Chapter 4 Closeness

Miri POV

The smithy smelled of iron and old smoke, of heat that had soaked into the stone walls over years of burning. I had been here twice before—once to deliver the disastrous news about Lily Potterson's flaming tea table, once to introduce myself to Cinder while Roran watched me with those impossible ember eyes. Both times, I had kept my distance. Both times, I had told myself that this was a professional arrangement, nothing more.

Today, I couldn't keep my distance anymore.

Roran stood at the anvil with his back to me, his broad shoulders hunched in a way that made something twist low in my stomach. He was hammering a piece of metal—a horseshoe, maybe, or the beginnings of a gate hinge—but his rhythm was wrong. Too fast. Too hard. The strikes rang out like gunshots, sharp and angry, and I could see the tension in his arms, the way his muscles coiled beneath his skin like springs pressed too far.

"You're going to break it," I said quietly.

He didn't turn around. "What are you doing here, Matchmaker?"

"I told you to call me Miri."

"I told you I wouldn't."

The hammer came down again. The metal groaned.

I should have been offended. I should have turned around and walked out, the way I did with difficult clients who couldn't be bothered with basic courtesy. But something kept me rooted to the stone floor, something that had nothing to do with my perfect record or my professional pride.

Something that felt, uncomfortably, like caring.

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it.

Because he was right.

"He's right," Persephone had bubbled that morning, when I'd complained about his refusal to meet Marigold.

"I hate when you're logical," I'd told her.

"I hate when you're stubborn," she'd bubbled back.

Now, standing in the forge with the heat pressing against my skin and the sound of the hammer filling my ears, I hated that they were both right. Marigold wasn't the answer. Lily wasn't the answer. Delphine Ashworth was actively working against us.

And the clock was ticking.

"Fine," I said, sitting down on a wooden stool near the wall. "No Marigold. No Lily. No Delphine. What about someone from outside Bramblewood? I have contacts in Oakhaven, in Millford, in—"

"There's no one."

"There's always someone."

"There's no one!" The hammer slammed down one last time, and the metal—whatever it had been—snapped in two. Roran stood over the broken pieces, his chest heaving, his hands trembling. When he turned to face me, I saw why.

The cracks were worse.

They spread up his neck now, fine lines of pale nothing that caught the firelight and threw it back wrong. His eyes, those impossible ember eyes, had dimmed to a dull orange glow, like coals that had been left too long without fuel. And his face—his sharp, severe, irritatingly handsome face—looked hollowed out, like someone had scooped out the insides and left only the shell.

"Roran." I was on my feet before I knew I'd moved, crossing the space between us before I could think better of it. "What happened?"

"What always happens." He turned away, but not before I saw something flicker across his features. Something that looked almost like shame. "The promise is consuming me. Every day I fail to find a wife, it takes a little more. By the deadline, there won't be anything left."

"That's not true."

"It is true." He picked up the broken pieces of metal, turning them over in his hands. "The Winter Court doesn't grant second chances, Miri. They grant opportunities for failure. This—" He gestured at himself, at the cracks, at the dying light in his eyes. "This is what failure looks like."

I should have stayed where I was. I should have kept my distance, maintained my professional composure, and remembered the condition I had agreed to. I should have done a lot of things.

Instead, I walked up to him and put my hand on his arm.

The touch was electric.

Not literally—though given his fae nature, I suppose it could have been. But the moment my fingers made contact with his sleeve, something shifted in the air between us. The forge seemed to grow hotter. The shadows seemed to deepen. And Roran—

Roran went completely still.

"What are you doing?" His voice was rough, almost a growl.

"Checking on you. Like I said I would."

"I told you not to."

"You told me a lot of things." I didn't move my hand. I couldn't. "You told me you didn't need my help. You told me you weren't interested in my candidates. You told me to call you by your name and then you never once used mine." I looked up at him, meeting those dying ember eyes. "But you never told me to stop caring."

His jaw tightened. "I should have."

"Probably." I smiled, though it felt shaky around the edges. "I'm very stubborn."

"I noticed."

"It's one of my best qualities."

"It's one of your most frustrating qualities."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

Something flickered across his face—not quite a smile, but close. The closest thing to warmth I had seen from him since we met. And for a moment, just a moment, the cracks seemed to fade. The embers seemed to burn brighter. He looked at me like I was something other than a matchmaker, something other than a means to an end.

He looked at me like he saw me.

Then he stepped back, and the moment shattered.

"You should go," he said, turning toward the forge. "It's late. The roads aren't safe."

"The roads are fine. It's Bramblewood, not the fae wilds."

"You don't know what's out there."

"I know what's in here." I didn't move. "A man who's running out of time. A man who's too proud to ask for help. A man who—"

"A man who is bound by a promise that forbids him from—" He stopped, his shoulders rigid. "Just go, Miri. Please."