Sylar
Chapter five
The heavy oak door clicks shut behind us, cutting off the distant thrum of the festival music and cheering crowd. Instantly, the suffocating heat of the afternoon drops away, replaced by the cool, shaded quiet of the interior.
I step across the threshold and freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
I don’t know what I expected when Raylen told me he secured a temporary, two-week rental for the duration of the Everend Market. A sterile, sparse room at a high-end inn, perhaps. Or maybe a drafty, pristine stone chamber rented out by one of the merchant guilds.
Instead, I feel like I have just stepped directly into a daydream.
The space is the very definition of a rustic countryside cottage, entirely stripped of distracting enchantments or expensive trinkets.
There’re no blinding lights, no glowing crystal chandeliers.
The exterior might be made of heavy fieldstone and aged wood, but the interior elements are what make my heart skip a beat.
It looks so devastatingly similar to my private cottage on the edge of town that it feels almost intentional.
Bundles of dried lavender and wild chamomile hang from the exposed wooden ceiling beams, filling the air with a sweet, herbal haze.
A low stone hearth sits cold for the summer, its mantel cluttered with mismatched clay mugs, a stack of heavily creased parchments, and a stray bird’s feather.
Sunlight streams through small glass windows, illuminating a worn rocking chair with a faded blue cushion and a rough-hewn oak table.
Trailing ivy spills over open wooden shelves, its green vines winding past tins of loose tea and jars of wild honey.
I blink, a sudden wave of confusion washing over me. This is a two-week rental. Nobody takes the time to cultivate this level of grounded, cozy intimacy for a fortnight.
“Do you like it?” Raylen asks, his voice dropping to a softer, lower register now that we are behind closed doors. He tosses his silk archer’s cloak onto a wooden peg by the door, revealing the broad, sun-kissed lines of his shoulders. “It’s not exactly the grand library, but it’s quiet.”
I run a fingertip along the edge of the handmade wooden table, catching a faint trace of fresh beeswax. “Raylen, how much of this was actually here when you arrived?”
He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint, boyish flush creeping up his collar.
“The furniture came with the place,” he admits, gesturing to the table and the low cot layered with hand-woven patch quilts in shades of moss and cream.
“But… well, the rental was a bit bare when I first unlocked the door. A little cold.”
My chest tightens, a warmth behind my ribs that has absolutely nothing to do with the summer sun.
He did all of this. In less than forty-eight hours, he gathered the wildflower bouquets stuffed into old milk jugs.
He went to the market stalls to buy the tins of loose tea and the specific herbs hanging from the rafters.
He brought the clutter, the warmth, the exact sensory details that he knows anchor a racing mind.
He built my freaking dream home out of a stranger’s house.
“You did decorate the place,” I whisper, looking from a ceramic bowl of apples back to his bright lilac eyes.
“I know how crowds make you anxious, Sy,” Raylen says softly, taking a single, deliberate step toward me.
He stops just outside my personal space, giving me room to breathe, though the sudden proximity still makes my pulse quicken.
It’s something he’s been careful to do all day.
“I wanted to make sure that if the festival got to be too much, you had a place to come back to that felt… safe. That felt like home.”
The sheer weight of his thoughtfulness hangs in the quiet air between us, thicker and more intoxicating than the scent of the lavender drying above our heads. But what the hell did he mean when he wanted me to have a place to feel safe? How did he know I would even be here in the first place?
I think back to the supposed room my mother booked at The Three Cats, the knowing looks everyone exchanged.
Did Raylen really plan on taking me here?
My heart pounds with the thrill of it. Was I wrong when I thought I might be completely out of Raylen’s league?
Because suddenly, everything seems to be tinged with romance.
No one has ever done anything like this for me before.
I turn the corner and enter the only door I see. The domestic space suddenly vanishes as my eyes track past the charming rustic nightstand and wildflower bouquets.
I freeze. My heart, which had just been thawing to a puddle of warm affection, hits a jagged stone wall and starts to pound frantically against my ribs.
There is a beautiful oak wardrobe. And in the corner, nestled beneath a low, sloped ceiling, sits a single, deeply cushioned bed layered with dozens of throw pillows and pastel patch quilts.
One. Bed.
I spin on my heel, the romantic haze evaporating instantly as my academic brain demands immediate logical answers.
“Wait,” I choke out, my voice cracking slightly as I point a stiff, accusing finger toward the corner. “One bed? One freaking bed, Raylen? You explicitly told me at the tavern that there were plenty of rooms!”
Raylen doesn’t even flinch. Instead, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his pretty face. He leans back against the wooden doorframe, crossing his broad arms over his chest with the casual ease of a rogue.
“Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong, my dear elf,” he says, his eyes dancing with an unbothered, playful light. “Go back and check your memory files, Sy. I distinctly mentioned having plenty of room. As in square footage. Space. I never said a thing about multiple beds.”
I stare at him, completely flabbergasted. “That’s a ridiculous loophole, and you know it! Where is my sister supposed to sleep if she comes by? Where am I supposed to sleep?”
“Well, Talia and Isolde are currently bunking together in Isolde’s large tent under the stars,” Raylen explains smoothly, taking a slow step toward me, entirely unbothered by my rising panic. “Which leaves this big, cozy bed right here. For us.”
My mouth opens, but only a small, strangled sound escapes. My mind rushes back to the gossip sheets, the crowded market, the intoxicating heat of his skin when our hands brushed. It replays all of today’s events until the reality of a single set of blankets settles over me.
He is doing this on purpose. I freaking know he is. And the absolute worst part is, looking at the enchanting, lavender-scented trap he has meticulously set for me, I’m entirely too charmed to run away.
Fuck me. I’m going to sleep in the same damn bed as the famous Raylen of Moonscliffe—willingly!
Despite my chaotic thoughts and bewildering epiphany, there’s something grounding about the way Raylen took care of me today.