Chapter 1
one
. . .
Calla
Calla sighed as the first taste of coffee hit her tongue. Bitter, earthy, strong … just how she needed it. If she was going to get anything done today, the caffeine would have to work overtime.
She had the greenhouse to tend. She needed to prune the sun thistle vines, turn the soil beds, check for rot blight under the passionfruit leaves, and flush the misting runes that kept the humidity steady. Simple enough … but the real problem was she hadn’t slept.
Lately, sleep had become a strange, molten thing. Every night, she tossed in sweaty sheets, her heart racing, her body aching for something she didn’t yet have words for. And her dreams … gods, her dreams were as hot as the coffee in her cup.
All her life, Calla had tended to others.
She coaxed stubborn vegetables to sprout in drought soil, revived withering herbs with soft whispers, and ensured her village remained well-fed, season after season.
She was the first to rise, the last to sleep, the one people trusted with their seeds and their stories.
But lately? Lately, she craved something more.
Something wild. Something hers. Something real.
It had all started when she caught her cousin, Nerina, in the stables, half-naked and very much not alone. Her soulmate, a sun-kissed farmhand from the Amalthean village just south of Io Castle, had apparently come east for work and found Nerina instead.
Calla had opened the stable door, thinking she’d find a sick horse. Instead, three people screamed in perfect harmony.
And as much as she was mortified, she was jealous.
Jealous that her cousin had found what she’d always longed for … a soulmate. A connection that went beyond tending animals and harvesting roots. A reason to feel alive.
Calla’s mother, Amara, never found her soulmate, and time and time again, her mother had told her it was better to have a heart mate than a soulmate. That way, there was no heartache, no emptiness once they passed on to their next life.
All five of Calla’s older brothers had left Ganymede with their soulmates. She didn’t begrudge them that. She loved her quiet village, loved the land, loved the steadiness of it all.
But she still felt empty. She wanted to be wanted. To be touched, devoured, and loved in a way that made her toes curl and her chest ache.
Lately, her body seemed to be catching up to her heart.
At night, she dreamt of fire. Of being held down and undone by strong arms and callused hands.
Of soft lips that knew exactly where to press, what to claim.
She’d wake up breathless, aching, restless.
And then she’d bury it, like always, and go back to work.
But the daydreams never left her.
She’d be watering the sweetroots, and suddenly she’d imagine breath on her neck, teeth at her collarbone. She’d picture warm, kind eyes looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth staying for. Arms wrapping around her. A warm bed. A home. Someone who saw her.
And then she’d snap out of it, passionfruit leaves sagging from overwatering.
Calla knew today would be no different.
After coffee and a hot bath, Calla made her way to the mango tree seedlings. They were growing strong and healthy little stalks with bright green shoots stretching toward the filtered sunlight. If she worked quietly and stayed consistent, she was more than sure they’d fruit within a year.
Calla smiled at the thought.
She brushed her fingers over the tender leaves, marveling again at how life could bloom from nothing more than soil, water, and love.
Calla took pride in what she did. Calla was not blessed by Demeter or Rhea as King Hawthorne was.
She wasn’t given the divine power to manipulate nature like her king did, but she was the greenest thumb in Ganymede, and everyone knew it.
Knowing her village was well-fed because of her work filled her chest with pride.
But as she crouched low to pull out the stubborn weeds and check for burrow bugs, her mind slipped again.
It always started so innocently—the softness of a petal.
The heady fragrance of the greenhouse is in full bloom.
Then that scent became a body … earthy, musky, human.
Then came the flash of callused hands brushing up her thighs, lips dragging along her neck, hands gripping her waist and breasts, dark eyes staring up at her from the junction of her legs—
“Calla!”
She exhaled sharply, her breath catching again as the phantom hands in her mind spread her open and a wicked grin tilted up toward her, followed by the flick of a tongue that made her knees nearly buckle.
“Calla! Nena!”
Her eyes flew open. She blinked down at the passionfruit flower in front of her before looking toward the greenhouse entrance.
