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She sits me on the sofa. Nova comes hurrying down the stairs. “Mom, what’s going on?” She stops short when she sees me crying.

I can’t meet her eyes. I put my face in my hands.

“I’ll go get blankets and pillows,” Nova says. She runs back upstairs without another word.

No one in the cabin asks me why. Hazel rubs my shoulders. Nova comes back down and tucks me in. Dominic turns off the big light and leaves the lamp on.

Ezra’s scent still drifts in from outside, but he isn’t going to burst into Hazel’s space, especially after what he said. I curl up under the blanket and cry until I fall asleep.

41

EZRA

THE NEXT MORNING

I’ve taken a shower and changed my clothes, and now I’m standing outside of Hazel and Dominic’s cabin. Aya’s scent drifts out through the front window, tangled up in honeysuckle. She’s still in there. My dragon paces and pushes me to go get her, but I don’t budge.

I’ve been standing out here for hours, and I don’t care that the village is watching. I’ll stand here all day if that’s what it takes. I’ll drop to my knees and beg Aya to forgive me if I have to.

Eventually, the door opens. I straighten when Aya steps out alone. Hazel shoots me a venomous glare from the doorway and eases it shut.

Aya doesn’t leave the porch. She just stares at me.

Last night, sleeping alone was agonizing, if you can even call it sleeping. My dragon wants to grovel at her feet. I was so consumed by the flames that I was reckless with everyone. Now I’ve hurt the wolf I would die for, all over again.

She’s beautiful, still in the same clothes from yesterday with her hair a mess, but she’s perfect all the same. I don’t move a muscle when she comes down the steps and crosses the yard.

“How did you sleep?” I ask, but she only shrugs and doesn’t meet my eyes.

I clasp my hands together. “Aya, please.”

Aya finally looks up. “What do you need from me? I won’t fight you anymore.”

“I wish you would,” I tell her.

That gets a smile out of her, but she tries to hide it. My dragon purrs for another one. I reach out with a shaky hand and stroke her cheek. “I didn’t mean it, Aya. I shouldn’t have said that.”

She peers up. “I know,” she murmurs.

I move closer and cup her face. “But you don’t believe me.”

“I wish my name wasn’t Aya,” she whispers.

I groan and pull my hand back. I dig a folded piece of paper out of my pocket and drop to a knee in the grass with it, like I used to.

Aya startles. “What are you doing?”

“I should have never stopped,” I answer.

I worked on this poem most of the night, since I couldn’t sleep. No one helped me with it, not my mother or my father. They knew this was my problem to fix.

When we were young, I’d wait outside the spa with a poem in my pocket and hope she’d slow down long enough to hear it. I haven’t written one since I finally got her. Now I know I can’t ever quit again.

I unfold the paper, but my hand won’t stop shaking. I brace my wrist on my thigh and read it to my mate.

Before you, the name was a warning.

A word the old ones whispered in the dark