Page 183 of The Moonborn's Curse

Ana threw herself onto the couch with a dramatic huff. "Ugh. Rejected. By Mr. Personality."

Across the room, Veyr and Ryn's voices could be heard debating the merits of Damascus steel versus dark-forged obsidian alloys. At one point, Ryn made a dry comment about only trusting blades that had seen blood. Veyr grunted approval.

Ana scowled. "That's the most foreplay he's capable of, isn't it?"

Before Seren could answer, a loud bang shook the front door.

"Stinking bears," Ryn muttered from the kitchen.

The smell of warm bread and roasted vegetables filled the apartment as Hagan laid out the dishes on the table and laid the plates out as Veyr watched him with a bemused look on his face. Threk emerged from the hallway, sniffing dramatically.

"I smell food," he declared, his voice already muffled around the edge of a bite he'd stolen straight from a dish.

Hagan didn't look up. He was focused on Seren. Always on Seren.

He moved around her like a quiet gravity, handing her a napkin just as she reached for one, refilling her water without asking. When she sat, he pulled out the chair for her. When she pushed her food to the edge of her plate, he nudged it back toward the centre, wordless but firm.

Veyr and Ryn were already seated, deep in a conversation about the tensile strength of folded steel and the advantages of silver-dipped blades in close-quarters combat.

"Most smiths waste edge alignment when tempering silver," Ryn muttered between bites.

"Then they don't know how to forge properly," Veyr replied, his tone casual.

Ana sat across from them, quiet for once. Her amber eyes flicked to Veyr and back again, watching him with a strange, unreadable expression. She poked at her food. Normally, she'd be dominating the room with teasing and innuendo. Tonight, she was quiet.

Not once did Veyr look her way.

Seren, noticing the shift, felt a pang of sympathy. She reached for another helping, but Hagan beat her to it—serving her again, making sure she had enough. He seemed to instinctively know what she had been thinking.

He didn't speak. Just watched. His eyes moved with her, as though memorizing every blink, every lift of her hand. She tried to ignore how it made her skin warm.

Seren found herself almost smiling at him. And then a memory surfaced—sharp and uninvited.

Just a few weeks after their handfasting, she'd spent the better part of a day preparing a meal. Her hands had ached from kneading dough, her shoulders sore from stirring, roasting, and seasoning. She'd even used herbs his mother had once said he liked. There'd been a flicker of pride in her chest as she'd set the table.

And he never showed.

She waited. Hours passed.

Later, she heard that he'd been seen at the training fields—then at the longhouse.

And finally, eating with Lia.

He hadn't even bothered to let her know.

The memory hit like a slap, sucking the air from her lungs.

Her mood dropped like a stone.

And both Hagan and Threk noticed.

Ignoring the last bite, Seren stood. "I'll do the dishes."

Threk followed. "I'll help."

Hagan started to rise, but Threk caught his gaze and shook his head, slow and deliberate.

Not this time.

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