Page 96 of The Moonborn's Curse
"Well," Seren said after a pause, "this is... awkward."
Hagan scratched the back of his neck. "I didn't plan the single bed, I swear."
Seren sent him a glance from under her long lashes.
He grinned, then reached into a pouch at his belt. "I made you something."
It was a carving—a little rabbit crouched in tall grass; every detail was so intricate that her fingers trembled as she took it.
"I love it," she whispered.
He smiled, shy and soft. "I have something for you," she said, digging into her satchel.
She pulled out a delicate gold ring. Twisted vines curled around the band, ending in a crescent moon.
"I had it made," she said. "I thought you'd wear it on your necklace. But..."
He took it and slid it onto his ring finger.
"Not tradition," he said. "But perfect."
They sat on the bed, facing each other. Quiet.
There was... energy between them now. Ever since the ink, the bond pulsed like a second heartbeat. She could feel him—shadows of his thoughts, flickers of his emotions. He looked at her and she knew he was thinking about how soft her lips had felt. She thought about kissing him again and his breath caught.
They didn't speak of it.
Instead, they lay down facing each other, sharing a blanket and awkward questions. What was your first memory? Do you like storms? If you were a bird, what would you be?
At some point, their hands met between them. He felt like liquid light passed from her to him. He leaned forward, brushed his lips softly over hers.
"Too soon?" he murmured.
"No," she whispered. "Just enough."
And with that, they closed their eyes.
Not yet lovers.
But no longer strangers.
Chapter 38
The first morning light spilt in through the cottage windows, brushing the floorboards with gold. Hagan stirred beneath the blanket, groaning into the pillow as he registered two things: the sharp scent of freshly brewed coffee—and the sound of humming.
He cracked one eye open. No one should be that cheerful this early in the morning.
He turned to look at the slight indent in the pillow beside him. The lingering warmth in the sheets where her body had been. The whisper of absence, recent and real.
She was already gone.
Hagan reached out, his hand brushing the soft fabric. He found her pillow, pulled it toward him, and pressed his face into it—breathing in the delicate, clinging scent of night-blooming jasmine and something uniquely her. Earthy. Clean. Soft.
His body ached in all the familiar ways, and his morning wood throbbed with no mercy, stubborn and inconvenient.
"Down, already," he muttered into the pillow, trying to will his body into behaving.
But the memory of her—curled beside him, lips slightly parted in sleep, her breath warm against his collarbone—didn't help. Neither did the way she'd shifted beneath the blanket in the early hours, her thigh brushing his, her fingers twitching just inches from his chest.
