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Hagan stepped through the door of the apartment he'd been renting—one that had a direct line of sight to her balcony.

He dropped his keys on the counter and ran a hand down his face. His shoulders slumped. It had been a week. A week of showing up with food, of soft smiles, of being ignored or tolerated—but not welcomed.

He could feel her, sure. The muted flicker of their severed bond still whispered in his blood, like an echo of what used to be. But she was keeping him at arm's length. And he couldn't blame her.

He had barely shrugged off his jacket before freezing.

Veyr was back.

Sprawled on the couch like a man who owned it, he had a mug of something steaming on the armrest, a battered copy of The Art of War open in his lap. He didn't bother to look up.

Hagan blinked. "Didn't think you were due back for another three days."

Veyr's cobalt eyes flicked up. "Moved things around. The office can survive without me growling at interns for a few days."

The Vargrheim tribe's offices had long been set up in the Shifters' Quarter, a hub that managed their goods—carved wares, enchanted textiles, wild-harvested herbs, and the like—traded through both magical and human markets. Veyr had been buried in it for weeks: delegating, managing.

Now he was here.

Veyr took a sip of his tea—some foul-smelling herbal concoction Hagan could detect from across the room—and eyed him with that usual emotionless gaze.

Veyr's attention didn't waver from the small leather-bound book in his hand, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

" The Art of War, " Hagan muttered, raising a brow.

"'Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak,'" Veyr quoted, his cobalt eyes glinting over the top of the page.

Hagan grunted. "Any other sage pieces of advice?"

He turned a page and said mildly, "' Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.'"

Hagan stopped mid-pace. "You think I'm fighting her?"

Veyr lifted one brow. "You're besieging her emotions. And trying to be subtle. Which is... new for you."

Hagan grunted and dropped his weight into the chair across from him. "There is a learning curve, all right. And I am at rock bottom. "

Veyr didn't even look up this time. He sipped his herbal tea and said dryly, "Perseverance builds character, Alphason. Or so the elders claim. Personally, I think it mostly builds ulcers."

He finally glanced over the rim of his cup, eyes glinting.

"But I suppose it might also win back a mate if you don't screw it up again."

The sound of laughter drifted faintly across the courtyard.

Moth to the flame, Hagan's head turned towards the open balcony doors.

Seren stood on her balcony. And she was wearing that dress. The one she had shopped for while he followed her, as subtle as a toddler playing hide-and-seek behind a curtain—feet showing, giggling, and yelling "Youcan't seeme."

It draped over her like a whisper of temptation, all rich colour and fluttering fabric.

Thin straps exposed her shoulders, her back, and a line of thigh where the hem dipped in a fluttery slit.

Her lips were painted the colour of ripe cherries.

Her hair was mostly loose, tumbling down her back—except for a few strands caught in a lazy, lopsided braid that made him feel things he had no business feeling. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She looked like a fever dream wrapped in moonlight .

And none of it—not the lips, not the braid, not the dress clinging to her curves—was for him.

Two days ago, The Hollow Moon

He'd been nursing a beer, minding his own business—which was to say, minding Seren's business—when the door opened with a chime.

Riven.

Tall, golden-skinned, and exuding polished charm and tailored arrogance. The man looked like he'd never done a day of hard work in his life unless you counted deciding between cufflinks.

His sharp warlock eyes scanned the room, bypassing Ana's exaggerated wink, Mira's welcoming smile, and Ryn's signature death glare as though none of them existed.

They landed on Seren.

And softened.

"Seren," he said with a smile, "you always manage to look like the muse of some tortured artist. Do you do it on purpose, or is it just—natural?"

Seren blinked, a little flustered. "I—uh—what? "

"Never mind." He leaned on the counter, gaze playful. "I brought you something." He pulled a small, velvet box from his coat pocket. "No strings. I just saw it and thought of you."

Seren eyed it, pretending not to understand. She could feel Hagan's glare boring into the back of her head. "You thought of me when you saw a box ? That's not comforting."

The clink of glass as Hagan set down his beer was too loud. Mira looked up briefly from the counter.

Seemingly oblivious to anyone but Seren, Riven leaned in with a shy, crooked smile that—if Hagan was being honest—made him want to break something.

"I know this is forward," Riven murmured, "but I saw it and thought of you."

