[Ace’s POV]
As we walked, I watched Ovelia out of the corner of my eye. Every few steps, a stray lock of her long, blonde hair would escape and drift toward her face, threatening to dip into the remains of her puto bumbong. She would make a soft, frustrated sound and tuck it behind her ear with her free hand, only for it to slip free again monts later. The repetitive, unconscious gesture was a small, endearing battle she was losing.
From a nearby stall, a flash of polished tal caught my eye. It was a stall selling hair accessories. The female rchant was demonstrating her wares, deftly twisting a custor’s hair into an elegant knot and securing it with an ornate pin. A simple, practical solution presented itself.
"Ovelia," I said, my voice pulling her from her focused chewing.
She looked up at , her mouth still full, her red eyes wide with question. A bit of shredded coconut clung to her lower lip.
"Let’s go to that hairpin stall," I said, gesturing with a tilt of my head.
She swallowed hastily. "Okay?" she said, the confusion clear in her tone, but she followed as I led the way.
When we stood before the stall, the rchant, a woman with kind eyes and clever fingers, instantly bead, her attention zeroing in on Ovelia with a seller’s practiced assessnt.
"Good evening, my lady! Is there a pin here that catches your fancy?" she asked, her voice as bright as the polished brass and silver laid out before us.
"Ah... they are all very beautiful, but..." Ovelia began, her voice trailing off as her eyes skimd over the selection without landing on any one piece. Her fingers twisted together nervously. I knew that look. She was preparing to politely decline, to say that looking was enough.
My own gaze swept over the display. And there it was. A single pin, simpler than the others but perfectly crafted. The body was a slender line of dark tal etched with a delicate, swirling pattern of musical notes. At its end, instead of a plain tip, was a small, exquisite rose, enaled in a deep, luminous crimson that was an exact match for the color of Ovelia’s eyes.
"I want to buy that one," I said, my voice cutting through her hesitation. I pointed directly to it. "The red rose hairpin with the music note design."
The rchant’s smile widened. "You have an excellent eye, sir! This one is unique. She must be your girlfriend... or perhaps your wife?" she asked, her tone teasing but respectful.
Ovelia’s breath hitched. "Ace, you don’t have to—"
"She is my wife," I stated, the words firm and final. I looked at the rchant. "Please, fix her hair with it. Make sure her hair stays out of her face while she eats."
The rchant’s eyes sparkled with understanding. "Of course! Right this way, my lady." She gestured to a small wooden stool beside her stall. "Please, sit here."
Ovelia glanced at , her expression a mix of surprise and sothing softer, then nodded and sat down. The rchant stood behind her, gathering the thick, blonde mass of Ovelia’s hair with gentle, efficient hands. She twisted it into a simple, secure knot at the nape of Ovelia’s neck and, with a final, smooth motion, slid the rose pin into place, anchoring it perfectly.
"All done!" the rchant announced. She picked up a small, handheld mirror and held it up for Ovelia to see. "What a lovely picture you make."
Ovelia looked at her reflection, her fingers rising to gently touch the red rose now nestled in her blonde hair. A real, unrestrained smile spread across her face, transforming her features. "It’s beautiful," she breathed, her voice full of genuine pleasure. "Thank you."
I felt a low, contented rumble in my chest—my wolf, equally satisfied with the sight. She was safe, she was happy, and she looked... like mine.
"How much?" I asked the rchant, already reaching for my coin purse.
"Just twenty spina, sir," she replied.
I counted out the coins and placed them in her palm. "Thank you," I said.
I turned back to Ovelia, who had stood up and was now looking at , her hand still lightly touching the pin. "It really suits you," I said, my voice quieter now.
She didn’t speak, just offered that brilliant, blushing smile, the lantern light catching the red of the rose and the deeper red of her eyes. Philip was right, I thought, the mory of that rchant spy’s words a sharp pang. I am lucky to have her.
The rchant sighed happily. "You are very lucky to have such a caring husband, my lady," she said to Ovelia.
"You’re right," Ovelia agreed softly, her smile softening into sothing more intimate as she stepped closer to , her shoulder brushing my arm.
I gave the rchant a final nod of thanks, and she bowed her head respectfully. Ovelia smiled at her once more, and we turned to walk back into the flow of the crowd.
Caring husband. The rchant’s words echoed, morphing from a complint into an accusation. This—the pin, the stroll, the shared treat—it was nothing. A superficial balm over a festering betrayal. I had promised her partnership, safety, a place. Yet I withheld the final, irrevocable mark that would cent it in the eyes of my world and my own wolf. My heart was a kingdom divided, and until I could storm its own guarded keeps and surrender it fully to her, every kindness felt like a carefully constructed lie. I was playing the part, and the guilt of it was a sour taste at the back of my throat.
The dark thought was a storm cloud blotting out the lantern light when a small, solid force collided with my leg.
"Ouch!" a child’s voice yelped. I looked down. A boy of about six stumbled back, clutching his forehead, his eyes already welling with tears as he looked up at with a mixture of fear and pain.
"I’m so sorry, sir!" a flustered woman, the boy’s mother, ca rushing up, her face pale. She grabbed the boy’s hand. "Gelo, apologize to the man right now!" she scolded, her voice tight with anxiety.
"S-sorry, sir..." the boy stamred, a single tear breaking free and tracing a clean, glistening path through the fine layer of festival dust on his round cheek.
The mother bowed her head repeatedly, the motion jerky. "So sorry, so sorry, he wasn’t looking where he was going..." Her murmurs were a frantic stream as she pulled the now-whimpering child away, dissolving into the sea of bodies..
The encounter lasted less than ten seconds. But it was enough.
The touch, the sudden spike of the child’s fear-scent—sharp and acrid—was a trigger laid bare. My wolf, already close to the surface from the heightened emotions of the evening, surged forward. It wasn’t anger at the child. It was a vicious, reflexive anger at the fear itself. The instinct to snarl, to dominate, to make the source of that distressing sll either submit or flee. It was the monster in recognizing the terror it inspired. A low, visceral growl built in my chest, a physical pressure I had to clamp my jaw shut to contain. It left my nerves scraped raw, my control stretched thin as worn parchnt.
"Ovelia, let’s go," I said, my voice tight as I turned, my hand already reaching for the space where her shoulder should have been.
My fingers closed on empty air.
Before my mind could even form the thought, my body was moving. A single, sharp inhale—vanilla, sweet rice, her—buried under a tidal wave of crowd stench. My head snapped left, then right, silver eyes slicing through the throng, hunting for blonde hair, a red rose hairpin, the specific curve of her form. Nothing. The predator in was already calculating vectors, wind direction, threats.
Then the panic hit, cold and absolute. "Ovelia!" I snarled. The sound was ripped from a place deeper than my lungs—a raw, commanding roar that demanded the universe return what it had stolen. It tore through the festival din. Conversations died. Laughter stopped short. A circle of silence and staring faces opened around .
She was gone.
Damn it! The panic was imdiate and total, a cold, iron fist closing around my throat, squeezing off my air. The festival, which monts ago had been a colorful backdrop to a tender, stolen scene, transford in an instant. It was now a nightmarish, shifting maze, a living, breathing, hostile entity that had opened its maw and swallowed her whole. I had taken my eyes off her. I had let my guard down, lost in my own damned thoughts and the fallout from a child’s stumble. re seconds.
My wolf howled inside a cage of human bone, demanding blood, demanding action.
I can’t find her.
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