The inn's warmth wrapped around them, a sharp contrast to the chaos and chill of the storm. A low fire crackled in the hearth, its orange glow flickering along the wooden beams and pooling shadows in the corners of the room. The scent of herbs lingered faintly in the air—lavender, maybe—and for the first time in hours, there was silence.
Rowen barely registered it. Her head lolled weakly against Dryanden's shoulder as he carried her up the narrow staircase, his hold steady, careful, as though she might break. The faint glow of her crescent mark pulsed through her sleeve like an ember struggling to stay alight. Her limbs felt heavy, her magic spent, and each step Dryanden took was punctuated by her shallow breaths.
Thalor followed behind them, his presence an aggravating hum at the edges of her consciousness. His voice broke the stillness as they reached the door to their room.
"Well, I'd say that went better than expected," Thalor said, his tone infuriatingly light, though there was a sharp edge behind it. He propped one shoulder lazily against the doorframe, his golden eyes flicking between them with that insufferable gleam. "Exhausted, are we?"
Dryanden shot him a glare that could've peeled paint. "You're not helping."
Thalor ignored him entirely, smirking at Rowen instead. "You know, there's something to be said for the value of shared hardship." He flicked his gaze pointedly toward the small tub of steaming water in the center of the room. "It's such a small tub—I'm sure you two will figure it out."
Rowen stirred faintly, her voice weak but full of conviction. "Shut up."
Thalor winked, tapping his fingers once on the doorframe before straightening with the lazy confidence of a predator who knew his prey couldn't run. "I'll leave you to your… privacy." He glanced at Dryanden. "Try not to glare too hard, Your Highness. You'll scare her."
The door shut behind him with a soft click, and Dryanden exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath. Rowen couldn't make out the words, but she didn't need to. The tension radiating from him was palpable. He carried her the rest of the way to the bed and lowered her carefully onto the edge of the mattress. His crimson eyes softened as they met hers, though his jaw remained tight. "Are you alright?"
Rowen nodded faintly, though she wasn't sure it was true. The warmth of the fire made her skin prickle, and the soft pulsing of her mark sent phantom tingles up her wrist. "He's still insufferable," she mumbled again, earning the faintest quirk of Dryanden's lips.
"That's putting it kindly," he replied gruffly, his voice low as he straightened. His gaze flickered toward the steaming bath. Rowen tracked his line of sight, blinking sluggishly at the small tub. The water shimmered faintly with heat, and for a brief moment, she thought the sight might soothe her frayed nerves. But then she realized the implication and stiffened.
"I can manage on my own," she murmured quickly, trying to summon the strength to sit up straighter.
Dryanden's brow furrowed as he crouched in front of her, resting his arms on his knees. "You can barely hold yourself upright," he said quietly. "Stop arguing and let me help."
Rowen opened her mouth to protest, but the words faltered under the weight of his crimson gaze. His careful patience only made her stomach twist, the warmth in his tone fanning something deeper—something shameful. A flicker of an unwanted thought surfaced: what if he wasn't so gentle? The idea burned through her like a spark catching kindling, and she shoved it away as quickly as it came. What's wrong with me?
Dryanden stood abruptly and Rowen flinched at the movement, her eyes widening as he shrugged off his long coat and tugged at the laces of his shirt.
"What are you doing?" she blurted, her voice rasping from exhaustion but edged with disbelief.
"Getting in." He met her gaze with quiet resolve, his movements unhurried as he began to unfasten his boots. "The water won't stay warm forever, and I'm not waiting until you faint trying to do this alone."
"You can't—"
"I can. And I will." Dryanden's tone left no room for argument, though there was a faint tension in his voice that hadn't been there before.
Rowen flushed deeply, heat spreading up her neck and into her cheeks. "This is unnecessary," she mumbled, averting her gaze as he reached for her hands, helping her to her feet. He didn't reply. His focus remained on her, his movements deliberate yet careful as he guided her toward the tub. Rowen felt the weight of his attention like a physical touch, and her pulse thrummed unevenly in her throat. Dryanden stopped beside the tub, kneeling to check the water's temperature. His movements were deliberate, but the quiet tension clinging to him hadn't eased. She swayed slightly, exhaustion tugging at her, and Dryanden was there immediately—one hand steadying her arm, the other bracing against her waist.
