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The image forms before my eyes.

A life with Arlo. Simple. Hard. But predictable.

Then Kylian. Unpredictable. Unstable. Impossible.

“And that terrifies you,” Eagan says, softer now. “Not because it is false, but because it is not something you know how to want.”

“You’re saying I don’t love Arlo?” I ask, my voice quieter now, more uncertain.

Eagan shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “I’m saying you love Arlo because he’s all you know to love.”

“Ali.” The sound of my name pulls my attention, and I turn to find Arlo entering.

My eyes rake over him. He’s been given clean clothes—jeans and a blue button-up shirt. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing sun darkened skin and the faded web of scars from blackberry bushes and barbed wire fences. The faint red rope burn circling his wrists makes my stomach twist, but his expression brightens the moment he sees me.

It all feels so painfully familiar.

“You should be resting,” I say, moving toward him automatically, the words coming easily because this is something I understand. With Arlo, I know my role. I know how to be useful and help without questioning whether my presence is wanted or tolerated. My eyes scan him quickly, checking for signs of fever, falling into the familiar pattern of caring for someone who welcomes it.

“I’ve been resting,” he replies, grinning slightly. The expression transforms his face, chasing away the shadows that have lingered there since the market.

For a moment, I can pretend we’re back on the farm, stealing a few minutes of conversation between chores, finding small moments of humanity in a life that has tried to strip it from us at every turn.

“It’s not like I can go very far when I have a guard with me constantly.”

“I’m just glad Kylian didn’t send you back to the cells,” I reply. My hands reach for him without thought, checking the temperature of his forehead, the steadiness of his pulse at his wrist, all the small things that let me focus on something other than the ache in my chest that hasn’t stopped since Kylian walked out on me.

He catches my hand gently, stilling my fussing, and the touch is warm. “I’m fine, Ali. Better than fine. Whatever Eagan’s been giving me works better than anything we had access to before.”

I peer over his shoulder at Eagan, and he winks. I have to fight back a smile because I know all about the vampire blood he put in the cream for Arlo.

Arlo’s thumb brushes across my knuckles, a gesture so gentle it makes me want to cry. This is what touch should be—easy, kind, and given freely, not wrapped up in hunger, curses, and obligations neither party chose.

Despite everything, I find myself smiling. “Well, if you’re so recovered, you can help me sort these herbs,” I say, gesturing toward the table where various dried plants wait to be organized.

We work side by side, sorting herbs, cleaning tools, talking about nothing and everything all at once, and for a while, it feels easy in a way that nothing else has since arriving here, but there’s something weighing on Arlo’s mind he isn’t saying.

“So I’m guessing the miracle tomatoes back home weren’t really a miracle?” Arlo asks, not looking up from his task. “When a guard escorted me down here, I saw the vegetable patches through the windows.”

I study his face as he works, trying to find the safest answer.

“Clever little mage. That’s what he called you.”

I bite my lip nervously. Is he upset that I kept it from him all these years?

“I don’t have to hide here,” I say softly.

“I get it. I am not looking for an explanation on why you never told me, but it does explain why your crops always did better than everyone else’s back home.”

I can’t help but laugh. “My crops did better than yours because I knew what I was doing! That wasn’t magic, Arlo.”

His smile brightens as his eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything feels like it used to. “Do you remember when Hugo beat the tar out of me when I pulled up half the bean seedlings because I thought they were weeds?”

A genuine laugh bursts from my lips. “How could anyone forget that! Your mom went after Hugo with a broom, too.”

Memories from the farm come back in waves of snorts and laughter, but as we talk, the weight in my stomach grows heavier. He’s reminiscing about the time the outhouse accidentally tipped over with Crawly inside when I catch myself touching my throat again.

My fingers find the spot where Kylian fed, and I force my hand back down, trying to focus on what Arlo is saying, but the damage is done. The awareness is back, settling into my chest, reminding me that no matter how easy this feels, no matter how much I want to sink into the simplicity of it, there’s something else pulling at me, something that won’t be ignored no matter how hard I try.