Dante Ashhorn stood at the edge of the gravel drive and watched the silver-trimmed carriage roll through the gates. He had come hoping for a stolen moment with her. Instead, he found the household lined up to greet another man — a wealthy suitor her family had chosen. Every step Dante took toward winning her had just been undone by polished wood and silver wheels. Servants unloaded a gold box carved with forest creatures and carried it inside like a prize. Dante glimpsed her face at an upper window, pale and still. He understood at once. The gift was meant for her parents, not her. A steward directed the suitor toward the stone guest lodge among the old trees. Smoke already rose from its chimney. They had prepared for him days ago. Dante's hands curled at his sides, his tail still. He turned and walked away before anyone noticed him. The suitor would sleep on the estate tonight, and every night after. Dante had no plan, no title, no gift. Only the certainty that he could not lose her — and the cold knowledge that he was already losing.