I turn away. My knees are still trembling, my body sore and raw from what just happened. But I walk out with a steady stride, head high.
I don't look back.
The moment the guest room door closes behind me, I press my back to it and release a shaky breath.
What the hell did I just let happen?
And why do I feel like such a jerk for what I said?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Asher
The coffee finishes boiling just as Sage steps into the kitchen.
"Good morning," I offer. "I made an assumption about coffee, but if you'd prefer something else—"
"Coffee would be amazing. It smells divine," she says, a small smile on her lips. "And good morning."
I pour a cup and hand it to her carefully. "How are your senses now, as a nymph? Compared to when you were human?"
"Sharper," she says without hesitation. "Things feel more vivid. Especially in nature. It's like everything alive is somehow connected to me, or I'm part of it. Hard to tell where it ends."
"Must be pleasant," I reply, pouring my own cup, mostly out of habit. I don't need it, but find the ritual anchoring.
She glances at me over her mug. "And your senses?"
"Some dulled. Others painfully acute," I admit. I don't elaborate. I don't mention that I can track her heartbeat, smell the blood beneath her skin, detect the remnants of the shampoo from the guest room, and faintly, beneath it, the ghost of my brother's scent.
She takes a sip. "But you still smell the coffee?"
"I do. I can distinguish beans, roasting styles, even the water quality, if I focus. But it's all information. Not sensation."
She nods, absorbing the distinction.
"We've got breakfast options. Toast, cereal, oats. Or I can bring in something from the garden, though I doubt I can find any flowers this early in March," I say with a faint smile.
Her smile turns dry. "Toast is fine."
"All right."
She leans against the counter. "And thanks for the clothes. I wasn't expecting anything other than what I came wearing."
She's changed into the clothes I left outside her door—a soft gray sweater, long enough to skim the tops of her thighs, and a pair of slim black leggings tucked into fleece-lined boots. There's a coat I still have to give her once we leave the house.
"They're from a friend," I explain. "One of the supernaturals living here. I thought you'd be more comfortable. Yours weren't suited to Maine in March."
Her hair—soft brown threaded with golden undertones—is woven into a tidy side-plait, an attempt at order that doesn't quite hold. There's still something untamed about her. The braid might suggest control, but it can't touch the wildness in her posture, in the effortless grace with which she moves.
She doesn't belong in a kitchen like this. Not in borrowed clothes, sipping coffee over quiet conversation. She looks like she should be barefoot in a clearing at dawn, part of the wind and earth and everything that resists taming.
It's striking.
She's calmer this morning, no sharp edges, but I wouldn't call her at ease. There's still a readiness in her, a tension humming beneath the surface. Like she's waiting for the next chase to begin.
Then Kayden bursts into the kitchen like a devil on holiday—shirt open, hair tousled, wearing a smirk that probably hasn't left his face since last night.
And just like that, the temperature in the room shifts.
