Chapter 15
Hanna
Savla’s rooftop workshop felt like stepping into a pocket of quiet sky. It was always so peaceful but especially when I was spending time with him.
Wind danced through the open rafters, carrying the earthy scent of clay and mineral dust. Jars of pigments lined the shelves in careful rows—his careful rows—and the canvas tarps beneath our feet were splattered with an array of colors he pretended not to care about.
He knelt at the central worktable, broad and solid and so impossibly still that he might’ve been carved from the same stone he was grinding.
I stood close—closer than strictly necessary—but he didn’t move away.
He never moved away, and that was what made it dangerous.
Made my skin tingle with the need to just touch him.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because I wasn’t sure if it would scare him away.
“Two drops,” I said, nudging the tiny bottle of moonwort potion toward him. “If you add three, it’ll start fizzing. I learned that the hard way.”
He grunted, which was Savla-speak for I acknowledge this potential disaster and choose to avoid it.
I waited for a smile or a smirk or anything. But as usual, there was nothing. Still, his shoulder relaxed, just a fraction, and that counted.
When his fingers brushed mine as he took the bottle, a crackle of magick leapt between us—warm, bright and too intimate. My breath hitched, but he didn’t react at all.
Of course he didn’t.
He could probably stand in the center of a lightning storm and look mildly inconvenienced.
He dripped the moonwort into the pigment bowl.
The mixture shivered—first like stirred ink, then like midnight breathed into life.
And then came the reaction he’d been hoping for.
Stars—actual tiny stars—flickered in the swirl of color.
I couldn’t stop the gasp that left me. “Savla. That’s beautiful.”
His jaw flexed, which was Savla-speak for I know, but he kept stirring with meticulous control. The rippling glow illuminated the sharp line of his cheekbones and the faint dusting of paint across his wrist. He looked unfairly handsome—brooding, artistic and carved from quiet.
Damn it. I’m a lost cause.
I leaned my chin into my hand and watched him, unable to pretend I wasn’t absolutely enchanted.
“You know,” I said, “your pigments and my potions get along really well.”
“That makes one pair.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said in a teasing voice.
A lie, if I’d ever heard one. But he let it drop, and so did I.
We fell into an easy rhythm—me adding ingredients, him grinding, both of us bumping shoulders or elbows whenever we reached for the same thing.
He didn’t flinch and he never asked for space.
I counted that as the biggest win I could muster for now.
Because every time our skin touched, a little spark traveled up my arm and nestled somewhere behind my ribs.
Was it a fated-mate spark? A chemical spark? Or just a wishful-thinking spark? I had no idea, but I desperately wanted to find out.
When the second batch finished mixing, it glowed like fireflies trapped underwater.
Savla’s posture loosened, and the harsh line of his spine eased.
His hands moved with a kind of quiet certainty—gentle almost. Art softened him, and watching that happen felt like witnessing a secret he didn’t mean to share.
I loved every second of it.
Then the paint puffed out a tiny star-shaped spark. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to laugh. It was uncontrollable—bright, delighted and completely ridiculous.
And Savla smiled. It was small. Barely a twitch, but unmistakable. I froze, staring at him, my eyes trapped on his lips.
“You smiled,” I accused, a grin forming over my own mouth.
“No,” he said instantly, stone-faced again, “I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” I argued.
“Involuntary muscle twitch,” he insisted, his face as unmoving as it had been every other moment. And if I hadn’t seen that smile, I really would have thought I’d imagined it.
“Sure. Your face just had a really good time without the rest of you,” I teased.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared at me. Not annoyed or amused. This was something else entirely—something deep, conflicted and unguarded. The kind of look that made my pulse jump into my throat.
Then he dipped the brush into the shimmering paint and said, low and steady, “Let’s finish the batch.”
I nodded, but my heart was still tumbling around in my chest, trying to understand that tiny smile—or muscle twitch or whatever he wanted to call it. One thing was certain, though. If I wasn’t already half in love with Savla Everlock, that smile finished the job.
