22. Aryn
Aryn
I wake up warm. The ghost of Cato’s presence tingles on my skin, even though he isn’t currently curled up against me.
I know that despite our best intentions to keep distance between us, we spent the night wrapped up in each other.
There’s no other explanation for why my mark is purring happily along my tail.
Matters of the heart rarely listen to reason, after all.
I spent half the night awake, listening to him breathe behind me. Over and over, I reminded myself he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be tied down and doesn’t know how to commit.
When someone tells you who they are, you listen, and Cato has made his stance painfully clear.
He’s not cruel. Gods know this might be easier to accept if he were.
Instead, he’s letting those hard edges drop around me, and seeing him soft is far more dangerous. My eyes drift to the ceiling as if I might peer up at the Fates and ask them why.
Why now? Why here?
Why him?
After a lifetime of solitude, I had accepted it as my fate.
I’d made peace with the isolation. Then Cato came swaggering out of that van behind Bash, and I was instantly drawn to him.
He was a flame, and I was no better than a moth swarming closer to the light.
He’s hot enough to burn and unpredictable enough to spread, but I’ve seen enough wildfires to know what comes after.
Destruction. Devastation. A soft glow of embers that looks so lovely against the scorched earth until you realize those will burn out, too. The ground will cool and ash will float away in the wind like it was never there.
It’s inevitable.
Despite how I was drawn to him, I did everything right. I kept my distance and recited the old prayers that carried me through the worst of times. I poured myself into my studies and spent extra hours meditating.
I stayed away from temptation.
And now temptation sleeps beside me, behind the privacy of walls.
Finally, I gather my courage and roll over, but the bed is empty.
I reach out, dragging my hand over the rumpled sheets like I might feel his presence there.
Sounds filter in from the rest of the house—voices talking, water running, and the occasional heavy thump from outside.
Dawn has barely broken, but the day is already in full swing.
The glow twinkles softly against the sheets, and I trace my fingertips over it like I need to convince myself it’s real.
My tail wraps around my waist, the evidence of my dilemma hidden under my clothing as I step into the hallway and head for the bathroom.
After I take care of morning business, I follow the sounds to the laundry area.
Taryn and Cameron glance up from where they’re scrubbing the pile of filthy clothes we shed last night.
“Morning,” I say with a forced smile. Both of them greet me back cheerfully. It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep in an actual bed can do for people’s spirits.
“Thulga has breakfast in the kitchen,” Cameron says as he wrings out a shirt, wrinkling his nose at the dingy water left behind. “There’s even fresh milk.”
My stomach growls at the thought, but I force my manners to come first. “Do you need any help in here?”
“No, we’ve got this handled,” Taryn insists. “Ronan and Lillith went out with Grimhild to move some fallen trees from the fence line, and I think Cato is splitting wood.”
“Someone should’ve woken me,” I say with a frown.
Taryn waves me off. “You’re still recovering, and if you slept that long, you needed the rest. We’ve got it handled here. Go get some breakfast.”
The stone floor is cool against my bare feet after days of thick socks and boots. In the living room, Thulga sits in an armchair with a steaming mug in one hand. “Morning!” she says with a dip of her chin. “How’d you sleep?”
“Incredibly. This has been a much-needed reset for our group.”
“I imagine so,” she replies before taking a loud sip. “Would you like some vark? I’ve got plenty of milk to take the bite off.”
A nostalgic smile tugs at my lips as I recognize the bitter aroma. “I’d love some, but I’m happy to make my own.”
“Bah, what sort of host would I be if I made you pour for yourself?” She climbs out of her chair and leads me to the kitchen.
A kettle and smaller cauldron bubble over the fire, and she grabs both.
She pours steaming water into a mug, then spoons vark leaves into a steeping ball.
When she drops it in and slides the mug my way, the water is already turning a deep, mossy green.
“Oats for breakfast,” she says as she ladles a generous portion into a bowl, then grabs a handful of berries from a bucket and scatters them on top. “Milk’s in that pitcher. Help yourself.”
I thank her before adding a healthy pour to my drink. The bitter taste makes me smile as it hits my tongue, and I close my eyes for a moment at the flood of memory. “Gods, that’s amazing.”