"I've got you," he said quietly, his voice low and firm.
The closeness sent a spark skittering down Rowen's spine, and she hated the way her pulse quickened in response. "I can—"
"You can't," Dryanden cut her off, his crimson gaze meeting hers with calm finality. "Stop being stubborn."
Before she could argue, his hands went to the clasp at her cloak, undoing it with practiced efficiency. He kept his gaze steady on her face as the garment slipped from her shoulders, but for all the control in his expression, Rowen could feel the tension in his movements. He was being careful—too careful—as though afraid to cross an invisible line. His crimson gaze softened—almost too much—and Rowen swore she caught the flicker of a thought he didn't dare voice.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "Let me help." She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to nod as he continued. Every brush of his knuckles against her skin was a slow, deliberate reminder of their closeness. He turned slightly to give her some semblance of privacy as he worked at the buttons of her over dress, his jaw tight.
As his hands worked the fabric, her breath hitched. She couldn't help noticing the strength in his grip or the way his fingertips pressed into her skin. A traitorous thought whispered through her mind, unbidden: How would it feel if he didn't hold back? The heat in her cheeks burned brighter, and she clenched her fists, furious with herself.
You're exhausted, Rowen. Stop.
By the time she was undressed, her face felt like it was on fire, and her body felt heavier than before. She tried not to think about the way Dryanden's hands lingered—steady and supportive—when he lifted her into the tub.
The water enveloped her in a soothing calm, steam rising in soft curls to kiss her skin. She sank into the water with a shaky exhale, her muscles loosening despite herself. The tension in her limbs eased, but her thoughts refused to follow suit.
Then the water sloshed again.
The moment he lowered himself into the cramped tub, his solid frame pressing against her back, Rowen froze. The space between them was nonexistent—her spine brushed his chest, her shoulders barely avoiding his collarbone. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, each slow exhale stirring the damp hair at the nape of her neck.
It was maddening.
Her breath hitched as his presence consumed her senses, his steady warmth a infuriating contrast to the tension coiling low in her stomach. The water wasn't the only thing heating her skin, and shame crept into the edges of her thoughts. She clenched her fists, furious with herself.
Why am I thinking about this?
Her fingers curled into fists on her knees. "This is ridiculous."
Dryanden huffed a quiet laugh, though it lacked humor. "It's practical."
Practical. She wanted to scoff, but all she could do was sit there, muscles stiff, as the weight of the moment settled between them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only sound filling the silence besides the slow lapping of the water.
The water was blissfully warm, curling steam into the air like a veil, but Rowen couldn't enjoy it—not when Dryanden was settled behind her.
Rowen stared fixedly at the ripples spreading over the water, willing herself not to notice the weight of his presence, or the way his legs framed hers, his knees brushing lightly against her sides.
Too close.
She shifted awkwardly, trying to create even an inch of space, but Dryanden's arm came up, steadying her with a firm, careful hand around her waist.
"Stop squirming," he murmured, his voice low and near her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "You'll spill the water."
The words were so soft, so controlled, and yet they sent a sharp current racing through her. She hated herself for the way her body reacted, for the sudden longing she couldn't suppress.
Why does it feel like he's holding back? The thought slipped through unbidden, and her stomach tightened at its implications. Rowen stilled, her pulse thundering as she became painfully aware of everything—of the way his chest rose and fell against her back, of the water rippling softly where their legs brushed. It was too much, too close, and yet she couldn't bring herself to pull away. She bit her lip hard, willing the heat building inside her to fade.
"I—" Her words died in her throat. She forced herself to breathe, but every inhale was full of him—his faint, woodsy scent mingling with the steam, the unshakable solidity of him pressed so close behind her.
"I can't—this is—" she stammered, her voice faltering as she hugged her knees to her chest.
"It's just a bath, Rowen," Dryanden said quietly, though there was a hint of something unspoken in his tone.
Just a bath. But it didn't feel like "just" anything—not when she could feel the quiet strength of his chest against her back. Every slight movement—every shift of his arms, every breath he took—was magnified tenfold in the silence. Her pulse thrummed beneath her skin, far too loud in her own ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could will away the heat creeping up her neck.
Stop it. Stop thinking about him like that.
A soft splash broke the silence, followed by Dryanden's voice, softer now. "Relax."
