And nearly walked straight into a wall of women.
They’d materialized at the edge of the stage like magic—a cluster of maybe eight or nine of them, young and pretty and practically vibrating with interest. Human women, mostly, though he caught the scent of at least one fox Other in the group. They pressed forward as he approached, their eyes bright, their body language unmistakable.
“Oh my god, that was amazing.”
“I can’t believe we’re seeing Ben Holloway live!”
“I have all your old albums. I used to listen to them in college.”
“Are you playing anywhere else? I’d love to catch another show.”
“Can I buy you a drink? There’s a private area behind the food stalls…”
The offers washed over him, each one accompanied by a flutter of lashes or a strategic lean forward or the brush of fingers against his arm. Mating season pulsed in his blood, that primal instinct that had driven him to such excess in his younger years. His body registered the women as potential partners, noted their availability, their interest, their willingness.
And felt nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No spark. No pull. No temptation. Just the vague awareness that they existed and the complete certainty that he didn’t want any of them.
The realization hit him like a thunderbolt.
For six years, he’d assumed his celibacy was a matter of willpower. He’d believed he was constantly fighting against his baser instincts, that every day was a battle to keep himself under control. He’d structured his entire life around avoiding temptation, convinced that any slip would send him spiraling back into old patterns.
But standing here now, surrounded by willing women with mating season singing in his veins, he understood the truth.
It wasn’t willpower. It wasn’t control.
It was simply because none of them were her.
His eyes swept across the square, searching. Past the food stalls and the game booths, past the clusters of festival-goers, past the paper lanterns swaying in the evening breeze. Where was she? She’d said she’d be in the crowd, said she’d be watching, said?—
There.
Sara stood near the edge of the square, talking to Posy. The lantern light caught her hair, turning it to burnished copper. She was laughing at something her friend had said, her whole face lit up with joy, and his heart clenched so hard he forgot how to breathe.
Mine.
The women were still talking at him, still pressing close, still offering their numbers and their company and their beds. He didn’t hear a word of it. He stepped forward, and they parted around him like water around a stone.
He walked straight across the square. The crowd noticed. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. A path opened up before him, people stepping aside instinctively as he moved with single-minded purpose towards the woman on the other side.
Sara looked up and their eyes met.
He saw the moment she registered his expression—the intensity, the certainty, the raw need. Her lips parted. Her cheeks flushed. She took a step towards him just as he reached her.
“Ben—”
He kissed her.
Not a gentle kiss. Not a careful kiss. Not the kind of kiss meant for public consumption. This was a claiming kiss, a brand burned into both their souls for everyone to see. He cupped her face in his hands and poured every ounce of feeling into it—the terror and the joy and the overwhelming rightness of choosing her, only her, always her.
She made a soft sound against his mouth and melted into him. Her hands fisted in his shirt and she kissed him back with equal fervor, matching his intensity, giving as good as she got.
Somewhere in the background, he heard Flora cackle and Posy’s delighted squeal. He heard the whispers spreading through the crowd like wildfire.
He didn’t care.
