Page 15 of Allie

"Uh, yeah," I murmured, pulling out a heavy book from one of the high stacks. "Just thinking about... well, you know."

"Draven, Asa, and Grant?" he guessed, pulling his chair closer to me.

I nodded, tracing the embossed cover of the book with my finger. "Nat mentioned that it's pretty common around here to have multiple mates. I just never imagined?—"

"That you'd be the one in such a situation?" Roan finished for me, a half-smile playing on his lips. I couldn't help but return it, though mine was laced with apprehension.

"Exactly," I sighed. "It's just all so new to me."

His hand found mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I understand. Draven and Asa are good men. I'm okay with sharing your heart with them because we’ve been friends for so long. Plus, I’ve seen the way they look at you last night at dinner."

"But not Grant?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as I finally met his gaze. There was a protective edge to his tone when he spoke of the fox shifter.

"I don't know him well enough." Roan's admission was frank, and honestly, it made sense.

"Will you try? For me? I mean, I sense a pull to him like I do with you."

Roan's expression softened. "I'll keep an open mind. But I'm going to have a talk with Grant. Lay down some ground rules."

I snorted at the ground rules. "Thank you," I said, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety at the thought of their conversation.

"Let's focus on why we're here for now," Roan suggested, his eyes scanning the rows of ancient books, a determined glint within them. "We'll deal with the rest later."

"Okay," I agreed, taking a deep breath as I turned my attention back to the task at hand—the mystery we were unraveling was bigger than my own tangled emotions. And yet, those emotions, those connections, felt like they were becoming an integral part of the puzzle itself.

It felt like we had been at it for days, though the clock on the library wall said we’d only been at it for two hours.

"Got something," Roan whispered, his voice low but carrying a current of excitement that sent a shiver down my spine.

My head snapped up, eyes meeting his. He pointed to an illustration that made my blood run cold—a symbol etched in black ink, so similar to the one we'd found at the crime scene, it might have been traced from the same hand.

I recognized the twisted lines and curves etched on the page. "Used by very few because of its... What? Danger? Evil?"

"Both," Roan replied, his rugged features tight with concern. "And I know someone who dabbles in this kind of stuff."

"Here? In Silver Springs?" I asked, suddenly aware of how little I truly knew about the undercurrents of our town.

"Yeah. He lives in our apartment complex." He closed the book with a decisive thump that echoed off the stone walls. "Calls himself a 'hobbyist,' but everyone knows he's knee deep in the dark arts."

"Great," I muttered, sarcasm lacing my words. "Our neighbor might be a practitioner of the kind of magic that gets you killed—or worse."

"Looks that way," Roan agreed, standing up and stretching his back, muscles rippling underneath his shirt. "We need to go talk with him."

I nodded, and my stomach knotted with anxiety at the thought of confronting a dark witch to ask him if he had anything to do with Doyle’s murder. I just hoped he decided to do the same to us.

"Let's do this," I said, accepting his hand and pushing aside any lingering doubts.

We left the quiet sanctuary of the magical archives, making our way through the book stacks toward the exit. The air grew heavier, charged with the anticipation of the confrontation ahead.

The creaky third step leading to the apartment should've been our first warning. Or maybe it was the way the wind seemed to hush as we approached, like even nature held its breath around this place. Roan's knuckles rapped sharply against the door, the sound echoing in the empty hallway with more authority than I felt.

"Remember, play it cool," he whispered, eyes locked on the peephole that darkened for a split second before light filtered back through.

"Who defines 'cool' in these situations?" I muttered back, my attempt at levity falling flat as the door swung open.

"Can I help you?" A man in his late fifties stood there, eyebrows raised. He had the wary look of a man who'd been caught mid-spell, his surprise poorly masked behind a cautious smile. Maybe he just didn’t trust others.

"Evening, August. We wanted to come by for a quick chat," Roan said, with the kind of smile that suggested anything but 'quick' and 'chat'.