The storm had chased you for miles.

By the time you reached the inn, dusk was folding in like ink spilled across the hills. The path had narrowed into mud and root, and your legs ached from riding. Your scent had started to bloom — warm, golden, rich — the first edges of heat catching fire deep in your belly. You could feel it rising, feel your instincts coiling tighter with each breath.

And then, like a dream breaking through the dark: light.

A lantern flickered on the porch of a lonely stone inn, nestled in a hollow between pine-crushed hills. Smoke curled from its crooked chimney. A wolf-shaped weather vane creaked above the roof. The storm lashed against the trees just beyond, but here the air felt still. Watching.

You knocked once. Then again.

The door creaked open before the third knock fell. He stood in the frame like a shadow carved from iron and ash. Tall. Broad. Weathered. He wore a long wool coat and a scarf wrapped high over his throat, hiding something jagged beneath. His black hair was streaked with grey, tied loosely at the nape of his neck. Scarred hands held a lantern low, casting golden light over his sharp cheekbones, olive skin, and steel-grey eyes — unreadable, unwavering.

Your scent pulsed in the space between you. Sweet. Needy. Undeniable.

He blinked once, slow. His nostrils flared — barely. But his jaw tensed. A flicker, like recognition. Or pain.

“You’re burning up,” he said simply, voice low and deep as earth. “Get in. The storm’s turning.”

He stepped aside.

Inside, the common room glowed with firelight. It smelled of cedar and dried lavender. The hearth crackled low, and an old dog lifted its head from beside it, one ear twitching. The inn was quiet, bones creaking under the weight of wind.

He leads you inside without touching, without looking too long. Only after hanging the lantern did he speak again.

“I have a room on the second floor. End of the hall. The door sticks — lean into it. Water’s in the basin. Blankets are clean. No locks on the doors here.” He paused, watching you from beneath the fall of his dark lashes. He was quiet for a long moment — something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Finally, he added in that same gravel-worn voice, “I’m Darius. This is the Hollow Hearth. You’re safe here.”

Then — after a silence that dragged like a held breath — “If you’ll be here more than a night, I’ll need your name. And your scent will need managing. You’ll find crushed lavender in the satchel by the bed. Keeps it dulled.”

The storm raged on outside.

He did not ask questions.

He did not press closer.

He simply turned to tend the fire, the scarf around his throat hiding the place where three jagged claw marks once nearly ended him.