Lily had meant to find the herb garden. That was the whole of her intention—rosemary for the kitchen, feverfew for her satchel, a quiet hour to let the morning's stiffness ease from her shoulders. The Bloodwood estate sprawled in every direction, and she had taken the wrong turning twice already, her slippers whispering on flagstones that gave way to packed earth, then to grass, then to a hedge so tall and dense it swallowed the path entirely.

The laughter came first.

Low, dripping, the sound of someone who had forgotten the world existed. It threaded through the rose hedge like honey through a comb, and Lily's feet carried her toward it before her mind had decided anything at all. The leaves brushed her sleeve, cold and faintly damp, leaving the ghost of thorns against her forearm. She pushed through a gap that wasn't quite a gap, and the greenery disgorged her into a clearing she had not known existed.

The stone bench sat at the center, worn smooth by decades of weather. Stacy was bent over it, her dark hair spilling across the stone, her skirts bunched around her hips in a tangle of fabric. Leo stood behind her, his velvet doublet open, his hands gripping her waist, his hips driving with a slow, deliberate rhythm that never paused. The sound of it—wet, slapping, sawing through the afternoon air—landed in Lily's chest like a second heartbeat.

Stacy's moan was a broken thing, half-swallowed by the weight of it. "Leo—"

"I know," he said, and his voice was warm oil, sliding through the clearing. "I know, love. Take it."

Lily could not move. The rose hedge pressed against her back, and she watched his hand slide up Stacy's spine, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades, pressing her down into the stone. The sweat gleamed on his forearms. The silver ring on his finger caught the light as he adjusted his grip, and Stacy's hips pushed back to meet him, greedy and sure.

A bird called somewhere beyond the hedge. The sound was swallowed, drowned, erased by the rhythm of Leo's hips and the wet, endless slap of skin against skin.

Lily's hand had found a pine berry somewhere. She did not remember picking it up. The small, rough sphere sat in her palm, and as she watched Leo's jaw tighten, as she watched Stacy's fingers spread on the stone and scrape faintly against it, her grip loosened. The pine berry shifted. Fell. She did not hear it land.

Leo's head lifted.

His amber eyes found her across the clearing, and for a long, terrible moment nothing moved. His hips kept their rhythm—slow, deep, unhurried—and his smile spread across his face like a stain. "Hey, wify." The words slid through the air, warm and easy. "Come join us."

Stacy turned her head, her blue eyes hazy, her lips parted. She reached out—her arm stretching across the stone, fingers catching the air, then catching Lily's wrist. The grip was warm and sure, and it pulled.

Lily's knees hit the grass beside the bench. The impact jarred through her, a shock of cold and damp through the thin silk of her gown, and she felt her own hand reaching back—her fingers curling around Stacy's, holding on.

She did not know when she had decided to hold on.

Leo's rhythm slowed, deepened, a man savoring something. His hand left Stacy's back and found Lily's hair, fingers threading through the honey-blonde strands, tilting her face up. His amber eyes were bright, almost kind, and his thumb traced the line of her jaw with a gentleness that made her chest ache.

"There she is," he murmured. "The little healer. I wondered how long you'd watch."

"I wasn't—" Lily's voice came out rough, wrong. "I was looking for the herb garden."

Leo laughed, low and warm. "You found a better garden." His thumb swept across her lower lip, and she felt the callus catch on the soft skin. "Stacy's been asking about you. Haven't you, love?"

Stacy's answer was a moan as Leo's hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate. Her fingers tightened on Lily's wrist, pulling her closer, and the scent of her—sweat and something darker, musk and salt—filled Lily's nose. The stone bench was cold against Lily's shoulder as Stacy shifted, turning, her free hand finding the back of Lily's neck.

"I have," Stacy breathed. "I wanted to know what you taste like."

Her mouth found Lily's.

