The wooden door *thunked* shut, silencing the disappointed murmurs outside, but the image of those grasping hands, those hungry eyes, was burned into his mind. He collapsed onto a rickety stool, his heart *thump-thump-thumping* against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was breathing in ragged, shallow gasps.
He looked from his mother's stern, protective face to Kael's indignant one. They saw a crowd of overeager admirers. He saw a pack of wolves.
In his old life, he was average. Nondescript. Safe. Here, in this body, in this world where women were the hunters and men like him were the prey, his face was a liability. It was a beacon. It was a curse.
He clenched his small, unfamiliar hands into fists, the knuckles white. The girls outside weren't going away. This was just the beginning. A cold, hard clarity settled over the panic. There was only one path. It wasn't about finding a way home. It was about surviving *here*.
He would not be the village heartthrob. He would not be a prize to be won. He would become invisible. He would find a way to erase the target from his back, to smother the beacon. He had to. He would fade into the background, become a shadow. No matter what it took.
His first step, he decided, would be to look less… desirable. The next morning, fueled by a bowl of bland gruel and a desperate resolve, he stood before the warped silver mirror again. He scowled, trying to make his features harsh, uninviting. His eyebrows, however, only seemed to arch in an appealing way, and the scowl made his full lips pout. *Ugh!* He tried to mess up his hair, raking his fingers through the soft, dark waves until it stood up in messy tufts. It only made him look artfully dishevelled.
Kael walked in, balancing a bucket of water. She stopped, staring. "What in the blazes are you doing?" she asked, a giggle bubbling up.
He dropped his hands, feeling foolish. "Just… trying to make myself less… presentable."
She threw her head back, a loud, hearty laugh erupting from her. "Less presentable? *Pfffft!* You look like a bedraggled kitten! Even cuter, if that's possible. Stop it, you'll give yourself wrinkles." She reached over, smoothing his hair back into place with surprising gentleness. "Don't worry, little brother. Mother and I will keep the worst of them at bay."
"But… I don't want them 'at bay'," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "I want them gone. Forget I exist."
"Oh, Devin," she sighed, shaking her head. "You're just too handsome for your own good. It's a burden, I know." She winked. "But a good one. Don't you fret, a little sickness makes them bolder. Once you're back on your feet, you can pick and choose. Though I'd steer clear of Elara. Her temper's hotter than her forge."
The thought of "picking and choosing" made his stomach churn. He didn't want to choose. He wanted to run.
Later that day, feeling a little stronger but still wobbly, he ventured out to the small garden behind the hut, hoping to find some semblance of solitude. He knelt among the scraggly herbs, pretending to examine a wilting basil plant, when a shadow fell over him.
"Devin, my sweet," a voice purred, thick as honey.
He froze. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. The scent of cloying lavender and something faintly metallic confirmed it: Lyra, the flower girl. He'd seen her briefly yesterday in the throng.
"*Ahem*," she cleared her throat, a little too dramatically. "You're looking much improved, my little lark." He could feel her eyes on him, a tangible weight. He kept his gaze fixed on the basil.
"Just admiring the dill," he mumbled, trying to sound as boring as possible.
"Oh, the dill," she breathed, and he could almost hear her picturing him in a field of it, perhaps wearing a wreath. "Such a hardy herb. But not as hardy as my heart, which *thrums* for you, Devin. *Hooo!*" She let out a soft, mournful hum, a sound that made the hairs on his neck stand up.
He finally looked up, forced to meet her gaze. Lyra was tall, with a cascade of dark braids adorned with wildflowers. Her eyes, the color of wet earth, held an unnerving intensity. She was holding a small, intricately woven basket.
"I brought you something," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She pulled out a single, perfect white flower, its petals like spun silk. "For your hair." She reached out, her fingers brushing his cheek. "It would look so lovely against your dark locks."
He flinched, pulling back so fast he nearly toppled over. "No! No, thank you. I… I'm allergic to pretty things," he blurted out, the first ridiculous lie that came to mind.
Lyra's hand froze in mid-air. Her expression shifted from adoration to a puzzled frown, then a flicker of something he couldn't quite decipher. "Allergic?" she repeated, her voice losing some of its honeyed quality. "That's… new."
Before he could elaborate on his fictional allergy, the back door of the hut *slammed* open. "Lyra! Get your hands off my brother, you predatory weed!" Kael's voice cut through the air like a whip. She stood, hands on hips, a formidable figure with a scowl that would curdle milk.
Lyra let out a frustrated *tsk*, stuffing the flower back into her basket. "Always spoiling the fun, Kael! You'll never find a suitor with that attitude!"
Kael just snorted. "Don't need one, not when I have to fend off a dozen for my little brother! Now *shove off* before I tell Mother you're harassing a convalescent!"
With a final, lingering gaze at Devin that was part annoyance and part undiminished desire, Lyra turned and stalked away, her basket swaying. Devin let out a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Thanks," he rasped to Kael, who was now kicking idly at a stone.
She shrugged. "Someone's gotta do it. Though you really should learn to say 'no' yourself, you know. Or at least pretend to be interested for a bit. It saves me the trouble." She gave him a sidelong glance, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. "Though your 'allergic to pretty things' was a new one. Might have some potential."
Devin just groaned. This was going to be harder than he thought. Much, much harder. The target on his back wasn't just visible; it was practically glowing.