Page 18

SYLVIE

T he morning light filtered through the stained glass above Sylvie's workbench, casting prisms of color across the unbinding candles she'd been working on since dawn.

This was her fifth attempt, each one more elaborate than the last, yet none had taken properly.

She squinted at the latest failure, a salt-infused violet candle that should have melted the magical bond tying her to Nicholas.

"Why won't you cooperate?" she muttered, pushing back a strand of hair that had escaped her loose knot.

The dream from last night still lingered, clinging to her like morning dew. She could still feel Nicholas's hands tangled in her hair, the press of his lips against hers, the rumble in his chest when she'd?—

The candle suddenly flared, the flame shooting up six inches before settling back down. Sylvie stepped back, knocking a jar of dried lavender to the floor.

"Great," she grumbled, bending to sweep the crushed flowers into her palm. "Even my magic's gone lovesick."

She dumped the ruined herbs into her compost bin and returned to her workstation. The plain white unbinding candle waited, a fresh canvas for her intentions. She centered herself, breathing deeply of the clove and cedar that perfumed the air, and began carving symbols into the wax.

Focus was essential in candle magic. Discipline. Control. All things she prided herself on before a certain tiger shifter had sauntered into her shop with his too-tight t-shirts and knowing smiles.

Sylvie blinked, looking down at what she'd etched into the wax. Not the unbinding symbols she'd intended, but two distinct letters: "N.W."

Nicholas Whitmore.

"Oh, for—" Sylvie shoved the candle away. This was getting ridiculous. Her magic had never betrayed her like this, reflecting her subconscious desires over her conscious intentions.

"Maybe that's it," she whispered to herself. "What if my intentions aren't aligned?"

The shop bell chimed, and Sylvie glanced up to see Mrs. Fitzwilliam shuffling in with her reusable tote bag.

"Morning, dear," the elderly woman called. "Just needing my weekly arthritis balm."

"Of course." Sylvie wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the shelves where she kept her pre-made remedies. "How's it working for you?"

"Like magic." Mrs. Fitzwilliam winked. "Though I suspect that's because it is magic."

Sylvie managed a smile as she retrieved the small green jar. "Just herbs and science, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. The magic's all in believing it works."

"And that tiger shifter of yours? Is he working out too?" The older woman's eyes twinkled mischievously.

Heat rushed to Sylvie's face. "He's not my?—"

"Everyone's talking about how he sprinted across town in tiger form straight to your shop the other day." Mrs. Fitzwilliam counted out exact change from her coin purse. "That's not nothing in shifter circles."

"It's hard to explain." Sylvie bagged the balm, carefully avoiding eye contact.

"The best things usually are." The old woman patted her hand. "Just remember, dear—sometimes we fight hardest against what we want most."

With that pearl of unsolicited wisdom, Mrs. Fitzwilliam departed, leaving Sylvie alone with her thoughts and five failed unbinding candles.

She returned to her workbench and stared at the candle bearing Nicholas's initials. On impulse, she reached for another plain candle and carved her own initials beside it: "S.S." She lit both candles and watched as the flames danced toward each other, nearly touching.

Her phone was in her hand before she'd fully made the decision, typing a message to Nicholas: We need to talk about last night. Dream or not, something's changing.

She set the phone down, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. What was she doing? This spell was supposed to be about unbinding them, not… whatever this was.

The bell chimed again an hour later. She didn't need to look up to know who it was; her skin prickled with awareness.

"You wanted to talk?" Nicholas stood in the doorway, backlit by afternoon sun. His wild hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it, and he clutched a bag from Pines & Needles Bookstore.

Sylvie swallowed hard. "I think we need to address what happened last night."

"It was just a dream." His voice was flat, nothing like the tender warmth it had held in their shared dreamwalk.

"Was it?" She gestured to the workshop area. "Because my magic seems to think differently. I've been trying unbinding spells all morning, and nothing's working. My emotions keep bleeding into the wax."

Nicholas stepped further into the shop, his movements cautious. "Magic doesn't always know best."

"And what do you know about it?" The words came out sharper than she intended.

His amber eyes flickered, tiger-bright for a moment. "More than you'd think."

He set the bookstore bag on the counter. One of the books slid partially out— Blood Bonds and Ancient Pacts . Something cold settled in her stomach.

"You're researching how to break this." It wasn't a question.

"I'm researching what we're dealing with." Nicholas wouldn't meet her eyes. "This isn't just about a backfired spell, Sylvie. There's history here. My history."

She thought of the dream, of how he'd held her face between his hands and told her he'd been running his whole life until her. How different he seemed now—closed off, wary.

"Look, maybe this was a mistake." She stepped back, suddenly feeling foolish. "Forget I texted. We'll figure out the unbinding separately."

"Sylvie—"

"No, it's fine. Really." She gestured to his books. "You clearly want to be free of this as much as I do. I shouldn't have read more into a stupid dream."

The candles with their initials flickered violently, then steadied, burning brighter than before.

Nicholas glanced at the flame for a moment as if he was going to say something, then decided better of it before turning around, grabbing his sack and walking out.