Page 20 of Bewitched by the Fruit Bat King (The Bewitching Hour #3)

I freeze, turning slowly to see Morana herself standing in the entrance to her booth.

She's tall and imposing, with silver hair that defies gravity and mercury eyes that seem to see straight through to your soul.

Unlike most vendors in festive autumn attire, she wears flowing midnight robes adorned with constellations that seem to shift when you're not looking directly at them.

"Morana," I say respectfully, ignoring the curious stares from passersby. "This is... surprising."

"Is it?" Those mercury eyes flash with something like amusement. "I believe we've been overdue for a conversation."

Something in her tone makes it clear this isn't a request. I glance toward my booth, where Bethany is happily chatting with a young couple while Luna arranges crystals in some pattern only she understands.

"I only have a few minutes," I tell her. "I need to get more flowers for my booth."

"Time is relative to those who know how to bend it," she says cryptically, gesturing for me to enter. "Your flowers will wait."

The inside of Morana's booth doesn't match its exterior dimensions - of course it doesn't. Instead of a simple tent, I find myself in a circular space draped with those same star-speckled fabrics, a low table at its center surrounded by cushions.

Candles float without holders, their flames burning in colors that shouldn't be possible, and the scent of herbs I can't identify fills the air.

"Sit," she commands, gracefully folding herself onto a cushion.

I obey, more out of respect than fear. Morana may be intimidating, but she's always been fair in her dealings with Haven's Cross witches.

"I didn't expect to see you at the festival," I say, trying to sound casual.

"Expectations are merely limitations we place upon reality." She waves a hand, and a delicate silver teapot appears on the table between us. "But you are correct - I rarely attend these... festivities. However, some conversations must happen in person."

She pours tea into two cups so thin they're nearly translucent. The liquid inside shifts colors like an aurora.

"Drink," she instructs, passing me a cup. "It will help you hear what needs to be heard."

I hesitate only briefly before taking a sip. The tea tastes like summer rain and winter stars, impossible flavors that somehow make perfect sense in the moment. My senses sharpen immediately, the world coming into crisper focus.

"You've been busy, Willow Thorne," Morana says, studying me over the rim of her cup. "Breaking ancient wards, forming bonds that haven't existed in centuries, playing with forces beyond your understanding."

My heart skips painfully. "I don't know what you mean."

Her laugh is like crystal wind chimes. "Please. I felt the shift in the magical fabric of this town the moment you and Kane Drake connected. The stars themselves reordered their paths. Did you think such a thing would go unnoticed?"

"I didn’t know. It was an accident," I protest weakly.

"Perhaps the initial connection," she concedes. "But what followed in the pumpkin patch was not. That was choice, Willow. And choices have consequences."

Heat rushes to my cheeks. How does she know about that?

"I didn't come here for relationship advice," I mutter, setting down my cup.

"No, you came for flowers. But you will leave with truth, whether you wish it or not." Morana's eyes narrow slightly. "Your path stands at a crossroads, witch. The choices before you will ripple through generations. In fact, they already have."

Before I can respond, she reaches beneath the table and produces a deck of cards unlike any I've seen before. They're larger than normal tarot, their backs shimmering with that same shifting constellation pattern as her robes. When she shuffles, the cards seem to bend light around them.

"I don't need a reading," I say quickly. Fortune telling has always made me nervous - too many variables, too much interpretation.

"What we need and what we receive are rarely the same thing." She lays three cards face down on the table. "These are not predictions, child. They are possibilities. Warnings. Guides for the journey ahead."

Her slender fingers turn over the first card. It shows a tower being struck by lightning, figures falling from its heights.

"The Tower. Destruction that precedes creation." Her voice takes on a rhythmic quality. "What stands now will fall. What has endured will crumble. This is neither good nor evil - it simply is."

My stomach tightens. "That's... ominous."

She turns the second card. A woman stands between two pillars, a scroll in her hands.

