Kingston
I had never imagined myself standing in a boutique tucked inside a back alley of the werewolf quarter, cradling a small velvet box like it contained the moon itself.
The jeweler, a stooped old human, had nodded when I told him what I wanted: something worthy of a woman who doesn’t know how worthy she is.
The ring he created wasn’t gaudy. It was simple, elegant. A pale silver band, delicately shaped like intertwining vines, with a single opal in the center that shimmered in refracted rainbows when it was in certain lights.
I knew in an instant that she would love it.
I stared at it now, the box heavy in my coat pocket as I walked briskly toward the office. Quietly, to myself, I admitted the truth I had been wrestling with since we had last spent the night together.
I was
