Page 117 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
When they broke apart, her head tipped forward, her forehead coming to rest against his chest as she caught her breath. His satisfied chuckle vibrated against her ear, making her smile.
“I didn’t know I needed that…” she murmured. “But I did.”
His lips brushed her temple before easing away. “Don’t stop needing me.”
They stepped into the crisp autumn air, the warmth of their kiss lingering between them. For a fleeting moment, Nia considered saying something—a joke, or maybe a tease—but Lochlan froze beside her, his body rigid. The shift yanked her from the softness of the moment, her smile faltering as she followed Lochlan’s gaze across the street.
A man stood there—tall and broad-shouldered, his posture confident, at ease.
Recognition hit her like a slap, cold and jarring. Gregor—the man from her office weeks ago, the one who’d screamed in her face until her shadows restrained him. The memory came rushing back: the fury in his voice as he spat curses at her, the way his face had purpled with rage when she had calmly walked him out. She’d forgotten about him, forgotten to follow up.
Nia’s gaze flicked to Lochlan. He had stepped in front of her, his stance protective and shoulders squared. His hand hovered near her arm, like he was ready to pull her away.
The man’s eyes moved to Lochlan first, narrowing slightly as if sizing him up. His gaze shifted to Nia. His expression changed: not overtly hostile, but calculating in a way that made her spine stiffen. A flicker of unease bloomed in her chest, along with the sense that she was forgetting something. But the thought slipped just out of reach.
A bus rumbled down the street, briefly blocking her view. When it passed, the man was gone.
“Well,” Nia said, exhaling sharply. “That was creepy.”
Lochlan didn’t respond immediately. His jaw was tight as he scanned the street, his eyes lingering on the spot where the man had stood.
“You’ve run into past marks before?” he asked finally, his voice even but tense.
“Sometimes,” Nia said, keeping her tone light. “Stella Rune’s the kind of town people like to visit.”
“And nothing happens?” He turned to her, the lines of his face sharper than usual.
“Nope.” She smiled, keeping her tone breezy. “It’s either awkward small talk or they pretend not to see me.”
Lochlan didn’t look convinced. His gold eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her pause. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the town around them.
“Would you tell me if something wasn’t right?” he asked.
Her smile was small as she reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “Of course.”
But as they walked on, her thoughts lingered—not just on the man’s expression, but on Lochlan’s reaction. The way he had stepped in front of her, shielding her without a second thought. It was instinctive, protective. And yet, doubt gnawed at her. Did he think she wouldn’t confide in him?
Would he confide in her?
Diary Entry: My twenty-fourth spring
I remember the morning he named our baby. The air was cool, the sun casting its first rays over the meadow, gilding the world in soft gold. We moved in silence, my hand in his, the quiet broken only by the rhythmic rustle of grass beneath our feet.
The beast rarely speaks on these walks—he is always a grump so early in the day. I love the mornings and have come to cherish our strolls: their peace, his presence, the way these things make the world feel lighter, brighter.
He stopped suddenly, his gaze catching on something flitting through the dawn light. A butterfly, its wings glowing like embers, delicate and bold, landed on a wildflower. He murmured, as though the word had always been meant for her:
“Pyronia.”
I followed his gaze, curious. He knelt, his fingers brushing the petals near where the butterfly rested, his movements careful, reverent. “Born of fire,” he said softly, “and yet it lives in beauty. Resilient. Undiminished.”
As he spoke, I felt the faintest movement beneath my hand resting on my belly. A flutter, as if she, too, recognized the name meant for her. He stood, his green eyes finding mine, raw and unguarded in a way that still surprises me. “That’s who she will be,” he said, his voice quieter. “Our little flame. A spark the darkness can’t extinguish.”
My beast had named her. And in that moment, I loved him more—for seeing her the way I did, as something bright and beautiful in a world that had tried so hard to destroy us.
Pyronia.
Even now, I can’t think of the name without feeling the sun on my face, without remembering that gentle stirring inside me. She will carry it with pride, I know. Our flame. Our promise.
