Page 17

17

HARMONY

I t's been almost three weeks since Adellum materialized in Saufort like a phantom from my past, and I still flinch at unexpected shadows. Each time the restaurant door swings open, my heart leaps to my throat—half terror, half something I refuse to name.

Today, I'm kneeling in the garden behind Marda's restaurant, fingers buried in the cool, damp soil when Brooke's delighted squeal pierces the late morning quiet. My spine goes rigid.

"Look how high!" She shrieks, and I know, without looking, that he's there.

When I stand and brush the dirt from my apron, the sight of them steals my breath. Adellum has her perched on his shoulders, her tiny hands gripping fistfuls of his white-blond hair that's starting to grow out. His massive gray wings are partially extended, creating a shadow that dapples the ground beneath them. They're beautiful together—his dusky bronze skin against her golden-brown, both with those otherworldly silver eyes that seem to hold all the light in the world.

"Mama, he's taking me flying!" Brooke announces, beaming down at me.

"Absolutely not," I say, wiping my hands on my apron and stepping forward to claim my daughter. "Feet on the ground, little one."

Adellum's mouth quirks—not quite the full, easy smile I remember, but something harder, a challenge. "I'd never drop her." His voice is deeper than I remember, or maybe memory has softened all the rough edges I tried so hard to forget.

"I didn't say you would." I reach up, and reluctantly, he lowers her down.

"But Mama?—"

"Maybe another day," I tell her, a lie that tastes bitter. There will be no other days. Adellum can't stay here, can't be part of our lives. The sooner he understands that, the better.

Brooke sighs dramatically and wriggles free from my grasp. "Can I go see if Marda has any leftover sweet rolls?"

"Stay where Marda can see you," I call after her as she darts toward the kitchen door, leaving me alone with the man I've spent four years trying to forget.

Adellum watches her go, a muscle working in his jaw. "She's extraordinary."

"She is."

"She has magic." It's not a question.

"She does."

His gaze flicks to me, sharp as a blade. "Whose is she?"

I look away, focusing on the rosemary bush that needs pruning. "She's mine."

"Don't play games, Harmony." There's a dangerous edge to his voice that wasn't there before. He steps closer, and I force myself to stand my ground. Surely, he knows? "I know when she was born. I can count."

"Congratulations on your basic arithmetic skills." The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it.

In one fluid movement, he's in front of me, close enough that I can smell him—that familiar scent of storm-clouds and woods that used to cling to my skin after our nights together. His fingers brush my cheek, and I hate how my body remembers him, leaning into his touch before my mind can stop it.

"Whose is she?" His voice drops, husky with an emotion I can't—won't—name. And now, I'm not so sure. Does he think she is his? Or does he believe there was someone after him?

I hope it's the latter. I hope he can feel even a fraction of what he made me.

"Why does it matter?" I step back, crossing my arms. "So you could use her, too? Another pretty ornament for the great Adellum Vey?"

Confusion flashes across his face, quickly replaced by something darker. "Is that what you think? That you were just?—"

"It doesn't matter," I snap. I don't want to hear his excuses. He's great with beautiful words, but the intentions behind them are all wrong.

The Harmony who first loved him—shy, soft, hopeful—doesn't know what to make of this version of him. He's sharp where he was once open, possessive where he was once patient. The playful teasing has hardened into something that cuts. But as he stands there, rolling that crystal between his fingers, I glimpse flashes of the man I knew.

"You can't just come back and expect—" I begin, but he interrupts by reaching forward, tucking a sprig of lavender behind my ear with such gentle precision that I fall silent.

"I don't expect anything, little bird." The old nickname slips out, and we both freeze. "But I'm not leaving again either."

It terrifies me, how much I still want him—this darker, sharper him—even when I know better. How my body remembers his touch, how my heart speeds up when those silver eyes lock on mine.

So I step away and head inside, keeping space between us. It's all I know how to do. I can't seem to get away from him and what's worse—a part of me doesn't want to now that he's here again.

