Chapter 5
Jul 18, 2025
“Oh my goddess, I cannot get him out of my mind,” I groaned, flopping dramatically onto Morgan’s bed like my soul had just been personally betrayed by fate.
Morgan didn’t even look up from sharpening one of her throwing knives. Her brows just rose. “What are you talking about now?”
I rolled over, buried my face into her pillow, and mumbled, “The stranger.”
“Stranger?” Her hand froze mid-sharpen. “What stranger?”
I lifted my head and sighed like the main character in a tragic moonlight romance.
“The one who busted me in the tower one night before The Games. And then… whispered ‘mine’ during the frenzy ceremony yesterday.”
“Hold up, Lyss.” She blinked and then stood up, full older-cousin energy activated. “What do you mean, busted you in the tower?! Since when are you sneaking into forbidden floors like you’re some kind of wild rogue? Didn’t I tell you not to do that?!”
“Since always? And since when do I listen to you?” I offered weakly.
“Girl, I swear—” She paced across the room. “You nearly got disqualified and you’re swooning over a mystery man who may or may not be a criminal. What is wrong with you?”
I propped myself up on my elbows. “Okay, first of all, he’s not a criminal. He let me go.”
“Oh, how noble,” she deadpanned.
“And he didn’t touch me. He just said one word. One. And it shook me.”
Morgan rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out. “So now you’re into growly men who whisper things during sacred trials?”
“Apparently!”
“Moon above,” She groaned. “You’re hopeless.”
“Deliriously curious,” I corrected with a wink.
She pointed her knife at me. “I’m dragging your nosy wolf self to the market. You need grounding.”
I didn’t argue. A few minutes later, we were weaving through the cobbled lanes, the sun barely warming the stone under our boots.
The market smelled like home—sweet honeybread, spice-roasted meat, crushed lavender, and fresh rain on old stone. I kept close to Sariah as she bartered for dried herbs and arrow wax, my eyes scanning stalls like maybe I’d catch a flash of silver eyes.
“Hey,” I said, tugging on her sleeve. “Can I go grab a bowl of moonfruit flake?”
Morgan raised a brow. “You’re that obsessed with that sweet mess?”
“It tastes like starlight. You just don’t understand.”
“Go, before the line gets long. And do not run off chasing strangers again, I swear—”
“I’ll behave,” I lied, already half-jogging toward the stand.
The vendor was already halfway through making a giant batch—thin, flaky pastry soaked in cool syrup and topped with crushed moonfruit and golden dust.
I bounced slightly on my feet as I waited my turn. That’s when someone slammed into my shoulder.
“Hey! Watch out,” I snapped, clutching my dress.
The person didn’t say a word and when they just kept walking, I frowned.
They were covered head-to-toe in a long hooded cloak, the kind you wore when you didn’t want anyone to see your face. Suspicious much?
I was about to roll my eyes and turn back—until something hit the ground.
A necklace.
I bent down, picked it up. Simple, but old, worn metal with a sigil carved into the back. I stood, holding it up. “Hey! You dropped— Hey, wait!”
The figure was already weaving through the crowd, walking fast. Too fast, perhaps.
I didn’t even think when I took off after them.
We zig-zagged through fruit carts, past weavers, down the alley that split the market into the upper square. I yelled again, “Hey! You dropped something!”
No answer. I ran harder. Just as they turned into a shadowed alcove, I caught up. “Wait!” I called.
The figure turned and when the hood fell back, I skidded to a stop.
It was him. Tower guy. The same mystery eyes, silver and fire, ice and rage.
He blinked at me once. “Stalking me now, little wolf?”
“Absolutely not.” My jaw dropped and I held out the necklace. “You dropped this.”
His expression shifted. Not anger. Something else. His eyes widened just slightly as he reached out, fingers brushing mine.
“This… this means a lot to me,” he said, voice lower than I remembered. Softer. “Thank you.”
I stared. “So… care to tell me your name now?”
He opened his mouth. He was about to answer. And then—
“Hector Veylor, The She-Wolf Magnet you are,” a voice yelled from behind him, loud enough to wake the dead. “Can you hurry up? We’re getting late! Unless you wanna collect more mystery girls along the way!”
My brain short-circuited.
That is the Hector freaking Veylor?