Rowen didn't move. "I'm fine."
He sighed, low and exasperated, but not unkind. "You're not."
Before she could argue, his hands came to rest gently on her upper arms, guiding her backward until her shoulders met his chest completely. The warmth of him seeped through her skin, his body solid and unyielding where it cradled her own.
Her breath hitched as the quiet intimacy of the moment enveloped her, her heart hammering traitorously in her chest. The solid weight of his chest against her back was maddening. Every slow rise and fall of his breath seemed to echo through her body, her pulse skipping wildly. Her thoughts slipped somewhere dangerous before she could stop them: his hands, firm and confident, not stopping at her waist but—Rowen squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard.
What's wrong with me?
"Relax," Dryanden repeated softly, his voice near her ear. "You're safe."
Safe. Rowen clung to the word like a lifeline, but it was difficult to focus on safety when her thoughts kept slipping somewhere dangerous.
Dryanden reached for a wooden pitcher beside the tub, one arm still resting loosely across her stomach as he moved. Rowen sucked in a shaky breath as his hand brushed her side through the water, a faint touch that sent sparks jolting through her nerves.
"I'll be quick," he murmured, though his voice was quieter now. "Lean your head back."
Rowen obeyed stiffly, letting her head rest against his collarbone as he carefully poured warm water over her hair. His touch was steady, reverent even, and yet it left her skin aching for something she couldn't name.
Or maybe she could.
The thought hit her like a cold slap: He's not Thalor.
Her chest tightened, shame and guilt twisting inside her. Thalor's hands wouldn't be this careful. The memory of his firm, unyielding grip sent a jolt of heat coursing through her, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Stop. Just stop.
The gentle cascade slid down her scalp and neck, and she shivered despite the heat. Dryanden's hand followed—steady and patient—as he smoothed the tangles from her hair with slow, deliberate motions. Rowen squeezed her knees tighter against her chest, trying to ignore how close they were—how every touch, no matter how innocent, left her skin burning.
He was so careful. So controlled.
And yet her thoughts wouldn't stop.
Why do I wish he wasn't so careful? The question festered, tangled in the corners of her mind with something darker. Dryanden's gentleness soothed her, but it also left her craving the confidence—the dominance—she'd felt in Thalor's presence. Her cheeks burned at the thought, her reflection a distorted, unrecognizable version of herself.
How can I want something so dangerous? Her fingers curled into fists against the edge of the tub.
What kind of person does that make me? The thought made her throat tighten, and a wave of guilt swelled in her chest. Dryanden was being gentle—reverent, even—and yet here she was, wishing for… something else. Something darker.
Something like Thalor.
Her cheeks burned, shame and confusion battling within her. She remembered the way Thalor's hands had guided hers, confident and unyielding, his voice threading through her mind like silk. There had been no hesitation with him—no restraint.
Rowen bit her lip hard, fighting back the flicker of heat that ignited low in her stomach. The memory clawed at her, unwelcome and unbidden. Thalor—dangerous, relentless—had slipped beneath her skin, and she hated herself for how easily he lingered there.
"You're tense again," Dryanden said softly, his thumb brushing along her temple as he smoothed the water through her hair.
Rowen jolted slightly, embarrassed that he'd noticed. "I'm fine," she muttered, though her voice wavered.
Dryanden paused, his hands stilling as his arms remained loosely around her. For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence stretching taut between them.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful. "You're different, Rowen."
She stiffened, her heart skittering painfully in her chest. "What?"
He exhaled slowly, as though hesitant to admit it. "I don't know how to explain it. You make me…" He trailed off, his voice faltering for the first time. "You make me question things I thought were certain."
Rowen's breath caught. For a fleeting second, she wanted to turn, to face him, to ask what he meant—but she couldn't. She was too afraid of what she might see in his eyes.
Instead, she murmured, "You're imagining things."
Dryanden didn't answer right away, but she felt the tension in him—a quiet conflict that mirrored her own. Finally, his voice came, steady and soft. "Maybe."
Rowen swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing against the turmoil already churning inside her. Her gaze locked on the edge of the tub as her thoughts spiraled.
You wanted this closeness. You wanted him.
The shame twisted deeper, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, as if to physically stop the thoughts from surfacing.