Her mother, Amara, stood at the doorway with her hands on her hips. Sweat glistened on her dark skin, catching the light from the rain-soaked morning. Her thick, curly hair was tied back with a yellow bandana, the ends of her curls frizzing out around her temples.
Calla was a younger version of her mother in every physical sense. They had the same copper-brown skin, same high cheekbones, same long lashes, but their temperaments could not have been more different.
Where Amara was loud and always talking, Calla preferred silence. Where Amara loved sharing stories and gossip, Calla spoke only when she needed to. Words were not her gift. Earth was.
“Nena, come,” Amara said. “Jefa Soledad wants to talk to the village.”
“Oh.” Calla wiped her dirt-streaked hands against the legs of her dark linen pants and stood. She followed Amara toward the center of the village, her cheeks still burning from where her mind had just wandered.
Jefa Soledad was a large, curvy woman with a perfect smile and a heart of gold.
Calla was proud to have her as village chief.
She’d always been honest with everyone. She was warm and positive, even when the news was bad.
Somehow, even misfortune sounded manageable when Jefa Soledad said it with a grin.
Calla stood beside Amara, tiptoeing once to peer over the crowd and check if everyone had gathered in the village square. A hush fell over the people as Jefa Soledad stepped forward.
“Mi gente,” she called out, hands raised. “I have news from the castle.”
Calla leaned forward.
“Vulcanians will be arriving shortly, but do not be alarmed,” she continued. “According to King Hawthorne, they want us to teach them how to grow food in damaged, dried soil.”
Calla’s brow furrowed. She turned slightly toward her mother, who was staring straight ahead, lips pressed into a tight line. Amara’s expression said it all … she didn’t quite buy the story.
“They do not speak our tongue,” Jefa Soledad went on, rolling her eyes with good humor. “So whoever ends up teaching the Vulcanian, please... paciencia.” She raised her hands dramatically toward the sky. “They’ll need it.”
“When will they arrive?” Nerina asked, one hand resting on her round stomach, her mate standing protectively at her side.
“It could be today, tomorrow... maybe next week. Either way, keep your eyes peeled, your minds open, and your hearts at ease. They are not here to harm us. They might look like it—” she added with a wink, “—but King Hawthorne has been very clear. They come in peace, and they come to learn.”
She answered a few more questions before clapping her hands once and dismissing the villagers back to their day.
Amara scoffed the moment they turned away.
She looked at Calla, one brow arched. “I hope they’re not looking at us the same way they looked at Harmonia back in the day,” she muttered.
“Those Vulcanians are war-hungry. Just like Ares!” She clicked her tongue and waved a hand in the air as if brushing away the very idea. “Uy! No! De lejitos.”
Calla’s mother wanted them far, far away. But Calla … she had never seen a Vulcanian before.
She’d met Harmonians with their fiery red hair and flirtatious smiles.
She’d seen a few Skylians once, near Io Castle, with their sun-kissed skins, freckles, and dark hair.
But Vulcanians? The stories said they were savage.
Towering. Rough-handed, dirty-mouthed warriors with no manners and even less clothing.
Calla was very curious.
Amara huffed and turned toward home, her hips swaying as she walked. Calla followed close behind.
“If they were here to do what you’re implying,” Calla asked, “why would King Hawthorne allow them into our land?”
Amara threw up her hands. “King Hawthorne is young. He doesn’t know what he’s doing! I’ve always said a man shouldn’t be king. Women should lead!”
She nodded, fully agreeing with herself, then paused to fix Calla’s bandana, smoothing it over her curls before cupping her daughter’s cheeks and kissing her soundly on the forehead.
“Ay, nena.” She turned her around and patted her gently on the backside, nudging her toward the greenhouse.
“Vete. Keep working. We need those fruits ready for the Month of Eclipsis festivities.”
Calla blew out a breath and nodded. She waved goodbye, opened the greenhouse door, and stepped back into the heat and humidity.
Back to her plants, her flowers, and her daydreams of being completely, utterly devoured.