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DELILAH

Delilah Moonstone gripped the leather handle of her suitcase until her fingers cramped, the metal clasp biting into her palm like it had something personal against her. Two bags. One soul-heavy heart. And a town she’d sworn never to set foot in again—except fate had a way of dragging you home with its claws sunk deep.

The sign at the edge of the road hadn’t changed.Welcome to Celestial Pines—Where Magic Meets the Mountains. Some joker had added a sticker beneath it:Population: Unruly.

She snorted. “Still cute.”

The Appalachian air was crisp with spring’s first bite, scented with pine, damp soil, and just a tinge of moon magic that settled behind her ribs like a half-forgotten song. The veil always felt thicker here, like reality thinned just enough for something else to breathe through.

Delilah took one slow step toward the cobblestone path that led into town, her boots clicking against stone and memory. A fox darted past her cart, paused, then vanished into the woods. She whispered a quiet greeting to the spirits.

The Spellbound Sip stood like a time capsule wrapped in ivy, nestled between a crystal shop and Juniper’s Paper Emporium. Its windows glowed amber, fogged slightly from the inside, and the brass bell above the door jingled as she pushed it open.

It smelled like cinnamon, orange zest, and the kind of comfort she didn’t trust anymore.

Nerissa Tidewell stood behind the counter, her waterfall of seafoam-blue hair coiled in a braid that reached the backs of her knees. The siren’s gaze flicked up, calm as still water—then widened.

“Well slap me with seaweed and call me startled,” Nerissa breathed. “Delilah Moonstone, back from the dead.”

Delilah managed a half-smile. “Just Salem, not the underworld.”

Nerissa abandoned her post and swept Delilah into a tight hug. She smelled like peppermint and sea salt and something faintly ancient.

“Your aura’s bruised,” Nerissa murmured against her hair. “Looks like you’ve been carrying grief in your back pocket and resentment in your shoes.”

Delilah huffed. “I didn’t come here for a reading, Ness.”

“No readings. Just tea. Sit, sugar.”

She sat at a corner table worn from generations of elbows and whispered secrets, and watched Nerissa move like silk behind the counter. The siren didn’t ask her what she wanted—she never did. The mugs chose for you.

Her cup arrived steaming with a golden swirl inside. One sniff told her everything.

Pumpkin clove. Nostalgia.

Delilah cursed under her breath. “Seriously?”

Nerissa raised an eyebrow. “I don’t make the tea. The tea makes itself. Take it up with your subconscious.”

Delilah lifted the cup, cradled it between both hands. It was warm—too warm. Like a memory slipping beneath her skin.

She was halfway through her first sip when the bell over the door jingled again.

She didn’t look up until her skin prickled.

The back of her neck tightened like it had been kissed by a shadow. She looked up—and everything inside her went still.

Rollo Steele.

Broad-shouldered. Towering. Wearing a plaid flannel rolled up at the sleeves, boots scuffed from honest work. His dark hair thick with waves, his beard just this side of unruly. And those forest-green eyes? They still held a storm.

Her breath caught in her throat, sharp and hot, despite her best efforts.

He hadn’t changed.

Well, maybe broader in the chest, and a bit more... weathered. Like the mountain had carved itself into his bones.