After that night—after I'd agreed to stay, after Ronan softened his demand and gave me space—everything shifted. The den, with its warm furs and dim glow, started teaching me a new language: small gestures, quiet care. Ronan's sleeve would brush mine, Lyra would leave a bowl of stew next to my bed so I didn't have to get up, and Selvara's little rituals before training soon became a comfort. Slowly, the days began to feel less like old wounds and more like something being carefully repaired.
But that feeling, that careful stitch, was starting to unravel in the most tempting—and dangerous—way.
It started with bickering.
