Page 3 of Monster's Secret Baby

"Well, feel free to admire my... landscaping." He stands, smoothing his formal robes. "Just remember what I've said about distracting my staff during working hours."

"I would never." The lie slides easily between us.

"Of course not." Arkan shifts through his documents. He knows of my interest in Harmony but luckily he doesn't mind—as long as I only steal her away during her off hours. "Some of us have meetings to attend. I trust you can see yourself out whenever you're... finished with the gardens."

I offer a shallow bow as he leaves, tension uncoiling from my shoulders the moment the door closes. These performances exhaust me—the carefully measured words, the false smiles, the weight of being Adellum Vey, the celebrated xaphan artist whose hands shape beauty while his life grows hollow.

Outside, I follow the stone path that winds toward the southeast gardens. The estate spreads in elegant terraces, a perfect example of New Solas' refined architecture—nothing out of place, nothing wild. Nothing like her.

I pause by a reflecting pool, letting my senses expand outward, searching. The gardens are sprawling, but I know where she'll be. I always know.

The late autumn air carries the scent of turned earth and crushed herbs as I round a hedge of precisely trimmed silverleaf. And there—there she is.

Harmony kneels in the soft dirt, basket beside her filled with clipped herbs, her hands moving with practiced efficiency among the plants. A smear of dark soil trails across one cheek like an artist's brushstroke. Her curls are bundled beneath a faded headscarf, though rebellious strands have escaped to frame her face. She hasn't seen me yet.

Something tight and hungry coils in my chest. A yearning so sharp it's almost painful.

I make no attempt to hide my presence, leaning against a pillar, wings settling behind me. My world is filled with polished things—bright lights, curated smiles, endless expectations—but Harmony is real. Wild in a way the grand city of New Solas could never polish away.

I wait, simply watching her work. The graceful movement of her hands, the little furrow that appears between her brows as she examines a damaged leaf. The way she hums under her breath, a melody that drifts and turns like something living.

She senses me before she sees me—her hands pause, her head tilting slightly. When she finally looks up, those hazel-green eyes find mine unerringly. Her lips curve into a smile she attempts to suppress.

"Lord Arkan must be terribly dull if you're out here watching someone pick herbs," she says, tugging a stubborn root from the soil.

"Terribly," I agree, pushing away from the pillar. I move toward her, slow and deliberate, giving her time to notice, to decide. "You've got dirt on your face."

"Do I?" Her hand rises to the wrong cheek. "Hazard of honest work. Something you wouldn't understand."

I kneel beside her, close enough that my wing brushes her arm. "Because I'm xaphan or because I'm an artist?"

"Both." Her eyes dance with mischief. "Winged creatures shouldn't get too close to the ground, and artists shouldn't understand anything practical."

I reach out, my thumb gently brushing across her cheek, removing the smudge. "Is that so?"

Her breath catches, just slightly. "That's what they say in the servants' quarters."

"And what do they say about gardeners who torment visiting dignitaries?"

Harmony's laugh is low, husky. "That we're trouble best avoided." Her eyes flick past me, checking for witnesses. "You shouldn't be here, Adellum. I'm working."

I lean closer, breathing in the scent of crushed herbs and sun-warmed skin. "When have I ever done what I should?"

Her lips press together, fighting a smile. "Never. That's the problem."

I watch her hands return to their task, the way her fingers move with such certainty. There's artistry in her work that few would recognize—the purposeful way she prunes each stem, how she knows precisely where to cut. I could watch her for hours, this quiet mastery so different from the loud, demanding art world I inhabit.

"You're staring again," she murmurs, not looking up.

"Yes." I make no attempt to deny it. Why pretend? I've spent a year's worth of stolen moments drinking in the sight of her, and it's never enough. I've never gotten my fill, never had enough taste, and I suspect I never will.

I've been quite obsessed with my little bird.

She glances up, and I feel that familiar pull—the dangerous current that draws me toward her. I know how I must look, my silver eyes fixed on her with an intensity that would frighten anyone else. But Harmony never flinches.

"Careful," she warns, voice soft. "Someone might see you looking at a human gardener like that."

I reach out, catching a curl that's escaped her scarf, twisting it around my finger. "Like what?"

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