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Yet he lingered.

Veyr had never known warmth like this.

The space between them was small, intimate, thick with something unspoken. He could still taste her on his lips, feel the soft press of her body against his, the way her hands had steadied him when he was close to losing himself. Her pulse thrummed, and he could practically hear her heartbeat. And now, here they sat in the dim glow of the fire, close enough that if he so much as reached out, he could touch her again.

Amerie's blue eyes searched his face, her expression unreadable. "You saw her," she said finally. "Rowan."

Veyr exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yes."

Amerie hesitated, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her skirts. "You almost changed when you saw her. Why?"

Veyr stiffened. He had known this conversation was coming. He could still hear the witch's voice whispering in his skull—Fail to finish what you have started, and death will not come as mercy. But here, now, beneath Amerie's unwavering gaze, the fire of his rage wavered. Just a little.

"She wears my father's pelt." The words came out low, rough. "Her father killed mine. That is why."

Amerie's brows furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. She seemed to turn something over in her mind before saying, "Jameson Ashwood has been dead for years, Veyr."

His breath caught. "What?"

"He died in his sleep. Old age, from what I heard." Amerie's voice was gentle but firm, and the weight of her words settled like a stone in his gut. "Rowan didn't kill your father. She was just a girl when it happened."

Veyr clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching against the fabric of the pelt still wrapped around him. He had spent so long chasing a name, a shadow, but he had never stopped to think about who Rowan had become. All he had ever thought about was the pelt, his father's stolen skin draped across her shoulders like a trophy.

"Even if she didn't strike the final blow," he muttered, staring into the fire, "she still wears him."

Amerie sighed, shifting closer. "And what will happen when you take it back? Will it bring him back? Will it ease your suffering?"

Veyr didn't answer. He couldn't.

She reached out, resting a hand lightly over his own. Her fingers were warm, soft in contrast to the calloused roughness of his own. "Vengeance is not your burden to bear," she said quietly. "That is the Lord's work, not yours."

Something in him bristled at that. "And what of my father's spirit? Do I let him be forgotten?"

Amerie shook her head. "There are other ways to honor him. Ways that don't end in more death."

Veyr swallowed hard. The thoughts circling his mind were foreign, uncomfortable. He had never questioned this path before. Never once considered that there could be anything beyond the hunt, beyond the kill.

But now, Amerie's words gnawed at him, digging beneath his skin, unsettling something deep in his core. Was revenge truly all he had left?

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

Veyr tensed instantly, his body coiling like a spring, his senses sharpening in an instant. His ears caught the rapid heartbeat beyond the door, the slight hitch in the breath of the person standing there.

Amerie's eyes widened, and she bolted upright. "Get back," she hissed, rushing toward the door.

Veyr barely had time to move before she yanked a heavy blanket from a nearby chair and tossed it over him, masking his form just as the door creaked open. He crouched low, peering over the side of a large rocking chair toward the door.

"Amerie?" A woman's voice, familiar and nosy.

His keeper's voice was laced with sugar, and he could hear the smile on her lips. "Good evening, Mistress Harrow."

The old woman peered inside, her sharp eyes flicking over the room. Veyr's nostrils flared, catching the scent of suspicion thick in the air—cloying, acrid, laced with the unmistakable edge of fear. It was woven into her very being, pulsing from her skin like a warning bell.

"I saw your lights still on. You know how the elders talk when a young woman keeps odd hours."

Amerie forced a laugh. "Oh, just lost track of time." She shifted, subtly angling herself to block the view of his huddled form. "Did you need something?"

Mistress Harrow sniffed. "Just checking in. You didn't come to market today."

"I wasn't feeling well."

The old woman frowned. "You aren't taking in strays, are you?"

Veyr's fingers curled into the blanket. He knew the tone in her voice—thinly veiled suspicion. The kind that could turn deadly if given the wrong nudge. He could hear the slight tremor in her breath, the way her pulse quickened, a silent confession of her unease.

"Of course not." Amerie's tone belied nothing but innocence.

Mistress Harrow's gaze lingered a moment too long, but then she huffed. "Well, keep your doors locked. They say a beast was seen in the woods last night."

Amerie nodded. "I'll be careful."

With one last glance into the room, Mistress Harrow finally turned and disappeared into the night.

The moment the door shut, Amerie let out a long breath, sagging against it. "That was close."

Veyr pushed the blanket off, his jaw tight. "They suspect you."

"They suspect everyone," Amerie corrected, running a hand through her hair. "But it's fine. They have no proof."

Veyr wasn't convinced. He could still smell the lingering traces of fear in the air, the ghost of suspicion that would not be so easily forgotten. He had spent his whole life being hunted—he knew what it looked like when people started whispering.

Amerie crossed back to him, her expression unreadable. "You need to decide what you're going to do, Veyr."

His throat felt tight. "I know." But he had already overstayed his welcome. "Is there another way out?"

Something in her shifted. A sadness in her eyes that he couldn't deny, but had to ignore. His mother would be worried, and he needed to be far away from Rowan. The pelt called to him, and he could feel the tendrils licking at his skin.

He turned. "Thank you for the meal."

"Veyr—" Amerie took a step forward, but her words died in her throat.

Pausing, he waited for her to continue, and when she didn't he turned his back on her again.

He took a slow breath before moving toward the door, listening intently to the quiet outside. The village still slumbered, but the scent of lingering suspicion clung to the air like damp smoke. He needed to leave now, before that suspicion turned into action.

It was a quick walk to the forest, and not once did he hesitate. He plunged into its shelter, welcoming the familiarity of the wood. He sucked in a breath, letting the earthy scent of dirt and pine soothe his senses.

Grabbing the pelt's face, he pulled it over his own, and welcomed the change that dug through his skin.

The pain was there—always there—but it was familiar, expected. His body stretched, his bones cracked, his very essence molded itself into the beast. And as he hit the forest floor on all fours, shaking off the last vestiges of his human form, he ran—ran from the village, from Amerie, from the doubt creeping into his mind.

He ran toward the only thing he had ever known: home.

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