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“Thank you… for the stories.”

And damn it all—I believe him.

We move on from Madame Zora’s booth, weaving past a pair of teens spray-painting chalk art along the boardwalk planks. Drokhaz walks beside me, posture straight as a blade.

I glance up at the sky. “Storm might roll in later.”

He hums low in his throat. “I will adjust.”

Of course he will.

We’re nearing the old coin-operated binoculars when it happens.

A seagull wheels overhead—white wings flashing against the blue—and lets fly.

Right onto Drokhaz’s impeccably tailored shoulder.

A perfect splatter of indignity across charcoal wool.

I clap a hand over my mouth, snorting.

Drokhaz stops. Looks down at the mess. Then up at the sky.

“This feels targeted,” he says, voice utterly flat.

That does it.

I burst out laughing—full, uncontrolled, head-tilting laughter that echoes off the weathered boards. I can’t help it. It’s too absurd. Too perfect.

When I manage to catch my breath, I find him watching me—broad frame still, dark eyes unreadable.

But his mouth—gods, his mouth—curves in the faintest of smiles.

Real. Unmasked.

Something in my chest flips.

I clear my throat, wiping my eyes. “Guess the locals wanted to weigh in.”

“Noted,” he says dryly.

I dig a napkin from my bag and hand it over. Our fingers brush—brief, warm.

“Truce,” I offer, still breathless.

His gaze holds mine. “For today.”

And damn me twice—I want another tomorrow.

CHAPTER 8

DROKHAZ

Lowtide Bluffs always smells the same in the morning—salt, fish, rotting wood, too much sun baked into every crevice. A scent that clings, no matter how far one tries to run from it.

I do not run.

But today… I need distance.