The air shifted—the scent of smoke and earth intensifying.
“And let’s be very clear,” he said quietly, power humming beneath every syllable. “You are not getting the farm. Not now. Not ever.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ronda hissed, her face contorting into something ugly and small.
She pivoted sharply on her heel, her designer boots clicking aggressively against the hard-packed earth as she disappeared into the thick of the crowd.
Sylvie did not miss the way Rhavor’s eyes followed her for a second. His expression was cold. Final.
Like a door slamming shut for the last time.
But then, almost instinctively, his gaze snapped back to Sylvie.
The coldness vanished instantly, replaced by an intensity that made her knees feel like they were made of her own lemon cream.
Chapter 18: Rhavor
He hadn’t even noticed when Ronda appeared at theFlour & Firestall.
That realization—how little he cared about her now—hit him more than her presence. The “unfinished business” with the farm still hung between them like old smoke, thick and stale, but it was just paperwork. A knot to untangle.
He wanted to scrub her name from his life once and for all.
If he wanted any kind of future with Sylvie, the past had to stay where it belonged.
By the time the evening crowd thinned, most of the vendors were already packing up. Rhavor was tying down the corner of his stall when a sharp—
“Oh, for fu—!”
—cut through the air from next door.
He rounded the counter instantly.
Sylvie was sprawled in the narrow gap between their tents, legs in the air, one hand braced in the dirt behind her.
“What idiot put a bag of potatoes here?” she demanded, letting out a breathless laugh.
“Are you okay?” He was already reaching for her. Protective instinct kicked in hard and fast, pushing through the irritation of the day.
She tried to sit up, then winced.
“I think I will have trouble sitting tonight.”
Rhavor crouched and slid one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. He lifted her easily.
God.
It felt ridiculously good to have her back where she belonged. The last few days without touching her—without the soft warmth of her body against his—had been a special kind of torture.
“What are you doing?” Her eyes widened as she looked up at him.
“Looks like I’m getting you out of trouble. Again.”
“You got me into trouble in the first place,” she shot back, though there was more amusement than anger in her glare.
He didn’t argue. She might not have been entirely wrong.
She huffed, a strand of hair fluttering against her forehead.
