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"Thank you for the help," I said, relieved he was leaving but uncertain about the proper etiquette for dismissing an immortal embodiment of sin.

He inclined his head slightly. "My pleasure, Juniper." He turned to leave, then glanced back. "And I'm not interested in being matched. Some hunts are more satisfying when self-directed."

With that unsettling comment hanging in the air, he sauntered down the path, disappearing among the budding trees before I could formulate a response.

Inside, I set my purchases on the kitchen counter and took a moment to breathe. I began unpacking my groceries, finding comfort in the mundane task. The apothecary bottles I arranged carefully on the windowsill, where afternoon light caught the cobalt glass of the joy-filled bottle, casting blue-gold patterns across the counter.

My garden beckoned, and I stepped outside to harvest herbs for my planned dinner with rosemary and thyme, their scent intensifying as I snipped their stems.

Back in the kitchen, I laid out my ingredients like treasures on the weathered wooden counter. The copper pots hanging above caught the light as I moved beneath them, creating a dance of reflections across the walls. I tied an apron around my waist–one of Diana's, embroidered with tiny bees–and set to work.

Making pizza dough from scratch has always been therapeutic. The measuring, the mixing, the kneading...it all required attention and presence. I lost myself in the rhythm of it, the way the dough transformed beneath my hands from sticky mass to smooth elasticity.

As I set the dough aside to rise, covered with a damp cloth, my eyes drifted to the cobalt bottle glowing on the windowsill. On impulse, I reached for it, turning it in my hands. The captured joy pulsed inside, warm and inviting.

What would happen if I incorporated this into food? Would the emotion transfer? Was that even safe? The questions swirled, but beneath them ran a current of certainty. This was my magick, unique and powerful in its own right. Not the traditional witchcraft of my mother's coven, but something else entirely. Something that was mine alone.

I uncorked the bottle and a sweet scent rose from it. It was like summer afternoons and childhood laughter mixed with hints of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle. I held it over the bowl where I was mixing honey with olive oil and herbs for my pizza drizzle. One drop, I decided. Just enough to test.

A single golden droplet fell from the bottle, dissolving into the honey mixture with a brief shimmer. I stirred it gently, noting how the amber liquid seemed to take on a subtle glow. The scent changed too–still honey-sweet, but with an added note that made me think of sunshine.

While the dough continued rising, I prepared the other toppings. The figs I sliced thinly, admiring their pink flesh and tiny seeds. The bacon I fried until perfectly crisp, then drained on paper towels. The goat cheese I crumbled between my fingers, its tangy scent a counterpoint to the sweetness of the figs.

By the time the dough was ready, my small kitchen was filled with mouthwatering aromas. I stretched the dough on a baking sheet, creating a rustic oval shape with slightly raised edges. Then came the assembly–a brush of olive oil, a sprinkle of sea salt, layers of goat cheese, overlapping fig slices arranged in a spiral, scattered bacon, and a few sprigs of thyme.

I slid the creation into the hot oven, watching through the glass door as it began to transform. While it baked, I stirred my joy-infused honey drizzle once more, wondering what effect it might have.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled the pizza from the oven–golden-brown crust, bubbling cheese, figs caramelized at the edges. I drizzled the honey mixture over everything in thin ribbons, then added a final scatter of fresh thyme leaves and cracked black pepper.

The aroma was intoxicating. I cut a slice and carried it out to the small patio table in my garden, along with a glass of the crispwhite wine I'd splurged on. The evening air was cool but not cold, perfect for dining outside beneath the first emerging stars.

My first bite was a revelation of contrasts–the crisp crust, the creamy cheese, the sweet-earthy figs, the salty bacon, and then the honey...Oh, the honey. As it hit my tongue, a wave of pure happiness washed through me, starting as a warm glow in my stomach and radiating outward until I felt it in my fingertips.

I laughed out loud, startled by the intensity of the sensation. It wasn't overwhelming, just...pure. Like distilled joy, free from the complications that usually accompanied happiness. For a moment, all my worries–Xavier, my mother, the mystery of my reanimation–seemed distant and manageable.

"Emotional alchemy," I murmured, taking another bite and feeling that golden warmth spread through me again. "It works."

I savored each bite slowly, watching twilight deepen around my little cottage. The garden took on mysterious shadows, the herbs releasing their scent into the air. Inside, the copper pots gleamed in the warm light spilling from the kitchen windows.

In just a few weeks, I'd gone from Hazel Blackwood: obedient daughter, reluctant fiancée, Juniper Grey: matchmaker, experimenter, emotional alchemist. The transformation felt profound, yet somehow natural, as if I was only now, in my mid 30’s, becoming who I was meant to be all along.

The joy essence had nearly worn off by the time I finished my meal, leaving behind a pleasant afterglow rather than the intense happiness of those first bites. I gathered my dishes, already planning my next experiments. What other emotions could I capture? How might they interact with different foods, different environments?

As I rose from the table, a prickling sensation ran down my spine–that unmistakable feeling of being watched. I scanned the darkened garden, seeing nothing but shadows among the treesat the property's edge. Still, I hurried inside, locking the door behind me.

Through the kitchen window, I could see the row of empty apothecary bottles catching the lamplight, waiting to be filled with harvested emotions. The cobalt bottle, now only faintly glowing, stood as proof of my success.

Xavier was still out there. My mother was searching for me. The mystery of why the sins were so interested in me. But for the first time since escaping that grave, I felt more than just afraid. I felt purposeful. Whatever came next, I would face it not just as a survivor, but as someone with unique power of her own.

My hands tingled with magick as I washed the dishes, tiny sparks of golden light dancing between my fingers like fireflies. Emotional alchemy–my magick, my discovery, my future. Something not even Xavier could take from me.

I smiled to myself, already planning tomorrow's experiments. The emptying bottles waited on the windowsill, ready to be filled with the rainbow of human emotions that surrounded me every day. For now, at least, I had found my path forward–unexpected as it was, and wherever it might lead.

Chapter

Fourteen

PRIDE