The kiss was not gentle. It was open and hungry, Stacy's tongue sliding against Lily's with a confidence that stole the breath from her lungs. Lily's hand came up—she did not remember moving it—and fisted in Stacy's dark hair, holding on as the world tilted. The taste of her was salt and heat and something sweet beneath, and Lily made a sound she had never made before, a small, broken thing that Leo swallowed with a laugh.

"That's it," he said, and his hand slid down Lily's thigh, fingers pressing into the silk of her gown. "That's it, wify. Let her have you."

Lily's hips shifted before she could stop them, pressing into his hand. The heat of him through the fabric was a brand, and she felt herself go wet, felt the ache between her thighs throb in time with the rhythm Leo had never stopped. Stacy pulled back, her lips slick, her blue eyes dark.

"Kneel," she said.

It was not a request. Lily's body obeyed before her mind caught up, her knees shifting on the damp grass, her hands finding Stacy's thighs. The skin there was warm and smooth, and she could feel the tremor running through them, the muscle twitching as Leo kept his slow, maddening rhythm from behind.

Stacy's skirts were bunched around her hips, and Lily could see everything—the dark hair between her thighs, slick and glistening, the pink flesh swollen and open, the evidence of Leo's work. The scent of her hit Lily like a wave, musky and intimate, and Lily's mouth went dry.

"Go on," Leo said, and his voice had dropped, rough and low. "She's been waiting for you, Lily. Taste her."

Lily leaned in.

Her first touch was tentative, her lips brushing the inside of Stacy's thigh, feeling the jump of muscle beneath her mouth. Stacy shuddered, a sound escaping her that was almost a sob, and her hand found the back of Lily's head, fingers tangling in her hair.

"Please," Stacy breathed. "Lily, please."

Lily's mouth found her.

The taste of her was overwhelming—salt and musk and something deeper, something that made Lily's head spin. She pressed her tongue flat against Stacy's cunt, dragging upward through the slick heat, and Stacy's hips bucked against her face. The sound Stacy made was raw and animal, and Leo laughed above them, low and pleased.

"There she is," he said. "The little healer, learning her craft."

Lily's tongue found the bundle of nerves at the top of Stacy's slit, and Stacy cried out, her thighs clamping around Lily's head. The pressure was a shock, and Lily felt her own arousal spike, felt the wetness soaking through her smallclothes as she worked her tongue in slow, deliberate circles. She could taste Leo on her too—salt and musk, the evidence of his claim—and the wrongness of it, the strangeness, only made her hungrier.

Leo's rhythm quickened. His hand left Lily's thigh and found Stacy's hip, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, and the slap of skin against skin filled the clearing. A bird called somewhere beyond the hedge, and the sound was swallowed, drowned, erased.

"That's it," Leo groaned. "That's it, both of you. Lily, don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

Lily didn't. Her tongue worked Stacy's clit in a rhythm she had never used before, learned from instinct and the sounds Stacy made, the way her hips rolled, the way her fingers tightened in Lily's hair. Stacy was close—Lily could feel it in the tremor of her thighs, the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps, the way she ground down against Lily's mouth.

"I'm—" Stacy's voice broke. "Leo, I'm going to—"

"Let her," Leo said. "Come for her, love. Let her taste it."

Stacy came apart.

Her cry was sharp and broken, her body arching off the stone bench, her cunt clenching against Lily's mouth. Lily drank her, swallowed the flood of it, felt Stacy's thighs shake around her head as the orgasm tore through her. And above them, Leo groaned, a low, animal sound, and Lily felt the rhythm of his hips stutter, felt him press deep and hold, felt the heat of him spilling inside Stacy as he came with a sound that was almost a prayer.

For a long moment, nothing moved.

The clearing was silent save for the ragged sound of three people breathing. Lily pulled back, her lips slick, her chin wet, and looked up. Leo's head was bowed, his hands still gripping Stacy's hips, his chest heaving. Stacy lay limp against the stone, her dark hair a tangle, her eyes closed.

Leo opened his eyes. His amber gaze found Lily, and his smile was slow and warm, a predator's contentment.

