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DORIAN

D orian Hawthorne had never been particularly superstitious, but he had to admit—when the wind whistled just right through Briar Hollow’s broken eaves, it sounded like the house was holding its breath.

He stood at the base of the wide staircase, arms crossed, shoulder leaned against the bannister post worn smooth by time and memory. The inn creaked softly above him, a shiver in the bones of old wood. Not a bad shiver. Not malevolent. But aware.

The house was always listening.

He rubbed the back of his neck, letting his golden-hazel gaze wander the front parlor.

Light filtered through the tall windows in slanted shafts, catching the dust like slow-falling stars.

The fireplace was quiet for now. He hadn’t lit it since last week, after the logs hissed with whispering voices instead of smoke.

"Not today, thanks," he muttered to the room like it might respond. Which, given the week he'd had, wasn’t entirely out of the question.

The soft patter of steps on the stairs pulled his attention up. Autumn.

She moved like someone trained to be invisible, even when she was the only one around—quiet, cautious, wrapped in that oversized sweater that looked like it had seen better decades. She stopped halfway down, scanning the space like she was expecting something to jump out from under the rug.

Her eyes found him. Violet-blue. Startling in this light.

“You always lurk in corners, or is that a new innkeeper hobby?”

Dorian let a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. “Only when I’m trying to look mysterious.”

“Mission accomplished,” she said, descending the last few steps. “This place has a definite vibe.”

He chuckled, straightening. “That’s the polite way of sayin’ it feels haunted.”

“I try to be polite.” She gave him a once-over. “Sometimes.”

He liked her voice—calm but clipped, like she didn’t waste syllables.

It had a rhythm that was hard to ignore.

And that scent… gods, it was driving him insane.

Clean soap, cinnamon, and something wild he couldn’t place.

His bear stirred low in his chest, that instinctual buzz thrumming beneath his skin since he first caught her scent as she passed him entering the inn.

“So.” She folded her arms, leaned against the stair rail opposite him. “How’d you end up with this place? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly scream ‘gothic innkeeper.’”

“None taken,” Dorian said. “I scream ‘ex-forest ranger with too many flannels,’ I know.”

She gave a barely-there smirk. He liked earning those. They felt rare.

He motioned toward the open sitting room and walked in, speaking over his shoulder. “You want tea or coffee? Kitchen’s mostly functional. Unless the stove’s feelin’ dramatic.”

“I’ll take whatever doesn’t hiss at me.”

He chuckled again. “Coffee it is.”

While he filled the percolator, one of the few modern luxuries he’d managed to wrangle into the place, he started in on the story. The truth. Mostly.

“My uncle Alaric owned Briar Hollow. Only met him once, when I was a kid. Didn’t even know he remembered me. But two years ago, he passed. Left me the deed and a letter that basically said, ‘Good luck, you poor bastard.’”

Autumn perched herself on the kitchen table, legs crossed, watching him over the rim of her mug. “Sounds like a generous guy.”

“He was… eccentric,” Dorian said, choosing diplomacy. “The house had been abandoned for years. Locals wouldn’t touch it. Said it belonged to the dead.”

“They weren’t wrong.”

He poured the coffee, slid a mug toward her, and leaned against the counter. “When I first stepped inside, I felt it. Like… grief had soaked into the walls. Heavy. But not evil.”

Autumn nodded once, no sarcasm this time.

“I saw the inn,” he continued, voice lower now, more earnest, “and I didn’t just see rot and bad plumbing. I saw a place that could come back to life. Like me, maybe.”

That surprised her. She blinked, slightly thrown by his honesty.

“I needed a second chance,” he added. “After the wildfire took my job, my cabin, and most of the forest I called home… well, this place felt like a dare. Or a gift. I’m still not sure which.”

She took a sip of coffee. “Why now? Why call me in after two years?”

Dorian rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Because the spirits have started to act out more. They’re not just pacing anymore. They’re pushing. I think they know I’m getting close to opening. Something about that makes them nervous.”

Her brows rose slightly. “You’re reopening this place?”

He nodded. “Boutique inn. Charmy, spooky, tucked into the hills. Already got bookings lined up from people who want the ‘paranormal experience.’ Though I don’t know if you could tell, but the veil keeps us all protected here, the thing is though that even the supernatural enjoy a good ghost haunting.

Tourists are freaks for the paranormal these days. ”

She didn’t answer. Just sipped her coffee and looked at him for a long moment.

“You’re serious,” she finally said.

“As a hexed bookshelf.”

“Then you need more than a cleansing,” she murmured. “You need an exorcism and a ward built into the bones of this place.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

She stood, taking her cup with her, brushing past him to return to the sitting room. He didn’t miss the way her shoulder brushed his chest. Didn’t miss the goosebumps that raised on her skin. His bear stretched, slow and possessive, humming behind his ribs.

He followed her out.

“So,” she said, her tone lighter now, teasing, “what’s the catch?”

Dorian leaned on the back of the faded couch and gave her a crooked smile. “Catch?”

“You brought in a ghost whisperer, you’re talking bookings even with it acting out, and I swear this house grumbled when I walked in. There’s always a catch.”

He hesitated. He hadn’t meant to bring it up today—not this soon. But the moment felt cracked open just enough.

“Well,” he said slowly, “there’s been… some interest in the inn.”

She gave him a dry look. “Supernatural interest?”

He nodded. “Vampires. Real estate witches. One shifter couple who wanted to turn it into a ‘scent therapy retreat.’ They’re circling.”

“And you don’t want to sell?”

“I didn’t survive a forest fire, a bureaucratic nightmare, and six months with a possessed plumbing system just to hand this place over to people who think moonstone tile is ‘rustic.’ No offense to moonstone.”

Her mouth twitched. “None taken.”

He shifted, bracing his hands on the couch’s backrest. “But the problem is, I’m single. Unmated. And around here, that’s… a vulnerability. Makes people think I don’t have roots. That I’m movable.”

“And?”

“And I might have told a few folks that I was taken.”

She raised an eyebrow, not quite following.

He let out a breath. “And I might’ve told them that the woman staying here—the incredibly gifted, sharp-tongued ghost whisperer—was my mate.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

“You did not.”

“I did.”

She stared at him. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Probably,” he said cheerfully. “But hear me out. It’s temporary. A little public hand-holding, some strategic sightings. You don’t even have to fake smile unless you want to. I just need the town to back off for a while.”

She shook her head, muttering, “You bear shifters are ridiculous.”

His grin widened. “That sounds like a maybe.”

“That sounds like a this better come with hazard pay.”

“It’ll come with free coffee, a private room, and my undying gratitude.And I stipend as well, I promise.”

Autumn sighed. “Why do I get the feeling that this house isn’t the only one with unfinished business?”

He didn’t answer.

But when she walked past him again, mug now empty, hair swaying slightly, he couldn’t help but watch her go. There was something about her. Something more than her magic, more than her eyes and it made his bear pace. Something that made him think this wasn’t going to be fake for long.

Not for him.