Page 20

SYLVIE

S ylvie paced her apartment above the apothecary, fingers twisting anxiously through the ends of her hair.

The sunflower candle she'd lit to calm her nerves sparked and flickered unnaturally, responding to her tumultuous emotions.

She'd felt Nicholas's pain from across town — actual physical pain that had doubled her over at her workbench, knocking a tray of cooling wax to the floor.

That had never happened before. Whatever bond existed between them was growing stronger, becoming tangible.

When the knock at her door finally came, she had to press a hand to her chest to contain the erratic pounding.

Nicholas stood on her threshold, looking like he'd been through hell. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, dark circles hung beneath his amber eyes, and there was something fragile in his expression she'd never seen before.

"You look terrible," she said, stepping back to let him in. It wasn't what she'd meant to say at all.

Nicholas attempted his signature smile, but it faltered. "You should see the other guy."

Sylvie's apartment was small but cozy, filled with plants that climbed the walls and clustered on every available surface.

Books piled in teetering stacks on the floor, and handmade candles illuminated every corner with warm, golden light.

It was nothing like the sleek, bachelor-pad vibe she imagined Nicholas lived in.

"I made tea," she said, gesturing to the two steaming mugs on her coffee table. She'd pulled out her special blend of chamomile and lavender with a touch of valerian root, perfect for steadying nerves.

Nicholas sank onto her couch, his large frame making her furniture appear suddenly miniature. He wrapped his hands around the mug, staring into its depths as if searching for courage.

"So," Sylvie settled across from him, tucking one leg beneath her. "You said you needed to tell me something."

Nicholas took a deep breath. "My family has a... history." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "More specifically, the Whitmore tigers have a pattern that goes back generations."

"A pattern?"

"A curse." He set the mug down, leaning forward. "When a Whitmore tiger finds their mate—their true mate—something always goes wrong. Tragedy follows. Every single time."

Sylvie frowned. "What kind of tragedy?"

"Death, usually." Nicholas's voice had gone flat. "Or worse. My great-grandfather supposedly drove his mate to madness. My grandfather's mate died in childbirth. My father's..." He swallowed hard. "My mother disappeared when I was ten. Just... vanished one night. They never found her body."

Sylvie's chest tightened. "And you think this is because of some curse?"

"I know how it sounds." His fingers clenched and unclenched. "But you're a witch. You understand there are forces at work beyond what most people recognize."

"Nicholas—"

"I've never let myself get close enough to anyone to worry about it," he continued. "I never wanted to risk..." His eyes found hers, raw with emotion. "Then this bond happened with you, and my tiger recognized you immediately. As ours."

"So you're saying," Sylvie began cautiously, "that we're actually ...mates? Not just magically bound by my spell? And you believe it now? You were just so skeptical?—"

"I didn't want to believe it but my tiger is about to destroy me if I keep denying it.

The spell didn't create the bond—it amplified what was already there, just like your aunt said.

" Nicholas absentmindedly started to thread his fingers through his hair.

"I felt it the moment I walked into your shop that day.

My tiger went completely still. That never happens, Sylvie. "

One of the candles in the room flared unexpectedly, the flame stretching toward the ceiling before settling. Sylvie's magic responding to her emotions again.

"And you've been pushing me away and saying it was just a lie because you're afraid of this curse."

"I was trying to protect you," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I still am."

Something soft and warm unfurled in Sylvie's chest. She leaned forward, close enough that she could smell the pine and spice scent of him.

"Has it occurred to you that maybe I don't need protecting?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "I'm a Sage witch, Nicholas. My family has been breaking curses since before your great-grandfather was born."

A flicker of hope passed over his face. "I can't risk you."

"It's not your risk to take," she countered. "It's mine."

Nicholas opened his mouth to respond when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it and grimaced. "It's Rollo. There's a situation at the sanctuary. I need to—" He stood abruptly. "Can I use your bathroom before I go?"

"Down the hall on the left."

As Nicholas disappeared, Sylvie let out a breath. The raw vulnerability he'd shown touched something inside her she'd been keeping carefully guarded. For all his playboy reputation, he had depths she hadn't imagined.

Her gaze fell on his jacket, draped over the arm of her couch. Something was making her magic tingle, a faint vibration that emanated from the garment. Sylvie hesitated, then reached for the pocket where the sensation seemed strongest.

Her fingers closed around something cold and ancient, a small object that sent shockwaves up her arm the moment she touched it. Pulling it out, she found herself staring at a small, carved stone relic, its surface etched with symbols she recognized from her studies of binding magic.

Recognition flooded through her. This was an artifact of dark magic, designed to siphon energy from emotional bonds. And not just any artifact—this was the type used in ancient times to trap unwilling mates in bonds they couldn't escape.

The relic pulsed in her hand, resonating with the magical connection between her and Nicholas.

"What are you doing with this?" she whispered, turning it over. Black residue stained her fingertips where she touched it. The same relic that had been feeding on their bond, growing stronger with every interaction.

The bathroom door opened, and Nicholas stepped back into the living room, freezing when he saw what she held.

"Sylvie—"

"You want to explain why you're carrying around a mate-binding relic?" The candles around the room all flared in unison, responding to the surge of emotions. "This is dark magic, Nicholas. The kind specifically designed to trap and feed off unwilling bonds."

His face drained of color. "I can explain?—"

"Did you plant this thing? Is this why my spell went wrong that day?" Her voice rose, the relic growing warmer in her palm. "Have you been manipulating this whole thing from the start?"

"What? No!" Nicholas took a step toward her, but she backed away. "I found it buried in Echo Woods, near one of the old mating circles. I was going to put it back?—"

"This was what you found?! And you didn't?" Anger and hurt bubbled up inside her. "You kept it. You've been carrying it around while pretending you wanted to break our bond."

"That's not true. I was trying to understand it?—"

"Get out." Sylvie's voice was ice. "Just get out, Nicholas."

"Sylvie, please?—"

"No." The candle flames shot higher, one nearly igniting a curtain. "All this time, I thought my magic had created this mess. But you've been carrying the source of it in your pocket, lying to me." Her voice cracked on the last word.

Nicholas stood frozen, devastation written across his features. "I never meant to hurt you."

"Intentions don't matter when the result is the same." She held the relic up. "Take this monstrosity and get it out of here along with you. And I'd prefer if you stayed away from my shop."

For a moment, she thought he might argue. Instead, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I—"

"I don't want to hear it, just get out."

As the door closed behind him, Sylvie sank to the floor as the candles around her burned fast and hot then turned to trembling flames to match her shaking anger and grief.