"The High Priestess. Knowledge hidden beneath the surface." Her mercury eyes fix on mine. "Secrets lie dormant in your bloodline, Willow Thorne. Secrets that will soon awaken. Your grandmother left you more than a flower shop."

My breath catches. "What do you know about my grandmother?"

Instead of answering, Morana turns the final card. It shows two people connected by a glowing cord, standing in a garden beneath a night sky.

"The Lovers. But not as most would interpret it." She traces the edge of the card. "Choice. Sacrifice. The greatest loves require the greatest sorrows to forge them into something unbreakable."

"I don't understand," I whisper, though part of me does - the part connected to Kane through a bond I never asked for but can't bring myself to regret.

"What breaks can mend," Morana says, gathering her cards. "But first it must break completely. Your bond with Kane Drake will be tested by fire and blood. History has a way of repeating itself when lessons remain unlearned."

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the tent. "Are you saying we're doomed?"

"I'm saying destiny offers paths, not certainties.

" She leans forward, and for a moment I swear I see eternity in those mercury eyes.

"Listen carefully, flower witch. The Drake family carries a curse older than this town.

Your bloodline holds the key to either breaking it or being consumed by it.

When the choice comes - and it will come - remember that sometimes what you tear apart is what saves you in the end. "

"That doesn't make any sense," I protest. "What curse? What choice?"

Morana's lips curve into a smile that holds little humor. "Every Drake generation faces the same trial. Kane is no exception. Ask him about Marianne Thorne."

"Marianne... was she related to me?"

"The answers you seek are closer than you realize." She rises in one fluid motion, signaling our meeting is over. "But be warned - some doors, once opened, cannot be closed. Some fates, once acknowledged, cannot be undone."

I stand on shaky legs, my mind whirling with questions. "Why are you telling me this? Why now?"

"Because the stars align as they did once before. Because history needs breaking, not repeating." Her hand brushes mine briefly, and a jolt of ancient power passes between us. "And because I promised a dying woman I would watch over her granddaughter when the time came."

My grandmother. She must mean my grandmother. But before I can ask, Morana gestures toward the tent's entrance, which now reappears.

"The festival awaits, Willow Thorne. As does your vampire." Her smile turns knowing. "Remember what I've said when darkness falls. What breaks can mend."

I step out of the tent feeling disoriented, as if I've been gone for hours instead of minutes. The festival continues around me, unchanged - children laughing, music playing, the scent of autumn foods filling the air. But I feel changed, unmoored by Morana's cryptic warnings.

Automatically, my eyes drift toward Kane's booth. Still no sign of him. A mixture of relief and disappointment washes through me. After Morana's reading, I'm not sure I'm ready to face him and the questions now burning in my mind.

Who was Marianne Thorne? What curse plagues the Drake family? And most importantly - what choice am I destined to make that could either break or strengthen whatever is growing between Kane and me?

I stand frozen in place, my intended flower retrieval mission forgotten as I stare at Haven's Harvest and its beautiful, tempting display. The mate bond in my chest pulses with a steady rhythm, as if counting down to something inevitable.

"Looking for me?"

The words, murmured against my ear, send a shiver cascading down my spine.

Warm arms wrap around my waist from behind, and that distinctive scent - cedarwood, cinnamon, and something distinctly otherworldly - envelops me.

The bond in my chest sings in recognition, a triumphant melody that makes my knees weak.

Kane.

I should pull away. We're in public, at the crowded festival, and anyone could see the CEO of Kane Industries embracing the local flower witch like we're... whatever we are. But my body betrays me, leaning back slightly into his solid chest as his breath tickles my neck.

"This is inappropriate," I manage to say, even as my pulse races traitorously.

"I prefer the term 'spontaneous,'" he replies, his voice a low rumble I can feel against my back. "Or 'inevitable,' if you're feeling poetic. Fated mates has the word fate in it for a reason."

I finally find the willpower to turn in his arms, creating a small space between us without completely breaking contact.

