Vionwyn arrived while the morning sun was still slanting through the dining room windows, making the old wood glow honey-gold. She carried a battered satchel and an air of fierce privacy, hair twisted back in an untidy knot, eyes sharp and dark. Ellira watched her cross the threshold into the kitchen, introducing herself with nothing more than a slight nod and the clipped statement: “I’ll need a list of dietary restrictions by noon.” Her accent rolled like gravel, but her presence—direct, unapologetic—sent an unexpected shiver up Ellira’s spine.

Ellira tried to return to the task at hand, arranging wildflowers in glass jars for the breakfast tables, but her thoughts kept snagging on Dax. She replayed yesterday’s kitchen mishap—the heat of his hand on hers, the shocked laugh they’d shared, his quiet retreat that stung more than it should. She caught sight of him now through the window, stripping off his shirt in the garden as he bent to fix a battered fence. There were scars stitched across his back, pale against his tanned skin, and whatever frustration he worked out on the weathered boards radiated through each pull of his muscles.

On impulse, Ellira pushed open the back door and hovered at the garden’s edge, nerves humming. “Need help?” she asked, too tentative. Dax didn’t look up at first, only replied in that restrained voice, “Depends. You any good at holding things steady?” But when their eyes met, something charged seemed to hang between them—an unfinished sentence, a dare. Ellira knelt beside him, her hands awkward at first, but gradually steadier beneath his guidance. Close like this, she could see the way his lashes curled thick above haunted eyes, the way his breath caught when her fingertips grazed his.

Inside, Neryth had wandered in, suitcase trailing behind her, pausing just inside the kitchen. She was older than the others by a few years, almost regal in her confidence, lips stained berry-red. "So you’re the chef everyone’s raving about online," she purred at Vionwyn, voice low and teasing. Vionwyn arched an eyebrow, unamused. "If you’re going to linger, you’ll need to earn your keep. Do you chop, or just talk?" Neryth grinned, pulling up beside her at the butcher block, hands brushing over Vionwyn’s as she reached for strawberries.

The air between them crackled. As they worked—rinsing berries, slicing, whisking cream—gestures became flirtation. Neryth let her laughter unfurl, a little too loud, fingers slipping intentionally wet along Vionwyn’s wrist. “You’re not as immune as you pretend,” she murmured, voice velvet-dark. Vionwyn faltered just a fraction, knife stilled midair, something wild and fearful in her glance. But then she masked it, voice cool: “You’d burn yourself if you got too close.” Their hands brushed, then lingered, and the strawberries on the cutting board seemed suddenly charged with promise.

Soriel swept in next, arms full of linens, a chaotic halo of honey-blonde curls. “Am I interrupting, or are we auditioning for a cooking competition?” she quipped, dropping a wink first at Dax through the window, then at Ellira, then at the whole room. Vionwyn rolled her eyes but didn’t quite hide a huff of laughter. Soriel launched into rapid-fire gossip—rumors about an old ghost haunting the orchard, which made Ellira giggle, nerves soothed for a moment.

After breakfast, as guests drifted back to their rooms, Ellira found herself restlessly organizing the pantry. She mulled over Dax’s nearness, the way his hand rested just beside hers on the fence, the small softness in his smile when he thought no one saw. She fished out her phone, fingers trembling, scrolling through messages from her fiancé: stiff, well-meaning, ultimately empty. She only felt the hollow widen.

Distant laughter floated from the kitchen: Neryth, ever bold, was regaling Vionwyn and Soriel with stories of bad dates and publishers’ parties. Ellira watched as Neryth leaned closer to Vionwyn, their faces nearly touching over a bowl of batter. For a heartbeat, Ellira envied their ease, the headlong way Neryth threw herself into want. She wished she could be that brave.

That night, as rain pelted against the windows, the inn grew hushed and intimate, golden light pooling in the hallways. Ellira stood at the window, watching Dax trudge back to the staff cottage, shoulders stooped against the cold. She wondered if she should follow, if he wanted her to. Her body ached with longing—dangerous, sweet, devastating. Instead, she pressed her hand to the glass, feeling the pulse of something wild rising in her chest.

Downstairs, Neryth and Vionwyn remained in the low-lit kitchen. Candlelight shivered against the walls, casting shifting shadows. Vionwyn’s hands, usually so deft, trembled just so as she cleaned up, Neryth hovering close. “You’re shaking,” Neryth whispered, voice softer now. She reached out, thumb brushing over the knuckle of Vionwyn’s hand, their skin meeting above the flickering flame. Vionwyn didn’t pull away. For a long, silent moment, the heat between them was almost unbearable.

Then Vionwyn exhaled, eyes locked on Neryth’s. “You should go,” she said, but her voice sounded ragged. Neryth only smiled, slow and patient—a dare disguised as kindness. “I’ll wait,” she murmured, “as long as it takes.”

Upstairs, Ellira lay awake, the rain drumming overhead. All her life had been leading to this border—between duty and desire, safety and wildness. She turned off her phone, letting the darkness swallow her doubts, and let herself want, just for tonight.

Outside, Dax stood alone in the garden. Lightning cut across the sky, and the wind carried a single note of possibility. In the silence, the air felt like it might break.

Morning would bring storm clouds and an unexpected message, one that threatened the fragile peace blooming in all of them.

To be continued...