The moment he turned back to his pigments, I tried to calm my heartbeat down to something that wouldn’t embarrass me. A normal person’s heartbeat. A not-completely-gone-for-him heartbeat.
No luck.
He moved with so much careful focus, stirring the mixture until it shimmered like starlight caught in tidewater.
His forearms flexed, slow and steady, and the glow reflected off the curve of his jaw.
I was certain he had no idea how beautiful he was like this—intent, gentle and quietly carved from moonlight.
And I was also certain that if I told him, he’d balk and scoff at me.
I have it bad. Dangerously bad.
“Hand me the nightglass?” he asked without looking up.
I passed it to him, and when our fingers brushed, something inside my chest somersaulted. Not a spark this time—more like a whoosh, a warm rush of magick that curled low in my stomach and whispered, You’re in trouble, Hanna. In fact, you’re fucked.
I pretended to busy myself with a mortar and pestle. This was fine. Absolutely fine. Totally manageable... Except it wasn’t.
I’d felt attraction before. I’d had dozens of crushes when I was younger. They’d all been warm and fluttering. The fun kind of chaos that came with cute relationships that had no real meaning.
This? This was a slow, sweet ache inside my chest. A pull, steady and certain.
Every time he glanced up, my breath hitched. Every time he relaxed, I wanted to memorize it. And that one tiny smile of his? I was still recovering.
I pressed my palms to the table, trying to ground myself. I had to stop staring at him like he hung the moon. I had to—
A heavy thump shook the entire workshop. I yelped but Savla didn’t even flinch.
“Oh no,” he muttered.
Before I could ask, another thump sounded behind me, followed by the very distinct slorp of something large, damp, and overly confident hauling itself onto the roof.
Ribbon.
The massive, boulder-sized mountain toad—who most definitely seemed to be growing since I’d met him—emerged over the side of the building like an unstoppable, slightly manic force of nature. His gray-green fur shimmered with dew, and his golden eyes fixed on me with blatant accusation.
“Hi, Ribbon,” I said weakly.
He blinked, slowly and judgingly. Then he hopped straight toward us—one tremendous, floor-shaking bounce—and slammed his entire body right between me and Savla.
I stumbled back, catching myself on a stool. “Ribbon!”
Savla sighed, wiping his hands. “He’s being dramatic.”
The toad huffed, which in his language—I was certain—translated to how dare you both come up here to be alone together and leave me behind.
Then he pressed his massive head into Savla’s side and then mine, rubbing himself against us in a way that told me he never wanted that to ever happen again.
“Oh,” I said slowly. “He’s so upset. I’m sorry, sweet boy.”
Savla’s ears flushed. Just barely. “He likes routine.”
“He likes you,” I corrected.
“And you,” he said with a low whisper that filled me with pleasure. It was nice, being liked by one of these males. Even if it was the furry, smaller one.
Ribbon croaked loudly, making sure I heard the subtext.
Never again.
I planted my hands on my hips. “He has to be here every time we hang out.”
Ribbon shuffled closer to me, puffing up like a possessive marshmallow. Savla reached out and absently scratched the top of Ribbon’s huge head. The toad melted, eyes half-closing, annoyed fury dissolving into bliss. Watching them was unfairly adorable.
And also? I was doomed. Completely, absolutely doomed.
Because Savla Everlock—stoic, quiet, emotionally barricaded Savla—looked at his ridiculous pet toad with soft affection, then glanced at me over Ribbon’s head.
“Sorry if he’s a little too much sometimes,” he said, almost sheepish. “He’s… protective of us.”
Something warm and dizzy unfurled inside me.
“I don’t mind,” I said softly.
Because if he could look at anyone—even a toad—with that kind of gentleness… Yep. I was gone.
And fate, the bond, the universe—whatever had tied the two of us together—knew it.