Page 22

SYLVIE

S ylvie swept up the fragments of the third shattered candle, the broom scraping against the wooden floorboards with far more force than necessary. The shards of wax winked in the scattered light of her shop, mocking her with their refusal to cooperate.

"Stupid, stubborn magic," she muttered, dumping the remains into a growing pile of discarded wax.

Three hours had passed since she'd ordered Nicholas out of her apartment. Three hours of attempting to regain control over her own craft. Three hours of spectacular, fiery failure.

She grabbed another one of her pre-made protection candles—one Nicholas had picked up during his last visit—and placed it on her work table. The moment her fingers left the wick, the candle split down the middle with a grating crack, wax spilling across the polished wood.

"Oh, come on!" Sylvie slammed her palms against the table, rattling jars of dried herbs. "I've been making candles since I was six years old!"

She stormed to her supply shelves, running her fingers along jars of ingredients. Lavender for peace. Sage for cleansing. Rosemary for protection. All the elements that had once bent so willingly to her will now seemed as foreign as quantum physics.

The moment she'd seen the relic in Nicholas's pocket, cold dread had flooded her veins. She recognized it instantly from her grandmother's grimoire—the Mate's Bane. An ancient cursed artifact said to feed on broken bonds and unfulfilled potential.

"The audacity," she spat, aggressively measuring beeswax pellets into a double boiler. "Bringing that... that thing into my home and saying nothing."

Steam rose as she switched on the heat, watching the wax begin to melt.

The Mate's Bane was no ordinary relic—it was specifically created to exploit weakness in pairing magic.

It targeted those with potential mate bonds, amplifying their connection while simultaneously corrupting it.

The fact that Nicholas had kept it secret from her felt like the final confirmation of his character.

"Always playing games," she mumbled, adding dried chamomile to the melting wax. "Everyone in town knows Nicholas Whitmore doesn't do serious."

But even as the words left her mouth, something twisted in her chest. The look in his eyes when she'd confronted him, there had been genuine hurt there, not the casual dismissal she'd expected. And beneath that hurt, something that looked suspiciously like shame.

The wax began to bubble unnaturally, dark smoke curling upward despite the gentle heat. Sylvie quickly switched off the burner and stepped back.

"This is ridiculous."

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, centering herself the way Grandmother Missy had taught her. Focus. Intention. Will. The three pillars of witchcraft. Yet when she reached for that familiar well of power within herself, she found only echoes.

The shop felt too quiet without his presence.

Without his teasing remarks about her "mystical mumbo jumbo." Without the subtle shift in energy whenever he entered a room. Sure, he hadn’t been around much, but lately, she’d been afraid to admit just how much she looked forward to his visits. And now…

"Okay, fine," she growled, stalking to the row of candles she'd set aside—every single one Nicholas had touched during his visits to the shop. "You want to make this difficult?"

She gathered them in her arms and carried them to the iron cauldron in the center of the room. One by one, she tossed them in, watching as they clattered against the metal.

"You don't get to keep having power over me," she told the pile of candles, striking a match. "You don't get to keep tainting my craft."

The flame touched the first candle, catching quickly.

But instead of the cleansing fire she'd expected, the flames turned a deep, unnatural purple.

The heat intensified within seconds, forcing Sylvie to step back.

The fire consumed the candles much too quickly, burning far too hot for simple wax and cotton.

"What the?—"

The flames leaped higher, licking at the ceiling. Smoke billowed out, smelling not of herbs and wax but of pine and musk and warm spice—of Nicholas.

Panic fluttered in her chest as the fire grew. She grabbed a jar of salt, flinging it into the cauldron while chanting a smothering spell. Nothing happened.

The flames continued their frenzied dance, casting wild shadows across the walls. A face seemed to form in the fire with amber eyes staring back at her, wounded and confused.

"Stop it," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Just stop it!"

As suddenly as it had erupted, the fire died, leaving nothing but ash and the lingering scent of tiger shifter in her shop.

Sylvie sank to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest. The realization hit with the force of a physical blow: her magic wasn't fighting against Nicholas's influence—it was fighting for it. Every candle, every spell, every intention... all of it was tied to him now.

"This can't be happening."

But even as denial formed on her lips, the truth settled in her bones. Her power wasn't broken, it had simply changed. And the change had everything to do with the walls she'd constructed around her heart.

For years, Sylvie had prided herself on her control. Emotions were messy, unpredictable things that had no place in careful spellwork. She measured, she planned, she executed with precision. Never allowing the chaotic nature of feelings to interfere.

Yet her strongest magic had always come in moments of vulnerability—when she'd let her guard down, when she'd connected with others. The protection charm she'd made for her first real friend in elementary school. The healing candle she'd crafted while crying over her father's hospital bed.

Her grandmother's words echoed suddenly in her mind: Magic flows best through an open heart, little witch.

And if there was one thing Nicholas Whitmore had done, it was crack open that carefully sealed heart of hers.

"But he lied to me," she whispered to the empty shop. "He hid that relic."

Another truth settled alongside the first: she hadn't given him a chance to explain. The moment she'd seen the Mate's Bane, fear had overridden everything else—fear of being controlled, of being bound without consent. Fear of falling for someone whose reputation preceded him.

Fear of admitting how much she'd already begun to care.

She stared at the burned-out cauldron, ash settling like snow inside its iron belly. Her power was tied to her vulnerability—and her feelings for Nicholas were stronger than she'd been willing to admit.