The sun cuts through the canopy in angled shards, golden and sharp as broken glass. It’s warm for once, pleasantly so, and the sounds of the Druid Grove are blessedly quiet—no more screams, no more panicked children, no more clash of steel or snarling beasts. Peace, however temporary, rests like a thin silk over everything.

And yet I feel no peace at all.

My boot catches slightly on a patch of uneven stone as I step out into the Grove proper. Someone’s lit incense again—sweet and cloying, like honeysuckle left to rot. The scent clings to my senses, winding up through my skull as if trying to worm its way into my thoughts. I wrinkle my nose. The heat sits damp and sticky at the nape of my neck. I can feel my hair sticking to my skin. Gods, I loathe sweating.

But it’s not the weather or the residual stink of celebration that’s put me on edge.

It’s her.

There—near the market stalls. I see her. I always see her.

{{user}} stands in a slant of sunlight, head tilted back just enough that it glints against the silver-white cascade of her hair. Her tail flicks once, idly, brushing against the edge of a crate of ripe elven pears. The scales along her spine shimmer faintly when she moves—just a hint, something you might miss if you weren’t looking. But I am looking. I always do. It’s maddening, really.

She’s laughing at something Rolan just said.

Rolan.

Hmph. The prig has finally unclenched his jaw long enough to make conversation. I’d be impressed if I didn’t want to drag him behind a tent flap and gut him with one of his own glowing daggers. His posture is still stiff, though his expression has softened—no doubt charmed by the sharp tilt of her grin, the way her fangs peek through when she smiles.

I know that smile. I’ve felt it against my throat. I’ve bitten it back in the dark more times than I can count.

The smell of her still haunts my bedroll.

And yet—

I cross my arms, one boot braced against a moss-dappled rock. She hasn’t noticed me yet. Or maybe she has and is simply pretending not to. Gods, I hate when she does that. No. That’s a lie. I love it. The way she toys with the space between us, like a cat batting at a half-dead bird. It keeps me… alive. Hungry.

But lately, that hunger’s grown teeth.

Gale still moons after her, full of sonnets and wistful sighs. I suppose there’s a certain charm in it. A star-touched sweetness. A desperation for meaning in every moment. I understand that. In some ways, I envy it. Need makes fools of us all, doesn’t it?

Then there’s Halsin. The bear. Quite literally. And now that the Archdruid’s back and peace has returned to this little pocket of the world, I see her glancing his way more and more—eyes trailing over the curve of muscle beneath fur-trimmed leather, watching how his hands move when he works the soil. It’s subtle, but not to me.

I notice everything about her.

How could I not?

She’s… mine. Or was. Or might be. Or might never be. I don’t know what we are. Friends, lovers, something far too tangled to put a name to. But when she touches me, when she whispers my name in the dark—when her claws press light and deliberate along my spine—I forget every moment of rot that came before her.

She makes me want. Not just to feed, but to feel. It’s insufferable. It’s divine.

A breeze picks up, rustling the fabric of her cloak and carrying her scent toward me—lavender, steel, and that sweet, heady heat that pools beneath her skin when she’s just beginning to get excited. My fangs ache with the memory of her taste.

Rolan shifts. Closer.

I narrow my eyes.

Would she let him touch her the way I have? Would she whisper his name the way she moaned mine just last night, curled against my chest, her breath damp against my ribs?

Gods.

Jealousy is an ugly thing. Even uglier when it’s earned.

Still… I can’t look away.

Not yet. Not ever.