Moonsworn

For eleven years someone has kept the fires burning at the hot springs. Tonight, she finally finds out who.

Elspeth Rowe is thirty-three, the only healer in a valley full of shepherds, a sensible woman with a well-stocked satchel and a stillroom she loves more than any man she has ever danced with. Every Harvest Moon she climbs alone into the Greyfang mountains to cut moonbell, a little white flower that opens for a single night at the edge of the steaming black pools. This year she has left the village dance early, still in her one good gown: deep plum silk, sleeveless, a plunging neckline that set every tongue in Lowmere wagging, her long dark chestnut curls coming loose down her back, and curves no bodice in the valley has ever managed to contain.

She expects to be alone. She is not.

Two wolves step out of the pines, larger than any wolf has a right to be. Then they are two men.

Ulric is the steady one, massive and grave, pale weathered skin, long black hair tied back, a full dark beard and a silver scar across one shoulder. Dace is the one who grins, deep brown skin, close-cropped black hair, a short black beard and a body like a wall. Shirtless, barefoot, in nothing but dark leather trousers, they lead the Greyfang pack together, and they have loved each other for fifteen years. They have also watched her from the trees for eleven of them.

They say the bond they share was never meant for two. They say only the Sworn Moon can prove it. And they swear that nothing will happen tonight that she does not ask for, out loud, in her own words.

Elspeth has always known exactly what she wants. She has simply never had anyone to ask.

One moonlit canyon. Two wolf-shifter lovers. A single night before the moonbell closes.