"Well," he said, and his voice was rough, spent. "I think I like having you in the garden, wify."

Lily's heart hammered against her ribs. Her lips were still wet with the taste of Stacy, and her thighs were slick with her own need, an ache she had not yet satisfied. She should have been horrified. She should have run. Instead, she watched Leo pull out of Stacy with a wet sound, watched him tuck himself away, watched Stacy push herself up on trembling arms and turn to look at her with those hazy blue eyes.

"You're good at that," Stacy said, and her voice was soft, almost surprised. "Really good."

Lily's hand found the pine berry again, still on the grass where it had fallen. She picked it up, turned it over in her fingers, felt the rough texture against her skin. The ache between her thighs throbbed, and she knew—with a certainty that terrified her—that this was not the end of anything.

It was a beginning.

Stacy's hand was still on her wrist. Lily could feel the pulse there, the slow return of a heartbeat settling back into its rhythm, and she did not pull away. She watched Stacy's chest rise and fall beneath the rumpled bodice of her gown, watched the sweat cool on her collarbone, and something in the stillness of it—the ease, the lack of shame—caught at her.

"You've done this before," Lily said. It was not a question. The words came out flat, observant, the healer in her cataloguing symptoms.

Stacy's smile was slow, unbothered. "With Leo? Of course. I'm his." She said it simply, like she was explaining the weather, and reached down to smooth her skirts over her thighs. "He likes to share."

Lily's fingers tightened on the pine berry. The rough texture bit into her palm. She thought of Harry's study, the firelight, the way he had said *mine* with his whole body, and the word sat differently here. Stacy had said *his* the way someone said *home*—without hesitation, without apology.

"And you don't mind?" Lily asked.

Stacy tilted her head, considering her with those hazy blue eyes. "Mind what? That he watches? That he takes me while I taste someone new?" She shrugged, a roll of her shoulders that was almost feline. "He's the Duke. I'm his dragon. This is what we are."

Leo had finished tucking himself away, his doublet still hanging open, and he settled onto the bench beside Stacy with a contented sigh. His hand found her knee, casual, proprietary, and Stacy leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth. The familiarity of it—the practiced ease—made Lily's chest tighten.

"You're thinking too hard, wify," Leo said, and his voice was warm, lazy. "That's your trouble. You're always weighing, always measuring. Come here."

He reached for her, and Lily let him pull her up from the grass, let him settle her onto the bench beside him. The stone was still warm from Stacy's body, and the heat of it seeped through the thin silk of her gown. His arm came around her shoulder, heavy and sure, and she felt the weight of it like a claim.

"I'm not—" she started, but the words died in her throat. She was. She was thinking too hard. She was weighing the wrongness of it against the heat in her belly, and the scales kept tipping the wrong way.

Stacy shifted, turning to face her, and her hand found Lily's knee. The touch was light, almost casual, but Lily felt it everywhere. "You don't have to decide anything tonight," Stacy said. "You just have to be here."

Lily looked down at the hand on her knee, at the faint calluses on the fingers, at the way Stacy's thumb traced a slow circle on the silk. The ache between her thighs had not faded. It had settled into something deeper, something that pulsed with every beat of her heart, and she knew—with a certainty that made her breath catch—that she was not done with this.

"What happens now?" she asked, and her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

Leo's thumb traced her jaw, tilting her face toward him. His amber eyes were bright, almost tender, and he smiled a smile that did not quite reach them. "Now," he said, "we take you back to the house. We get you cleaned up. And then we see what my brother has to say about his wife tasting my dragon."

The words landed like a stone in still water. Lily's heart stuttered, and she felt the pine berry press into her palm again, sharp and grounding. Harry. She had not thought of Harry—not once, not since the laughter had pulled her through the hedge.

Stacy's hand squeezed her knee, and her voice was soft, almost kind. "Don't worry, little healer. We'll tell him you were lost in the garden."