But no matter how much she tried to suppress it, she couldn't deny the truth.
In that moment, she wanted him.
And—worse—some traitorous part of her still craved the shadowed confidence of Thalor's touch, the way he hadn't hesitated to take control.
The silence stretched as Dryanden's hands slowed, lingering in the water for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he drew back. The weight of his presence lifted, and Rowen's spine felt suddenly cold where his chest had been.
She exhaled shakily, not trusting herself to speak as she gripped the edges of the tub with trembling hands. The water had cooled, and reality crept in to replace the disorienting warmth—the awareness of herself, of him, and of the shame still burning at the edges of her thoughts.
"I'll step out first," Dryanden said, his voice quiet but steady. He turned his back to her, reaching for a towel from the hearthside chair.
Rowen stared down at the ripples in the water, watching them distort her reflection. The haze of exhaustion made it hard to think, but fragments of her own thoughts echoed uncomfortably: Why do I wish he wasn't so careful?
She pushed the thought away, squeezing her eyes shut. The faint rustle of fabric behind her pulled her attention back. Dryanden had stepped out of the tub, his movements quiet but practiced as he dried himself and dressed, his back still turned.
"Here." He turned slightly, holding out a fresh towel without looking at her. "Take your time. Don't slip." His voice was careful again—gentle but distant, like a tether being pulled taut between them. It made her stomach twist.
Rowen swallowed, nodding faintly even though he couldn't see her. "Thank you."
Dryanden said nothing, but she could feel him lingering just out of sight, his gaze likely scanning the room for some unseen threat. Always watchful. Always controlled.
Rowen pressed her fingers to her temples as the heat of the water faded completely, leaving her skin chilled and clammy. The magic's toll weighed on her bones, making even small movements feel clumsy and sluggish.
Just get out. Dry off. You'll feel better once you're warm.
Gathering what little strength she had left, Rowen pushed herself upright, gripping the edges of the tub for balance. The world tilted immediately. Her vision swam, and the cool air felt like needles against her damp skin.
You can do this.
She planted one foot on the wooden floor and tried to lift the other over the tub's edge. It was an awkward, graceless movement, and her body protested instantly. The blood rushed too quickly from her head. Her limbs wobbled, and for one disorienting second, Rowen realized she was going to fall.
She let out a startled gasp as her knees buckled. But she didn't hit the floor—before she could fall, Dryanden was there.
His arms caught her, swift and sure, one sliding around her waist while the other steadied her back.
"Rowen!" Dryanden's voice was sharp with concern as he pulled her upright against him.
Her breath caught in her throat as the world narrowed to the solid warmth of his chest, his bare skin damp where it met hers. Her hands pressed against him instinctively, her fingers curling faintly as though seeking something to hold onto.
Too close. Too much.
"Careful," he murmured, softer now, his tone a deep rumble that sent shivers rippling through her. "I told you not to push yourself."
Rowen's pulse thundered, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. She forced herself to look up—immediately regretting it when her gaze collided with his.
His crimson eyes burned into hers, dark and unreadable, his face so close she could see the faint droplets of water clinging to his lashes. The tension stretched between them, thick and unrelenting.
For a breathless moment, neither of them moved.
Rowen's lips parted faintly, a trembling exhale escaping her as Dryanden's gaze flickered downward—to her mouth—before snapping back up. His arm around her waist tightened just slightly, his jaw clenching as though he were fighting himself.
Her chest rose and fell too quickly, the heat curling low in her stomach as she realized how little space there was between them—how she could feel the hard line of his body pressed against hers, his steady heartbeat thudding through her skin.
Is he going to…? The thought flickered, unbidden and dangerous, and she hated how her traitorous mind welcomed it. She couldn't tear her gaze from his.
Then, abruptly, he straightened sharply, as though breaking himself from a trance. He pulled back just enough to keep her steady but put space between them, his arm loosening around her waist.
"You're shaking," he said gruffly, though his voice was quieter now, almost rough. "You need rest."
Rowen forced herself to breathe, to focus on something—anything—besides the burning heat lingering where his touch had been. She stared at his chest, avoiding his gaze.
"I—I'm fine," she mumbled, though her voice betrayed her.
Dryanden exhaled slowly, his expression carefully blank. "Let's get you to bed."