“We’ve been growing it here for generations,” she says proudly. “Tried to give your orange-haired human a cup, but he didn’t make it past a couple of sips.”
I snicker to myself. “I bet he didn’t. How well did he hide the look on his face?”
“Not well at all. Looked like he’d swallowed a cup of dirt.”
“Well, I appreciate the taste of home.” Small talk flows between us as I eat my oats and sip my vark.
Thulga is a talker while Grimhild and Mezie are the silent type, so I gladly pass the time with her, discussing the history of the farm and happenings in the area.
I don’t pick up any new information that helps our mission, but I find I enjoy her company.
Once I finish breakfast, I offer to do my dishes, but she waves me off. “What sort of help could I offer around the farm?” I ask. “I understand the others are helping with downed trees, but surely there’s something else I can lend a hand with?”
She chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment before answering. “Well, I’d hate to ask…”
“Please, I insist. You’ve been so gracious with us.”
With a nod, she glances over her shoulder through the window. “Something in the woods has been attacking the kravache. The zarrok do a decent job keeping them off the property, but lately their numbers have increased. We’ve lost two from the herd, and these days, any loss is hard to swallow.”
“Any idea what’s out there?”
“No,” she says with an apologetic shrug. “We’ve found some tracks, but I’m no expert in identifying them. Not too big. Webbed feet, and maybe a tail?”
“You said the river runs close by?”
“A couple of miles away. ”
“Draxyss, perhaps?”
She considers this, tilting her head to the side. “That could be it… though that’s a long way for them to travel.”
I nod my agreement as I glance towards the trees. Draxyss are nasty creatures—waterfolk by nature, fast as sin, and aggressively protective toward their territories. Even though they can spend hours on shore to hunt, they rarely stray far from their homes.
“Are there any smaller paths of water that cut through here? Streams or tributaries where they might’ve made a nest?”
Her hands twist in her lap. “There’s a stream a ways back through the woods. If that’s the case, I wouldn’t ask you to—”
“I want to help,” I interrupt. “Please.”
She nods again, more terse this time, then gestures at my lightweight clothing. “You’ll want to wear something a little more substantial. It’s cold this morning.”
“It’s cold every morning,” I say with a forced smile.
I head back to the room I share with Cato to layer up. The thump of an axe lands outside the window, and I glance out to see him standing beside a pile of fresh logs. I consider asking him to join me, but after he fled the bed this morning, I’m not sure he wants to be around me right now.
I’ll go scout the stream, and if I find anything, I’ll come back and ask for help. Another thump lands, and I pause as I stare at his strong shoulders. Cato would say yes out of obligation, but that’s the last thing I want to be to him.
Maybe by then Ronan and Lillith will be finished.
I shove the thoughts aside and bundle in my coat, gloves, and a thick wool scarf, then slip out the back door of the farmhouse. The cold hits me like a wall, biting at the exposed skin of my cheeks.
Dawn is bleeding its pale orange across the sky, but the woods beyond the farm are steeped in deep shadow. My breath fogs in front of me as I move across the frozen yard and slip between the trees.
The snow is deeper here, untouched by the farm’s activity.
Each step sinks to my ankle with a satisfying crunch.
I keep my senses wide open, straining to hear any unusual sound while scanning the ground for tracks.
After a few minutes, I find them. They’re webbed prints like Thulga described, with the distinctive drag marks of a heavy tail cutting through the snow.
My assumption was correct.
Draxyss. At least three, possibly more.
I follow the trail deeper into the forest, moving as silently as I can.
The trees grow thicker here—ancient, gnarled things with branches weighted by snow.
They hang low, occasionally brushing against my shoulders and sending small avalanches of powder cascading down.
The air is clean and sharp, with the faintest underlying note of wet stone and river silt.
Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the low murmur of the stream Thulga mentioned.
A sharp crack echoes behind me, louder than a settling branch.
I spin around, blade sliding free from its sheath. My tail flares out for balance, heart slamming against my ribs as I drop into a defensive stance.
Cato stands ten feet away between two thick tree trunks, his massive frame partially hidden by shadow.
His jaw is clenched tight, eyes burning with clear frustration.
Snow clings to his shoulders and hair from pushing through the low branches, and he’s breathing harder than the cold alone would account for, like he jogged to catch up.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he finally snaps.