“A week,” Rhavor murmured.
As the event wound down, the guests began to trickle out into the cool night air. Laughter faded into the shadows. Lanterns flickered lower.
“So,” Arla said, turning to Sylvie with that blunt orc honesty, “you understand that you have to stay here for Rhavor to remain on the property. No loopholes.”
“I know,” Sylvie said, her voice steady, anchoring him. “I agree.”
Rhavor felt his heart roll slow and heavy in his chest, a tectonic shift of muscle and heat. Only then did it truly hit him.
Sylvie had never actually been inside his house.
“Pyjama party time!” Julian announced, already striding toward Rhavor’s front door with a grin far too bright for the hour.
“I think,” Vera cut in smoothly, her lips twitching with dry, knowing humor, “it might be best to leave the two of them to get used to... the situation.”
Julian’s face collapsed into an offended pout, his lower lip nearly hitting his chest, as Myrtle herded him toward the car like a stray goat.
“You might need moral support,” he tried, throwing a desperate look over his shoulder.
“No,” Rhavor said flatly. One word. Final.
That ended it.
By the time the dust settled and Myrtle had physically dragged Julian away from his last hope of a sleepover, the yard finally went quiet. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the forest.
Just him. And her.
Rhavor cleared his throat, the sound rough and gravelly in the stillness.
“Thank you,” he said. It sounded inadequate the moment it left his mouth—thin and flimsy against the weight of what she was doing for him.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d been half-obsessed with her since the moment she’d practically fallen into his arms—a tangle of vanilla scent and soft curves. And now—because of Ronda’s dirty dealing—Sylvie was actually here. On his threshold.
“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” he added quietly, his jaw tight. “You shouldn’t have had to play these games.”
“I did it because I wanted to, Rhavor,” Sylvie said.
Of course she had.
His dragon purred low in his chest, a vibration that hummed in his marrow.
Her bright eyes met his—warm, teasing, and devastatingly right—and something inside his chest tightened until it ached.
“First,” he said, stepping closer, “you should see the place.”
Before she could protest, he reached down and lifted her easily into his arms. He cradled her against his chest as he carried her over the threshold.
Having her there—warm, soft, and smelling faintly of sugar—felt dangerously right. Carrying her inside felt like a claim he’d been waiting a lifetime to make.
“Well,” she said lightly, her arms looping around his neck as she took in the dark wood and stone of his hallway, “what are you going to show me first?”
“The most important room in the house,” he said with a smirk, feeling the rumble of it in his chest. “The kitchen.”
She laughed as he set her on the counter. His hands lingered at her waist a second too long, his palms burning through the fabric of her dress.
“I want you to feel comfortable here, Sylvie.”
What he didn’t say was that he wanted her to stay forever. That his hoard instinct was screaming to drag her to his bed, lock the door, and throw away the key. His dragon was already marking the air, whisperingmatethe moment her boots hit his floorboards.