Without waiting for a reply, he scooped her up effortlessly, cradling her against him. Rowen pressed her red face into his shoulder, too overwhelmed to argue, her mind still spiraling from what almost—nearly—happened.
The bed dipped as Dryanden eased her onto the mattress, his movements steady and sure. He tucked the blanket around her without a word, his crimson eyes lingering briefly on her face. Rowen clenched her fingers into the blanket's edge, her body trembling faintly despite the lingering warmth from the bath.
"You're still shivering," Dryanden observed, his voice low and rough, almost to himself.
"I'm fine," Rowen muttered weakly, though the violent tremor that raced through her betrayed her words. Her limbs refused to still, and her teeth nearly chattered as the room's chill crept in.
Dryanden didn't reply right away. His gaze flickered across her form—her pale face, the slight quiver in her shoulders—and his jaw tightened as though coming to a decision.
"Move over," he said quietly, though there was no room for argument in his tone.
Rowen's eyes shot open. "What?"
Dryanden muscles shifted beneath the faint firelight—broad shoulders and strong arms moving with practiced ease, though the tension in his posture was unmistakable. He didn't look at her as he grabbed a second blanket from the chair.
"You're cold," he said simply, his voice steady but low. "This will help."
Rowen blinked at him, stunned. "You don't have to—"
"I do." Dryanden's crimson eyes met hers, his expression softening slightly. "You won't warm up like this. Stop arguing."
Before she could protest, Dryanden climbed into the bed beside her. The mattress dipped again under his weight, and Rowen's breath caught as he settled close. Her pulse raced, and the shivering worsened—not from cold this time, but from something else she didn't want to name.
"I—this is—" Her words faltered as Dryanden shifted, pulling the thick second blanket over both of them.
"It's just warmth, Rowen," Dryanden said quietly, though his voice held that same unspoken edge from earlier. He eased closer, his solid presence a wall of steady heat. "That's all."
Rowen opened her mouth to reply, but the words died as his arm slipped carefully around her waist. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if he were testing her reaction. She stiffened instinctively, her back pressing flush against his chest as he pulled her gently into his embrace.
Her heartbeat thundered, drowning out the crackling fire and the faint creak of the floorboards. "Dryanden…"
"You're shaking," he murmured, his voice softer now, the faintest rasp in its edges. "Just… let me hold you." The plea in his tone—so rare, so unlike him—unraveled something inside her. She exhaled shakily, her resistance crumbling as she let herself relax against him.
His arm around her waist was steady and warm, his breath brushing against the back of her neck. The space between them dissolved completely, leaving her too aware of the hard line of his body. The shame crept in as her mind wandered where it shouldn't, picturing his touch less careful, less controlled. She bit her lip, furious with herself.
This isn't who I am.
She knew she should pull away—that his warmth shouldn't feel so necessary, shouldn't make her pulse race. But she didn't move. Instead, she leaned into him, and the tension in her chest only grew. His steady presence made her feel safe, but that safety wasn't enough to quiet the traitorous thoughts creeping in. Her mind flickered to Thalor again, to the way he'd stood too close, his golden eyes alight with something raw and unrestrained. Her stomach churned with guilt.
What's wrong with me?
Rowen's breath hitched as Dryanden's chin came to rest lightly atop her head, the subtle shift of his chest against her back making her too aware of him. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm the fluttering in her chest.
He's just keeping you warm, she reminded herself, forcing her thoughts to steady. That's all this is.
But her body betrayed her. She couldn't ignore the way her pulse quickened at his touch, the way her mind wandered unbidden to the feeling of his steady strength holding her together—when she felt like she might otherwise break apart.
"Better?" Dryanden's voice was a low murmur, breaking through the haze of her thoughts.
Rowen hesitated. "Yes."
A beat of silence passed, the fire crackling softly as its glow danced along the walls. Dryanden's grip around her waist tightened just slightly, and Rowen couldn't stop the way her body leaned instinctively into his hold.
Her voice came faintly, barely audible. "You don't have to hold me."
"I know." Dryanden's breath stirred the hair near her ear, a warm exhale that sent shivers down her spine. "But I will."
There was something so final in the way he said it—like a vow spoken into the quiet. Rowen's chest ached, and she couldn't decide whether it was comfort or confusion twisting inside her.
