Marstyn swung the back door open with a gust of rain and the scent of wild mint clinging to his delivery van uniform. His eyes landed on Vionwyn, her auburn hair pulled back, hands floured and deft as she rolled pastry by the open kitchen window. She barely acknowledged his presence, but her lips quirked as he lingered too long, arms loaded with crates, bolting the door behind him as if the rest of the world might trespass on this fragile, domestic peace. Marstyn couldn’t help but watch—the way Vionwyn’s wrists moved, the light in her wary gaze, the forbidden knowing they’d both never say aloud. A single look passed between them: longing, and the ache of never quite belonging.

In the corner, Neryth hunched over her battered laptop, surrounded by empty teacups and half-finished sentences. The storm outside was relentless, sheets of water blurring the view of the wild gardens, so different from city lights and broken promises. Writer’s block was a strangling thing, knotted in her throat like every secret she’d never confessed. Her gaze kept drifting to Vionwyn. That first kiss still ghosted her lips—a taste of something dangerous and sweet, impossible to shake. She watched the chef’s hands, how her body moved with a stubborn grace, and the familiar urge to pursue—the thrill of a chase—stirred and shamed her.

Ellira pressed her forehead to the cold glass of the hayloft window, heart hammering. Below, the inn thrummed with the heat of arguing voices, Soriel’s laughter echoing like a dare. But here, above it all, the world was shrouded in silver rain and the musky scent of straw. Dax was already waiting, kneeling by an upturned crate, water running off his dark hair, the muscles of his arms rippling as he tried to dry his sodden shirt. He looked up, searching her face—bracing for rejection, for blame—his guilt etched in every line.

She didn’t give him words. Instead, she crossed to him, the storm outside matching the furious, trembling want inside her. Dax’s hands found her waist. Their lips met, desperate and searching; he tasted like rain and sorrow and hope. Clothes peeled away with clumsy urgency—skirts shucked, his jeans wrenched down, every inch of skin bared to the chill air and each other. She straddled him, breathless, the hay crackling beneath them. His hands traced her hips, slow at first, reverent, his mouth sucking bruises onto her skin as if he could mark her as his and erase the memory of everything he’d done wrong.

Ellira gasped, arching into him, thrill and fear tangling inside her. She pressed her palm to his chest, feeling his heart pound in sync with hers. Dax groaned her name, fingers sliding between her thighs, coaxing her open; her head tipped back, rain leaking through the rafters to bead on her breasts. He entered her in a single, trembling thrust—both of them shuddering, clinging tight, every nerve ending burning with relief and panic and sheer, greedy hunger. The storm drowned out her cries, and in its wildness she found the thing she had always craved: not safety, but abandon.

After, they collapsed together, slick skin sliding and laughter catching in their throats. Outside, thunder rolled, the world remade in wet darkness. Dax kissed her knuckles. “Shouldn’t have happened,” he whispered, but hope flickered in his eyes.

Downstairs, Neryth abandoned her words entirely, drawn by the smell of strawberries and fresh cream. She found Vionwyn cleaning up, hands sticky and careful, brow furrowed in concentration. Their eyes met, a silent dare passing between them—what are you afraid of?

“Midnight snack,” Vionwyn offered, voice gruff, but her hand trembled just slightly as she held the fruit to Neryth’s lips.

Neryth accepted, the strawberry cool against her tongue, the brush of Vionwyn’s thumb igniting something deep and ancient. Neryth caught Vionwyn’s wrist, licking the sweet cream from her finger, eyes never leaving hers. Vionwyn’s breath hitched, the façade slipping, a real smile tugging at her mouth.

Slowly, Neryth leaned in, pausing just long enough for Vionwyn to pull away—but she didn’t. Their lips met, tentative at first, then surging, Vionwyn’s hands fisting in Neryth’s hair. They kissed like it was a secret, like it was a promise: a dangerous thing they’d both chosen. The taste of strawberries, the warmth of mouths opening, the promise of everything left unsaid. When they broke apart, Vionwyn pressed her forehead to Neryth’s, her voice raw. “I don’t do second chances.”

Neryth whispered, “You don’t have to.”

Utterly visible, utterly undone. For now, neither needed anything more.

In the soft dawn, Ellira lay tangled in Dax’s arms, breath slowing, skin prickling with fear and hope. Her phone, somewhere in the chaos of shed clothes, buzzed against the floorboards. She fished it out with shaking hands. The message lit her up from the inside out with dread.

“Arriving early. Can’t wait to see you. – C”

Her fiancé.

To be continued…