One night after closing the restaurant, I move through my end-of-day ritual with the practiced ease of someone who has done it a thousand times. Brooke is already asleep upstairs, worn out from a day of mischief with Joss at the pottery studio. My fingers are pruned from washing dishes, my back aches from hours on my feet, but there's comfort in the familiar soreness.

I'm humming softly, untying my apron when I sense him before I see him. A prickling awareness that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up.

Adellum sits at the corner table, the one tucked into the shadows where the lamp light barely reaches. His wings are folded tight against his back, making him look almost human if not for their massive outline. His head is bent over a leather-bound sketchbook, charcoal moving in swift, sure strokes across the page. The sight stops me mid-step.

I should tell him to leave. The restaurant is closed. This is my sanctuary, my hard-won peace that he has no right to invade. The words form on my tongue, sharp and ready.

But then he looks up.

Those silver eyes catch the lamplight and hold it, transforming into something molten. For a heartbeat, I'm transported back to stolen moments in Lord Arkan's gardens, where those same eyes had looked at me like I was something precious, something worthy.

My anger dissolves, leaving behind confusion and a dangerous yearning. Because this version of Adellum has always been mine.

"I didn't mean to startle you." His voice is quiet in the empty restaurant. It's not quite soft but it's like the edge of him has been dulled just a little. "I thought you'd gone up."

I find my voice, though it comes out rougher than intended. "We're closed."

"I know." He doesn't apologize or move to leave. Instead, he glances down at his sketch, then back to me with an intensity that makes my chest tight. "The light was good."

Against my better judgment, I move closer. "Since when do you care about good light? You used to sketch in pitch darkness."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "You remember."

Of course I remember. I remember everything—how he'd paint late into the night and make love to me after, how he said I was the reason he even painted at all. Little details I've tried so desperately to forget.

I force myself to look away from his face, down to what he's drawing. The breath catches in my throat.

It's Brooke, rendered with such precision and tenderness that it almost hurts to look at. She's captured mid-laugh, her curls wild around her face, those eyes—his eyes—bright with joy. But there's more. It's not just her features he's captured, but her essence—her stubborn little chin, the mischievous tilt of her head, the spark of magic at her fingertips.

"How did you..." I swallow hard. "You've barely spent any time with her."

"I see her." His voice drops lower. "I see you both."

The weight of his gaze makes me feel flayed open. Not with cruelty or anger, but with a reverence so intense it borders on worship. There's a desperate quality to how he looks at me, like a man who's been wandering in darkness suddenly finding light.

It would be easier if he were cruel. If he were the monster I've built him up to be in my mind, a heartless xaphan who used me and tossed me aside. That version of him I could hate cleanly, completely.

But this Adellum—with his bruised eyes and gentle hands, sketching our daughter with such aching devotion—this Adellum is chipping away at the armor I've built around my heart.

"Did you think, after all this time, I wouldn't soak in every detail? That I wouldn't take everything I could get?" He says it simply as he sets down his charcoal and rubs his thumb along the edge of the paper, staining his bronze skin with smudges of black. "I looked everywhere for you."

"Stop." I press my palms flat against the table, steadying myself. "You don't get to say things like that to me. Not after?—"

"After what?" He stands suddenly, wings unfurling slightly with his agitation. "Tell me what I did, Harmony. Because for five years, I've been trying to understand what drove you away, and I can't?—"

His frustration crashes against mine, igniting the spark I've been trying to smother.

"You know exactly what you did." My voice shakes with the effort to keep it low. "I was just foolish enough to think that you were no different than any other xaphan."

He assesses me, eyes slightly narrowed. "How am I like them?"

I shake my head. I have no interest in letting him use his pretty words to win me back over. I was foolish once, but not again.

No matter how much I want him.

"Get out." The words are a soft whisper, and for a moment, he doesn't move. Those silver eyes study me like they can see through to my soul.

But then Adellum nods, standing and grabbing his sketchbook. But as he passes by me, he pauses, head tilted to whisper low. "I'm not going anywhere, Harmony. No matter how hard you fight, how much you say you hate me. I will always be with you."

And then he's gone, leaving me far too rattled.