She swallowed hard, curling her fingers into the blanket. "Why?"
Dryanden didn't answer right away. His breathing remained slow, steady, as though he were choosing his words carefully.
Finally, his voice came—soft, almost hesitant. "Because you're not alone."
Rowen squeezed her eyes shut, the truth of his words cutting through her defenses like a knife. Her throat tightened, and she hated how much they meant to her—how much he meant to her, when she didn't understand any of it.
Not trusting herself to speak, she gave the faintest nod.
Dryanden didn't say anything more. He only held her closer, his arm a steady anchor as his warmth wrapped around her, chasing the last of the shivers from her body. It felt too intimate, too dangerous… and yet Rowen couldn't bring herself to pull away.
For the first time since the storm, Rowen felt herself drift—her mind quieting, her breathing evening out, exhaustion finally pulling her under.
But as sleep claimed her, one last thought flickered unbidden through her mind:
Why does this feel like more than safety?
Rowen didn't realize she was dreaming at first. The warmth of Dryanden's embrace lingered, anchoring her even as the world around her began to shift.
The steady rhythm of his breathing gave way to silence—an unnatural stillness that made her skin prickle. The crackling fire faded, and the soft glow of the inn's hearth dimmed into shadows.
Where…?
Rowen's eyes fluttered open, her body tensing instinctively. The room was gone. In its place stretched an endless forest, dark and twisted. Gnarled trees loomed like skeletal sentinels, their bark slick with shadow. The air was thick, suffocating, and somewhere in the distance, an unnatural creaking echoed through the trees—like bone splintering under pressure. The shadows shifted when she wasn't looking, as if the forest itself were watching.
Her crescent mark throbbed faintly on her wrist, the pale glow of it spilling across her skin. The faint light illuminated the forest floor—a carpet of blackened leaves that crunched unnaturally beneath her bare feet.
This place was wrong.
Rowen wrapped her arms around herself, scanning the endless dark. "Hello?" Her voice came out thin, swallowed almost immediately by the shadows.
The silence stretched for too long. And then—
"Pleasant dreams, little crescent?"
Rowen's breath stilled, her chest tightening as the voice threaded through the darkness like silk—low and mocking, yet familiar enough to send a shiver rippling down her spine.
She turned sharply, and there he was.
Thalor stepped forward from the shadows, his golden eyes gleaming like twin embers in the dark. He moved with the same unhurried grace as always, his coat brushing softly against the ground as though even the forest itself wouldn't dare resist him.
"You." Rowen's voice faltered, anger and unease warring within her. "What are you doing here?"
Thalor's smirk was faint, his expression infuriatingly calm as he circled her slowly, hands tucked behind his back. "I might ask you the same thing," he murmured. "But then again, this is your dream."
Rowen's heart stuttered. My dream?
She glanced down at her wrist instinctively, her crescent mark still glowing faintly—steady and constant, as though acknowledging him. "You shouldn't be here."
"And yet here I am." Thalor's gaze swept over her, sharp and knowing, as though he could see the unspoken thoughts she tried to hide. "It seems you can't keep me out, Rowen. No matter how hard you try."
Her pulse quickened. "You're lying."
"Am I?" He tilted his head, his smirk widening ever so slightly. "I felt it earlier. Your magic. Your thoughts."
Rowen stiffened, blood rushing in her ears. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Thalor stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate—predatory. "I felt it when you let him hold you. When you leaned into him, trembling in his arms. That flutter of want you tried so hard to deny."
Rowen's cheeks burned. "Stop—"
"But then…" Thalor's voice dropped, softer now as he loomed closer, his golden eyes catching the faint glow of her mark. "You thought of me, too. Didn't you?"
Rowen froze, her breath catching painfully in her throat. Her shame flared hot and bright, and she hated how the words struck too close to the truth.
"I didn't—" she started, but her voice wavered.
Thalor's smirk was triumphant, his hand lifting slowly as though testing the air between them. The shadows around them shifted, curling toward him like ink drawn to a quill. "You're lying to yourself again, little crescent."
Rowen stumbled back, her spine hitting the rough bark of a tree. "Stay away from me."
"But you don't want that," he murmured, his voice dropping lower as he closed the distance. His hand came up to hover near her jaw, his touch so close she could feel its phantom warmth against her skin. "You don't want me to stop."
