Mist clung to Wild Bloom Inn’s crooked gables as Kintar Rubalyn arrived, carrying only a battered leather satchel and an unsettling gaze. He moved through the entryway with the quiet confidence of a man searching for something he already knew was hidden. Ellira watched from the parlor, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin—Dax had left early, and all morning she’d felt the air thickening with secrets.

In the kitchen, Vionwyn moved like a silent storm: flour dusted on her forearms, dark hair twisted back, eyes cool and unreadable. Marstyn appeared in the doorway, helmet still in hand, rain slicking his collar. “Brought you the good olive oil,” he said, trying for the casual, but his voice trembled. She shot him a look, neither invitation nor rejection, then returned to slicing tomatoes, the blade flashing.

Neryth, ever the observer, lounged by the window, a notebook propped open on her knees. Her fingers traced fractured hearts in the margin, but her eyes lingered on Vionwyn. The novelist’s confidence never quite concealed her restlessness, her hunger for something worth burning over.

Ellira helped Soriel polish glassware for that evening’s dinner, feigning steady hands as Kintar’s voice drifted in from the foyer. “Strange place for so many second chances,” he said, eyes meeting hers with a hint of accusation. She flushed, wondering what—if anything—he saw, and why the sight of him rattled Dax so deeply.

By afternoon, Ellira’s fiancé arrived unexpectedly, suit sharp, smile thin as wire. He scanned the room, clocked the tension, and fixed on Dax—now returned, dirt on his hands, shadows under his eyes. When Ellira introduced them, her voice faltered. Dax gave nothing away, but she saw his jaw tense, the flicker of fear and longing at war behind his stoicism.

Sunset stained the sky as Marstyn intercepted Vionwyn outside the pantry. “Stay for a drink?” he asked, hope bared too plainly in his eyes. She hesitated—he was warm, safe, and heartbreakingly eager. In the cramped supply closet, surrounded by the scent of thyme and soap, she pressed him back into darkness. His mouth was hungry, desperate for her, and she let herself be devoured, if only to feel something cut through her numbness.

Their bodies tangled against metal shelves, hands snatching, breaths muffled in each other’s skin. Marstyn whispered her name with aching hope, but afterward, when the heat faded, Vionwyn pulled away, choking on regret. She buttoned her blouse with shaking hands, promising nothing, needing space. His disappointment clung to the air as she left, searching for solace and finding Neryth in the hall.

Neryth reached for her without a word, thumb brushing a stray tear from Vionwyn’s cheek. “You don’t owe him anything,” Neryth said softly, and Vionwyn—usually untouchable—let the novelist’s touch ground her. They stood together in the hush of the empty inn, Vionwyn’s armor cracking, a question lingering between them.

Inside the parlor, Ellira’s fiancé hovered over her, gaze cold. “You seem… changed, Ellie,” he murmured, a challenge and a threat. Ellira met his eyes, a flicker of rebellion sparking beneath her fear, while her thoughts spun to Dax—how his hand had lingered on hers, how the world had spun when their lips almost met in the hayloft.

Dax lurked at the edge of the garden, gaze fixed on the horizon. Kintar found him there, voice low, pressing: “You keep your ghosts close, Herroth. Do they keep you warm at night?” Dax’s response was a growl, but he couldn’t quite hide the guilt shadowing his face. Secrets pressed on all sides.

Night fell thick and heavy. Ellira, desperate for escape, slipped out to meet Dax by the old apple tree. For a moment, they allowed themselves closeness, his rough fingers tracing the inside of her wrist, her lips parting to confess everything she wasn’t supposed to want. But, just as Dax leaned in, moonlight caught movement at the house—a glint of glass, a flash of her fiancé’s eyes watching from the window.

Panic and longing warred inside her as Dax wrenched himself away, wounded by love and shame. Ellira turned, the cold burning through her.

Inside, Vionwyn found Neryth still awake, candlelight catching the edges of her restless hair. Neryth’s hand covered hers, and the silence between them was suddenly warm, unsteady, full of promise and risk. Vionwyn wanted to believe in a different kind of touch, one she could allow without losing herself.

Above it all, Kintar tucked a small leather-bound notebook into his bag, a knowing smile curving his lips. In the darkness, nothing was safe—not secrets, not hearts, not even the fleeting safety of night.

To be continued...