"Unlikely," Liora says. "I've seen him watching you around town. That's not indifference."
"Then why run?"
"Because caring about someone makes you vulnerable," Maddie explains gently. "And vulnerability is terrifying for people who've been hurt."
I shake my head, setting the mug down with more force than necessary. "Or he's exactly who he appeared to be this morning—someone who took what he wanted and moved on. Either way, I should just get back to work."
"Nonsense," Maddie says firmly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "You're one of the strongest women I know, Cal. Keep your chin up. He'll come around once he stops running scared."
"I'm not waiting for him to come around." The words emerge sharper than intended, carrying more conviction than I actuallyfeel. "I have a newspaper to run and responsibilities that matter more than whatever emotional crisis he's having."
Liora raises an eyebrow at my tone. "That sounds suspiciously like someone trying to convince herself."
"It sounds like someone who has priorities." I drain the rest of my tea and stand, smoothing my skirts with deliberate precision. "The Harvest Festival is in three weeks. I need to coordinate coverage, finalize the vendor announcements, and make sure we have enough distribution for the festival edition."
"Cal—"
I gather my composure around me like armor, piece by piece. "Whether Brakkor chooses to participate professionally or sulk like a wounded bear is entirely up to him."
Maddie exchanges a meaningful glance with Liora. "You're deflecting."
"I'm prioritizing. There's a difference." I move toward the door, then pause with my hand on the brass handle.
"Cal." Maddie's voice carries gentle insistence. "You don't have to pretend this doesn't hurt."
"It doesn't hurt because I'm not letting it." The lie comes easily, practiced from years of maintaining editorial control over every aspect of my life. "I have a paper to publish."
Liora's knowing smile suggests she sees right through the facade, but she mercifully says nothing.
"I'll see you later." I push through the door, the morning air crisp against my flushed cheeks. The brass bell chimes behind me, a cheerful sound that contrasts sharply with the hollow ache I'm determinedly ignoring.
The cobblestone path stretches ahead, leading back toward the newspaper office and the comfortable familiarity of work. I have deadlines to meet, articles to edit, and a festival to coordinate. Brakkor Vane can nurse his wounds elsewhere.
I refuse to chase after a man who runs from connection like it might burn him.
CHAPTER 18
BRAKKOR
The Guild Hall's heavy oak doors swing shut behind me with a satisfying thud that drowns out the memory of Calla's sharp intake of breath when I touched her collarbone. The scent of aged wood and parchment fills my lungs—clean, uncomplicated smells that don't carry traces of rosemary and warm skin.
Focus. Work. The investigation.
Garron's ledgers wait on the central table where he left them yesterday, thick volumes bound in cracked leather that speak of years of meticulous record-keeping. I settle into the carved wooden chair and flip open the most recent volume, grateful for something concrete to occupy my hands.
Numbers don't lie. Numbers don't look at you with dark eyes that see too much, don't whisper your name like it means something sacred.
The entries march down the pages in Garron's careful script—dates, quantities, delivery routes. Standard construction supplies mostly, but as I scan deeper into the festival preparation section, a pattern emerges. Multiple deliveries marked for festival stockpiles: lumber for vendor stalls, clay for temporary ovens, decorative materials for the harvest displays.
All perfectly normal. Except for the secondary seal stamped beside each festival entry.
The secondary seal blurs as my vision shifts, unfocused. The careful lines of Garron's handwriting dissolve into something else entirely—the curve of Calla's spine as she arched beneath me, moonlight painting silver across her bare shoulder.
My throat constricts. The memory hits like a physical blow: her fingers threading through my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me growl against her neck. The way she whispered my name—not Brakkor, not the formal distance she maintains during the day, but something breathless and desperate that made my chest crack open.
The sound she made when I traced the line of her hip with my thumb. Low, needy, like she'd been holding it back for weeks and finally couldn't anymore.
Goosebumps race across my arms despite the Guild Hall's warmth. My hands shake as I grip the ledger's edges, knuckles white against the worn leather.