His touch hovered there, a maddening promise just shy of real contact, as though savoring the tension he'd pulled taut between them. Rowen's breath faltered, and in the flicker of silence, his thumb finally ghosted upward—soft, deliberate—as though testing how much she could endure.
Rowen's chest rose and fell too quickly, her fingers digging into the bark behind her. "You don't know what I want."
Thalor leaned closer, his golden gaze locking onto hers, pinning her in place. His thumb brushed just below her jaw—light as a whisper, but it sent a jolt of heat spiraling through her. Her pulse pounded in her throat, loud enough she swore he could hear it.
The skin beneath his touch prickled with heat, goosebumps rising up her arms despite the oppressive warmth of his closeness. Her knees trembled, her weight leaning faintly into the rough bark behind her as if it were the only thing holding her upright. "Oh, I do."
The crescent mark burned suddenly, a sharp pulse that made her flinch. Thalor's eyes flicked toward it, his smirk fading into something darker—something that made Rowen's stomach twist.
"You're running from yourself, Rowen," he murmured, his tone both gentle and dangerous. "From me. From him. But you won't be able to forever."
Rowen swallowed hard, her voice trembling. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You will." Thalor chuckled softly, the sound like a purr of satisfaction. "I know," he whispered, his lips a hair's breadth from her ear. "You thought of me tonight."
Rowen's eyes squeezed shut as the words coiled low in her stomach. "Stop it."
"You don't want me to stop," Thalor countered, his voice dropping to a near growl as his fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to face him. "You wanted him tonight, didn't you? The way he touched you—gentle, reverent—like you might shatter in his arms."
Rowen stiffened, shame rushing through her. "No—" The denial caught in her throat, her voice trembling under the weight of his accusation. Thalor's words clawed at something she didn't want to acknowledge. She had wanted Dryanden—had leaned into his warmth. But wasn't there a moment, however fleeting, when she'd wished he hadn't been so careful? Her heart twisted painfully, guilt clawing at her chest. "That's not true," she whispered, but the words tasted hollow.
"It is, but you didn't want reverence." Thalor's voice dropped lower, threading through her senses like smoke—insidious, inescapable. Rowen's fingers dug harder into the bark, splinters biting into her palms as if anchoring her to the moment. Her legs wobbled, traitorous in their refusal to flee, and her throat tightened against the ragged breaths she couldn't seem to control. "You wanted something real. Something raw. Tell me, Rowen—did you picture my hands? Did you wonder how it would feel to let go?"
He leaned in further, the barest distance separating his mouth from hers, and Rowen's traitorous body refused to move as he leaned closer, his lips ghosting over the corner of her mouth, just shy of a kiss. Her lungs straining for air as his hand skimmed along her throat, lingering there with a weight that was both possessive and terrifying.
Thalor's thumb lingered at her jaw, his touch featherlight but unbearably steady, like a trap waiting to snap shut. Rowen's breath trembled, her body locking between the searing heat of his presence and the cold bark pressing into her spine. Could this be real? Surely she couldn't make this up.
"Is this real?" Rowen's voice wavered, her fingers pressing against her mark as it throbbed violently.
Thalor's smirk widened, as though he'd heard her thoughts. "Does it matter?"
And then—despite herself—her chin tilted up, as if answering a call she couldn't deny. It wasn't her.
It wasn't real.
She trembled, heat curling low in her stomach as her mark flared violently against her wrist. His teeth grazed the edge of her ear as he pressed his hand against the tree, bracing himself closer, his body brushing against hers in a way that made her knees weaken.
"Why are you fighting it, Rowen?" he murmured, his free hand ghosted down her waist, his touch maddeningly slow—light enough to tease but heavy enough to brand itself into her skin. His palm paused there, just above her hip, fingers flexing faintly as though he could feel the hitch in her breathing. "You think I don't feel it? The pull between us? Your magic knows it. You know it."
His lips hovered at her jawline, and Rowen's head tilted back of its own accord, her body betraying her completely. The air was thick, suffocating, charged with the weight of everything unspoken. His words threaded through her mind like a curse—deliberate, insidious, as though he'd left a piece of himself behind to torment her.
"Say you don't want this, Rowen." Thalor's mouth brushed her throat, his breath a low vibration against her skin. "Say it, and I'll stop."
