Chapter 3: Don’t Trust Tall Men with Gloves

Lara had exactly twelve seconds of peace that morning.

She used them to wipe down her apple cart, threaten a fruit fly with divine judgment, and take one bite of her cinnamon roll.

Then she saw him.

Same coat. Same gloves. Same face that made her ovaries twitch and her trauma act up.

He walked through the morning market like a problem no one had the courage to fix—silent, focused, ignoring the chaos of shouting vendors and screaming toddlers like he'd been born in a war camp and raised on vengeance.

And of course—of course—he was heading straight for her.

Lara took a deep breath.

Rime, perched on a barrel beside her, didn't even look up. "If you faint, I'm not catching you."

"I never faint."

"You emotionally faint. That counts."

The man stopped in front of her stall.

He placed another three copper coins on the table with the kind of precision that screamed I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm about to ruin your day.

"I need more apples," he said.

Lara blinked. "That's funny. I need fewer imperial spies in my life."

A twitch of his eyebrow. "You think I'm a spy?"

"I think you're tall, broody, and asking too many questions about apples. That makes you suspicious in my book."

"I could just be a fan of fruit."

"You're wearing a black coat in July. You are not a fan of fruit."

Another pause. Then—

He smiled.

Not wide. Not friendly. Just a slight, dangerous curve of lips that said I know what you're doing, and I might enjoy it.

Lara internally screamed.

Externally, she handed him an apple. "Here. Take it. Ruin someone else's morning."

He took the fruit, turned it over in his gloved hand, and said quietly, "This doesn't grow in this region."

She said nothing.

"Not naturally, anyway."

Still nothing.

He bit into the apple, slow and deliberate. Juice ran down his fingers.

Lara might've blacked out for a second.

He chewed. Swallowed. Then said, "You're not who you say you are."

Her smile didn't falter.

"Bold of you to assume I say anything true at all."

"I'm not here to cause trouble," he said, wiping his mouth with a thumb that made very stupid, very specific memories flicker at the edges of Lara's brain.

She stared at him like he was the plague. A very well-dressed, infuriatingly attractive plague.

"Oh no," she said sweetly. "You're just here to buy apples. Again. Coincidentally. While asking oddly specific questions about my very normal fruit."

He studied her. "You live alone?"

"No."

That was true. Kind of. Depending on whether divine beasts and part-time fugitives counted as people.

He took another bite of the apple. "And yet no one seems to know where your orchard is."

Lara leaned on her elbows and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"That's because I'm a witch, and I'll turn you into a pineapple if you keep asking dumb questions."

His eyes gleamed. "You don't sound very afraid of me."

"I'm not. I'm annoyed."

"Why?"

"Because I had plans today that did not include being interrogated by a man who looks like my bad decisions in human form."

He smiled again—small and sharp, like a blade unsheathing.

"I know who you are," he said quietly.

Her heart stuttered.

But Lara had spent years practicing the art of the deadpan.

"Oh no," she gasped. "You've discovered my secret. I'm the reincarnation of the Goddess of Apples and mild sexual tension."

Rime choked on a grape in the background.

The man leaned closer, bracing his hands on the edge of her stall. "You're hiding something."

"And you're breathing too loud. We all have flaws."

She was doing it again—flirting like a swordfight. Because if she kept him off balance, kept the pace fast, maybe he wouldn't notice the faint glow of her spirit mark, or the pulse of ancient magic in the apples he kept devouring.

But gods, he was too close now.

She could smell leather and citrus and something familiar—something that tugged at the edges of a dream she refused to remember.

"If you know who I am," Lara said carefully, "then say it."

He didn't.

He just bit into the apple again and smiled like the fruit wasn't the only thing he was savoring.

"So," he said, voice low, almost curious. "Are you going to tell me the truth?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"Not even if you paid me in gold, glory, or kisses."

The last word slipped out too easily.

They both heard it.

He raised a brow. "Kisses?"

Lara cursed herself internally, outwardly smiled. "Freudian slip. Happens when I'm annoyed and speaking to men with stupidly symmetrical faces."

The man didn't flinch. "You know, you lie like someone who's practiced a long time."

She popped a slice of dried apple in her mouth. "Well, you interrogate like someone who never learned to flirt."

That almost got him.

His lips twitched. Just a fraction. The kind of almost-smile that could ruin kingdoms.

"I wasn't flirting," he said.

"Good," Lara said, grinning. "You're bad at it."

He stepped back from the stall—slowly, like a cat deciding not to pounce yet.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said.

"To interrogate my tomatoes?"

"Maybe."

Lara crossed her arms. "Do yourself a favor and stop coming here."

"And miss the chance to watch you squirm?"

She didn't answer. She just watched him walk away.

And when he was gone—vanished again into the sea of townsfolk and smoke—she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

Rime padded up beside her, tail twitching. "You handled that well."

"Did I?"

"He suspects everything."

"I know."

"And you're shaking."

Lara looked down at her hands. She was.

Damn it.

"I thought I forgot him," she said softly. "I thought it was just a drunken blur."

"Seems like your subconscious disagrees."

She didn't reply.

Instead, she picked up another apple—one that pulsed faintly in her hand—and whispered, "I need to leave."

Rime blinked. "Run?"

"No," she said, watching the alley.

"Hide better."

[End of Chapter 3]