The sight of him knocks the breath from my lungs.

Kane Drake in casual clothes is devastating to my composure - dark jeans, a charcoal henley that clings in all the right places, and a butter soft leather jacket.

His dark hair is artfully tousled, and those amber eyes hold a warmth I'm still getting used to seeing directed at me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, hating how breathless I sound.

His smile is slow, deliberate, devastatingly charming. "Enjoying the festival like everyone else. Though I admit, I had a particular interest in seeing a certain flower witch's booth."

"No, I mean..." I gesture vaguely toward his company's elaborate display. "Shouldn't you be, I don't know, running your empire from some skyscraper somewhere? CEOs don't typically take the time to manage this sort of thing."

"This CEO does." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the casual intimacy of the gesture making my skin tingle. "Haven's Harvest is a special project of mine. Besides, I'm competing in the pumpkin carving contest this afternoon."

"Of course you are," I mutter, remembering our competitive banter at the pumpkin patch. "Planning to rig it in your favor?"

His laugh is rich and warm, genuinely amused rather than offended. "I don't need to rig anything, flower girl. Five-time champion, remember? Though I hear there's some upstart local witch who thinks she can dethrone me this year."

"She doesn't think, she knows," I retort, finding my footing in our familiar verbal sparring. It's easier than confronting the questions swirling in my mind after Morana's reading. "Prepare to hand over your crown, Drake."

His eyes glitter with challenge and something darker, more primal. "I never surrender anything without a fight."

The double meaning hangs between us, charging the air with possibilities. The festival buzzes around us, but for a moment it feels like we're in our own private bubble, the bond humming contentedly at our proximity.

The moment breaks when a small child darts between us, chasing after a butterfly with delighted squeals. Kane's hand catches mine before I can step further away, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a gentle caress.

"I was hoping you might hold true to your promise," he says, suddenly serious. "For that dance tonight at the lantern lighting."

The lantern lighting ceremony stands as the festival's most romantic tradition, when hundreds of paper lanterns transform the square into a sea of glowing light and couples sway beneath their warm glow.

My pulse quickens at the thought of being in Kane's arms under those lights, with the entire town as witnesses.

"I said maybe," I remind him, though the bond hums disapprovingly at my resistance.

"And I believe my response was that I'm exceptionally persistent." His smile carries absolute certainty. "Some might call it stubborn."

Before I can form a retort, someone calls his name from the Haven's Harvest booth. One of his employees waves with obvious urgency, clutching a clipboard.

Kane sighs, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. "Duty calls. But I'm not done with you yet."

"Are you ever?" I ask, one eyebrow raised.

His smile turns predatory. "Not until I get exactly what I want." He leans in, close enough that his breath warms my ear. "And I want that dance, Willow. Consider it a consolation prize after I crush your pumpkin carving dreams."

He walks away with that infuriating confidence, leaving me standing there with flushed cheeks and a racing heart. The bond pulses contentedly in my chest, completely disregarding Morana's ominous warnings about curses and choices and history's dangerous cycles.

What breaks can mend.

The phrase echoes through my thoughts as I watch Kane effortlessly charm an elderly couple approaching his booth.

This connection we have feels like a contradiction – fragile yet unbreakable.

With Morana's cryptic reading hanging over me, a shadow of doubt creeps in – is whatever we're building together destined to shatter before it truly begins?

But when Kane glances back, his eyes finding mine without hesitation across the crowded square, something fierce ignites within me.

Destiny may offer paths, but it doesn't control my feet.

Whatever trial awaits us, whatever curse or choice or breaking point lurks ahead, I'm through letting prophecies and fate dictate my decisions.

I turn away, heading toward my flower wagon with determination burning in my veins. There's work to do – a booth demanding attention, a pumpkin contest to dominate, and apparently, a dance that seems increasingly inevitable.

Yet as the festival day unfolds around me, Morana's final warning trails like a shadow at my heels: Remember that sometimes what you tear apart is what saves you in the end.