She opened her mouth, but no words came.
Her silence was answer enough.
Thalor pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his golden eyes burning like molten light. His smirk widened, dark and knowing, as though he could taste her surrender. "See, you can't lie to me, little crescent."
Rowen sucked in a ragged breath, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "This isn't real," she whispered desperately, her voice breaking.
Thalor's expression softened—not pity, but something darker. "Does it feel real?"
His lips barely brushed over hers, his hand still steadying her jaw, thumb brushing faintly against her cheek as if testing her resolve.
For one maddening moment, Rowen wanted him to kiss her.
The crescent mark on her wrist erupted suddenly—white-hot, a searing pulse that tore through her veins like fire. Rowen choked on a gasp, the sharp pain snapping her back to herself. Her vision blurred as the world around her twisted, the shadows writhing like something alive. Thalor's hand fell away. It was as if the mark itself had rebelled—her magic flaring violently, clawing back control of her traitorous body. Rowen cried out, the pain so sharp it blurred her vision, drowning out Thalor's golden gaze—his touch, his voice—until there was nothing but blinding light.
"Rowen."
The voice wasn't Thalor's.
"Rowen!"
Suddenly, the ground fell away, and Rowen's eyes snapped open with a sharp inhale. Her chest heaved, her body trembling as she shot upright in bed, the blanket pooling in her lap.
"Rowen?" Dryanden's voice broke through the haze, low and steady, pulling her back from the edge. Her chest heaved, lungs straining for breath as the remnants of the dream clung to her like smoke. She pressed a trembling hand against her wrist, the mark still tingling faintly with heat.
The mattress dipped as Dryanden shifted closer, his crimson eyes dark with concern. His hand settled gently on her shoulder, grounding and firm—so different from the possessive burn of Thalor's touch. For a split second, as she blinked back the haze, Rowen swore she heard Thalor's voice—soft, silk-threaded in her ear. You can't run from this forever. The words slithered through her thoughts like a shadow she couldn't shake, curling in the corners of her mind even as she blinked away the dream.
The forest was gone.
Thalor was gone.
Only the faint glow of the dying fire remained, casting soft shadows on the walls of the room.
"What's happening to me?" Rowen whispered, staring at the faint glow of her mark. But Thalor's voice echoed through her mind, dark and mocking.
"You're trembling," Dryanden said softly, his voice a soothing murmur. "What happened?" Dryanden's hand remained steady on her shoulder, no pressure—just warmth, solid and unmoving, like an anchor offered without expectation.
"I—I'm fine," she whispered, though the lie sat heavy in her chest.
Dryanden's frown deepened, and he reached out, his hand settling gently on her shoulder. The touch was steady, grounding—so different from the lingering burn of Thalor's.
"Were you having a nightmare?" he asked quietly, his voice a soothing murmur.
Rowen closed her eyes, swallowing hard. "It was nothing." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. She turned her wrist over, staring at the faint glow of the mark, as though the truth were etched there for the world to see.
What kind of person was she? To lean into Dryanden's warmth and still crave the shadows that Thalor brought?
Had Thalor's magic touched her, or was it her own mind betraying her? The mark still throbbed, as if accusing her of something she couldn't name.
Dryanden's fingers tightened faintly on her shoulder, as if he wanted to say more. His crimson gaze lingered on her face, dark with unspoken thoughts. After a beat, he drew back. "Try to rest."
Dryanden's hand was gentle—steady and warm where Thalor's had been fire and shadow. But Rowen still felt the ghost of Thalor's breath on her throat, the phantom weight of his hand at her jaw. She pressed her fingers to the mark on her wrist, willing its pulsing heat to fade, but her body refused to forget.
Dryanden's crimson gaze lingered on her wrist, narrowing faintly at the pulsing mark before he looked away. "If it happens again…" he said softly, though his voice carried an edge Rowen couldn't quite place. "…I'll be here."
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the sensations away, but they clung to her like smoke. Somewhere in the quiet, she could still hear his voice—soft, insidious: You don't want me to stop.
And somewhere—deep in her bones—Rowen knew he was right. Rowen's fingers dug into the mark, as if she could smother its glow.
He's wrong. He has to be. But the words rang hollow, drowned beneath the echo of his voice.