Page 11

DELILAH

T he apothecary smelled different today.

Less like sage and lavender, and more like unease.

Delilah stood at the front counter, hands wrist-deep in a bowl of feverfew and powdered agate, stirring clockwise like Wren had taught her. The potion didn’t respond like it usually did. Instead of glowing softly, it flickered—erratic and stubborn.

“Figures,” Delilah muttered, wiping her fingers on a cloth. “The magic’s got attitude now too.”

Behind her, Wren chuckled from her rocker near the hearth. She was wrapped in her thickest wool shawl, one hand curled around a mug of bone broth tea, the other lazily stroking Thistle’s ears. The fox’s eyes were slits of sleepy contentment.

“You’re stirring like you’re mad at the herbs,” Wren said, voice scratchy but amused.

“I am mad at them.”

Wren tilted her head. “Is it really the herbs you’re mad at, or is it Rollo again?”

Delilah stilled.

“I didn’t say it was Rollo.”

“You didn’t have to,” Wren replied, sipping her tea. “You’ve had that stormcloud between your brows since he carried you got back this morning.”

Delilah turned around, leaning back against the counter. No I haven’t.”

“Yes it is. Ever since he took care of you after you exhausted yourself, you’ve been hot and cold. You looked like death, and he looked like he’d wrestled a mountain bear to get you out of the woods and he did just that.”

She sighed. “That’s the problem.”

“What? That he cares?”

“That he still can .” Delilah pressed her hands against the cool wood counter. “I’m not sure I know how to let him. Not again.”

Wren gave her a long, quiet look, the kind that only someone who’s seen too much and still chooses kindness can give.

“You want to sit?”

Delilah hesitated, then crossed the room and dropped onto the cushioned bench beside her grandmother’s rocker. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across the shelves.

“It’s not just him,” she said, voice low. “It’s being back. It’s this place. The forest. The people looking at me like I’m some kind of prophecy wrapped in disappointment. And yeah—Rollo, too. All of it.”

Wren didn’t speak, just sipped her tea.

Delilah kept going.

“When I left, I thought I was doing the right thing. That if I stayed, I’d lose myself in this town, in what everyone expected of me. Especially with him. He looked at me like I was everything—and then like I was too much.”

“He was scared.”

“I know,” Delilah whispered. “And I was ready . I wanted everything. The magic, the mate bond, the future. And he shut down. Said fate was a cage, said love wasn’t something to be decided by the moon.”

“And now?” Wren asked.

Delilah stared into the flames. “Now I don’t know if I trust it. Any of it. I don’t want to be someone’s second choice because fate tied a knot they couldn’t wiggle out of.”

Wren reached out and took her hand, warm and soft and steady.

“Delilah Moonstone,” she said, “you are nobody’s second anything.”

Delilah’s eyes burned, but she blinked it back.

“Fated doesn’t mean forced,” Wren added. “It means found . Found in the mess. Found in the middle of a thousand other choices. Fate’s just a road sign, baby—it don’t drive the cart.”

Delilah managed a watery laugh. “That’s… surprisingly wise for someone who once enchanted my shampoo to smell like garlic after I borrowed your boots.”

“You never just borrowed my boots. You wore ‘em to a mud ritual.”

“They needed grounding!”

“You needed boundaries.”

They both laughed, and the tension cracked just enough to let warmth in.

Delilah leaned her head against Wren’s shoulder.

“I’m scared,” she said quietly. “Scared of opening that door again. Of getting wrapped up in him and forgetting how to be me.”

“That ain’t love’s fault, sugar. That’s what happens when you give yourself away instead of bringing yourself along.”

Delilah closed her eyes.

“I think I still love him,” she whispered.

Wren nodded slowly. “I think you never stopped. But love only works when both folks show up.”

Delilah nodded, her cheek pressing against the wool of Wren’s shawl.

A long silence passed. The fire popped, and the potion on the counter finally began to glow steady and true.

“You gonna tell him?” Wren asked.

“Not yet.”

“Good. Make him earn it.”

Delilah smiled.

That, she could do.