Seren blinked at it. "You didn't have to—"

"Humour me."

Her fingers hesitated, then flipped it open with a soft click.

Inside, nestled in black satin, lay a delicate antique bracelet of silver, so fine it gleamed like starlight. Hanging from the chain were tiny charms: a pine tree. A crescent moon. A curled fox. A miniature camera.

For a moment, Seren didn't breathe. Her expression flickered—softness, memory, confusion. Then she masked it .

"It's beautiful," she said quietly.

"You told me once," Riven said, "you missed the forest. I knew it belonged to you, the moment I saw it."

"I couldn't possibly..." said Seren.

"It's already yours. No take-backs," said Riven.

Across the café, the growl that escaped Hagan's throat was not entirely human. Jealousy slithered through him like a venomous serpent. Griff froze mid-clean. Ryn rolled her eyes so hard they nearly spun out of her skull.

"Everything all right there, wolf-boy?" she muttered as she passed.

Ana, now standing behind him, leaned over and whispered, "Either you're about to shift or combust. I can't tell."

"Both," Hagan said tightly, watching Seren's fingers brush over the fox charm.

And then—then she looked at him. Just a flicker of silver eyes, uncertain, unreadable.

And Hagan knew she felt it—the thin thread between his control and murder.

Then Riven reached across the table and gently touched her hand .

The rest of the bracelet conversation faded behind the dull roar in Hagan's ears. His vision sharpened to the point of pain.

"Don't do it," Ana's voice said calmly from behind him. "I will not post bail for bar brawls over shiny jewellery and emotional baggage."

But Hagan couldn't answer.

Because at that moment, all he could see was the girl he'd once lost, wearing a fox-shaped charm that wasn't from him.

Riven was saying, "Couldn't help myself. I was hoping to negotiate another date."

"Oh, are we negotiating now?" Seren asked, arching a brow. "You didn't bring a contract."

Riven held a hand to his chest. "Only in terms of mutual enjoyment. One art gallery opening. Minimal risk. Great lighting."

"Lighting?" she snorted. "Is that what you lure unsuspecting women with? Shadows and exhibits?"

"Depends on the exhibit," he replied smoothly. "Some of us don't rely on brute strength to be memorable."

He sent a subtle glance Hagan's way. So, he knew.

Hagan's molars ground together .

"I don't know," Seren drawled. "What's in it for me?"

"Fine wine. Intellectual conversation. Possibly a bouquet of ethically harvested flowers."

"Do they come with an ethical receipt?"

Riven grinned. "Itemised."

Seren laughed—and that sound, that easy laugh, was what made Hagan's knuckles go white around his beer glass.

"Warlock's got game," said Threk.

Mira nodded, handing over a napkin. "Too much game."

Ryn didn't even look up. "Allergic to game."

Then Riven reached out and gently took Seren's hand. "Say yes."

She hesitated—just long enough for Hagan to think don'tyou dare —and then she sighed. "One gallery. One night."

The beer glass shattered in Hagan's grip.

Ana gasped, already reaching for a towel. "That's not what we mean by breaking the ice, Muscles."

But it was Seren who came over. Calm, collected, as though her heart wasn't a warzone .

She didn't say anything. He hadn't noticed it until now, but a sliver of glass had embedded itself near the base of his thumb. She plucked it out with a wince. A drop of blood welled.

And then—slowly, deliberately—she laid her other hand over the wound. Her fingers brushed over the red line across his palm. A warm glow bloomed—and just like that, the wound sealed shut.

Hagan stared. At the hand. At her .

She whispered, "One of my gifts. Another little detail you don't know about me."

And walked away.

A lot of things made sense now. All the time she'd spent in the healers' tents. How her touch soothed. He watched her retreat, her spine straight, her face unreadable.

Hagan went still as stone.

It wasn't just the bracelet.

It wasn't just the other man.

It was the realisation—watching her casually close a wound with magic, something he'd never seen, something she had never told him—that he didn't know. What else she had kept from him?

What else she had hidden to protect herself ?

The room felt too warm. The lights too bright. The bond, though muted, hummed like an unfinished chord.

He watched as Riven smiled softly at Seren. Seren smiled back—only slightly. Her fingers touched the tiny silver fox hanging from her wrist.

And Hagan knew he was going to lose his mind.