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Aster left him alone in the stables. He heard the truth in her words and didn’t fear she’d reveal his secrets.
Instead, he feared he’d lose Evelyn, no matter what he decided.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Evelyn
A few hours later, Evelyn and Cyrus had consumed a helping of all the food and drink the Autumn Festival had to offer.
Cups of warm apple cider. Danishes filled with pumpkin cream. Fried potato slices sprayed with vinegar. She’d even dragged Cyrus to the docks to visit her favorite fish stand. He’d assumed they’d split one, and Evelyn laughed and ordered two. Afterward, Cyrus admitted he wouldn’t have shared a single bite of his, which earned him a shove into some hay bales from Evelyn.
They’d laughed until tears sprang into their eyes. They bobbed for apples and shot arrows at scarecrows, which Cyrus happened to be wickedly good at. They even visited Aster’s parents’ booth, appreciating the samples of honeysuckle and mulled wine.
For a few hours, Evelyn forgot about the murders. All of Callum seemed to as well. She thought not once about her failures and her doubts, or of being Daughter of the Goddess.
She enjoyed her time with Cyrus, and that was all.
Full of joy and food, Evelyn rested her cheek on Cyrus’s chest as they slow-danced in the Runaway Radish. Miss Patricia had moved all the chairs and tables, leaving the inn grand and open. A larger band than usual played a slow, steady song.
A magic fiercer than any witch’s had taken over the atmosphere. Evelyn didn’t want to admit that infamous, otherworldly feeling pounding in her chest, settling in her gut, and tingling her toes.
She glanced up at Cyrus. His eyes, bright like honey tonight, twinkled with happiness. Their hearts beat in tandem. Evelyn’s magic soared, ready to burst.
In that moment, with their hearts in sync, swaying together to the violins of Callum, the weight of what this was dropped on Evelyn like a gentle rain.
Fated.
The thought of it was not her own, but a whisper, like the flicker of flame in the night. Her heart skipped, shock and delight coursing through her. Her magic spoke, telling her what she’d already suspected.
Fated.
“Are you all right?” Cyrus asked. They slowed. With his brows slightly furrowed, he searched her face, but nothing dulled the light still in them.
Evelyn was far from all right. Doubt riddled her. Cyrus was human. Why would she be prophesied to Kade, who could never be her fated as a werewolf, when her soul belonged to the kind huntsman before her?
If he learned the truth, would Cyrus understand? Or would he turn the other way?
No.
Evelyn couldn’t doubt this. Wouldn’t. Not him, not something as precious and rare, magical, as this.
Fated.
“Saige?” he said.
Goddess. She’d been staring, saying nothing. So she kissed him. Slowly. He didn’t falter, meeting her lips, pulling her closer. They kissed in the Runaway Radish, sweet and lazy. Just like their day, their dancing.
They pulled apart, and Evelyn swore she was more drunk from Cyrus’s kiss than elderflower wine. “Cyrus, I need to—”
“Huntsman!” Miss Patricia called from the bar. “I’m gonna need your assistance!”
The poor woman had a line out the door. Jolly festival-goers trickled in from outside, overtaking her inn. Evelyn had been so consumed by her emotions, she hadn’t realized the late hour and the change in the festival.
Cyrus sighed and looked down at her. He tucked a stray strand of her stubborn hair behind her ear. “You were going to say something.”
Evelyn shook her head. “It can wait. Go help Miss Patricia and earn your keep, Huntsman.”
He smiled. Goddess, it was beautiful. “Stay,” he murmured, kissing her cheek, down her jawline and neck. The hairs of his soft beard grazed her skin, raising goosebumps and sending shivers through her. “And I’ll walk you home.”
