“Fine. Be angry. Hate me if need be,” he said roughly. “But don’t you dare leave.” I slid down the door as he warned, “If you do, I can promise you won’t like the repercussions.” He remained some minutes longer but said nothing else.

He seemed to be listening—and I knew he was—as I did my best to quiet my quaked breaths upon my forearm. My teeth sank into the sleeve of my gown and the skin beneath.

I thought I’d already experienced what it was to be lost, and that once I survived, I would never feel so out of touch with myself again.

I’d never been more wrong, and this time, it felt worse.

It felt like a chasm had yawned open inside me, and it was filling higher by the breath with everything I’d contained for far too long.

“Aster,” Scythe rasped, low and choked.

An aching moment later, he was gone.

TWENTY-ONE

Aster

Scythe didn’t return before I surrendered to sleep, and he wasn’t there in the morning.

A fresh meal awaited me on the dining table when I woke, but I couldn’t so much as stomach the scent of it.

I knew better than to disregard his warning and return to Wistensia. I knew better than to think doing so wouldn’t harm him again. Regardless, I should have left the moment I saw him touch another female.

Yet here I still was. A fool who hadn’t learned anything.

After bathing, I went back to the cottage and to the pond where the elves had been. They were no longer there, but their boat was hidden amongst the tall grass at the water’s edge. I wasn’t sure what I was searching for. Perhaps a reason to stay, some clarity as to why I was still here, or the peace I’d felt upon visiting yesterday.

The breeze and the rustling of foliage and forest debris settled around me. An embrace that soothed but gave no answers.

A violent roar stilled the trees.

I leapt from the grass. A cold sweat swept over my skin when I heard footsteps crunching at the front of the cottage.

I hurried toward them, scenting him before I saw him.

Scythe stood upon the stepping stones leading to his home. His back to me, the heaving wolf dragged a hand over his head. Then he bent at the waist, retching but seemingly not evicting anything from his stomach.

He spat at the ground and wheezed, “Fuck.”

“Scythe?” I questioned.

It was then I saw the bouquet of violas the same shade as my hair upon the grass by the door—the same bouquet he’d bought me during our small tour of the city.

Hesitantly, I made to collect them from the ground. I stopped when I noted the pouch of spilled sweets.