Marstyn lingered by the inn’s kitchen door, hands jittering with words he’d never learned to say. Through the glass, Vionwyn moved with her usual quiet grace—her dark, clever eyes fixed on the simmering pot, her ponytail dripping dishwater onto the faded tiles. He watched the way her lips twisted in concentration, how the late sun revealed scars along her knuckles, marks she never bothered to explain. When she caught his gaze, she pretended not to notice, only stiffened slightly as she set the pan aside.

He gathered the courage, stepping into the buttery light, voice trembling. “Vionwyn, I—” Words clung to his tongue. He wanted to tell her he loved her, that the flings and half-jokes Soriel teased about didn’t mean what he felt did. She listened, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. When he finally confessed, voice breaking, she only shook her head, searching for gentler words. “You’re sweet,” she murmured, “but I can’t give you what you want.” Her rejection wasn’t cruel, but Marstyn’s heart burned as he forced a smile and fled, the intensity of his longing replaced by an ache that felt like drowning.

Upstairs, Ellira pressed trembling hands against her windowpane, watching streaks of lavender dusk swallow the fields. The air tasted like rain, but she barely noticed. With Dax beside her on the bed, raw and open beneath the tangled sheets, she let herself breathe as if for the first time. All the old rules—her engagement, her parents’ clipped expectations—felt ridiculous now, evaporated by the honest devastation in his eyes. Dax curled a scarred hand around her waist, drawing her close. “I’m not whole,” he whispered. Ellira touched his lips, fierce as a dare. “Neither am I.”

Their mouths met in a kiss that was both apology and promise. It was not desperate the way it had been. Now, in the hush after confession and ruin, their lovemaking was slower, painfully honest—knees and mouths finding each other, hands trembling over familiar shapes, breaths mingling in the dark. She let herself feel everything: the ache, the reckless hope, the sharp fear she’d lose him. He buried his face in her shoulder, shuddering as she guided him home again. They moved together without shame, letting the world fall away, each thrust a claim on the messy, hard-won piece of happiness they had left.

Elsewhere, Neryth braced herself outside Vionwyn’s door, knuckles white. She was used to running—she’d spun whole novels from escape—but Vionwyn’s kiss had lingered in her mind for days, a taste she could not shake. When Vionwyn opened the door, the silence between them hummed with want, but Neryth saw the unsettlement there, the hints of regret and the bruises Vionwyn now wore openly—a badge of survival. Neryth stepped inside, unsure, hungry for connection, her novelist’s mask slipping. “I have something to tell you,” she said softly, “and I need you to really listen.”

She sat, curling her legs up, voice trembling as she finally spoke the truth she’d buried under years of bravado. “My first novel—The one that made everything happen for me—I stole most of it from a real affair. He was married, and I ruined his life. I thought I was in love, but I just wanted to be seen. I’ve been running from it ever since.” Neryth’s voice cracked; shame flickered in her eyes. Vionwyn listened, the silence stretching, broken only by the cicadas bleating from the garden.

Instead of recoiling, Vionwyn cupped Neryth’s cheek with a wet, trembling palm. “I’ve run too,” she murmured. “From men who hurt me. From myself. But maybe—” she hesitated, courage quivering, “maybe you don’t have to run here. Not from me.” The distance between them shrank until lips brushed lips. This time, there was no rush—just a slow, careful undressing, shirts and defenses melting to the floor. Vionwyn’s touch was gentle, her mouth soft and questioning. As Neryth traced the lines of old hurt along Vionwyn’s shoulder, they found a rhythm delicate but insistent, the kind that made Neryth ache, arch, and finally, for the first time, trust in being known.

In the hallway, Soriel listened to heartbreak drip through the walls, her own laughter dimmed. She found Marstyn slumped on the back steps, eyes shining with unshed tears. She sat, bumping his shoulder. “You don’t get to choose who you love,” she said softly, “just who you give the truth.” Marstyn smiled, grateful, but the ache in his chest did not abate.

Downstairs, the inn hummed with the promise of the coming masquerade. Masks and music and wildflowers everywhere—a reckless invitation. Ellira found a note on her pillow: “Meet me at dawn. Choose your truth.” She pressed the paper to her lips, heart slamming in her chest, unsure if it promised hope or ruin.

And just as the clock struck midnight, headlights swept the drive—a car idling where none should be. Vionwyn’s phone buzzed again: a single text, no name, just three words that chilled the air—“I’m still here.”

To be continued...