far.”

With a martyred sigh, Jamie shot his friends a withering glare, then ducked inside.

Broderick let the flap fall shut behind them and crossed to his table. “Have a seat, lad,” he said, gesturing to the cushion across from him. “Let’s see if there’s anything in that palm of yers that’ll make yer mates jealous.”

Jamie smirked and extended his hand.

∞∞ ∞

The Traveller camp pulsed with sound and color—a vibrant, living tapestry of firelight and celebration.

Fiddles shrieked with joy, tambourines jangled like falling stars, and the smoky air swirled with the scent of roasted meat, sweet wine, and something exciting underneath.

Every beat of the music tugged at something restless in Rosselyn’s chest.

Her grin bloomed before she could stop it.

Aberdeen. Nicabar. That night.

The first time, she’d roamed freely amongst the Romani, barefoot and breathless, pulled into a dance of danger and delight.

She could still feel his hands guiding her, the press of his body against hers, the way the world had narrowed to a shared rhythm and a stolen kiss.

That night had changed her. The swirl of skirts, the laughter like wind, the beat that pulsed through her soul—it had awakened something she hadn’t known she craved.

Freedom. Fire. Him.