Page 29

SYLVIE

S ylvie watched the slow rise and fall of Nicholas's chest as he slept beside her.

His wild dark hair splayed across her pillow, one strong arm still draped possessively across her waist even in sleep.

Golden morning light filtered through her bedroom curtains, painting his sun-kissed skin with an almost ethereal glow.

She traced a finger lightly over the scratch marks on his shoulder—remnants of the night before when everything had changed between them. The gold light of their bond still hummed beneath her skin, a steady warmth unlike the erratic purple sparks that had plagued them for weeks.

"You're staring," Nicholas mumbled without opening his eyes, his voice rough with sleep. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm observing. Different thing entirely." Sylvie brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. "Scientific method and all that."

"What's your hypothesis, then?" His amber eyes flickered open, still heavy-lidded but focused entirely on her face.

"That shifters drool in their sleep." She wiped an imaginary spot from his chin.

Nicholas caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "False. Tigers are far too dignified." His thumb caressed her wrist where her pulse jumped. "Your turn for a hypothesis."

"That I'm still not convinced this isn't some elaborate dream." The confession made her feel naked. Vulnerability, her least favorite emotion, but somehow easier in the hazy morning light with him.

Nicholas pulled her closer, his warmth enveloping her. "Want me to pinch you?"

"I think we did enough of that last night." Sylvie felt heat climb her cheeks at the memory.

"Fair point." He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into hers where they touched. His expression grew serious. "How's your magic feeling?"

Sylvie closed her eyes, taking inventory. For weeks, her power had felt like a live wire. Unpredictable, dangerous, ready to spark at the slightest provocation. Now it flowed through her veins like honey, smooth and controlled.

"Settled," she answered. "Like it found its center again."

Nicholas nodded, unsurprised. "And the bond?"

"Gold instead of purple." She flexed her fingers where tiny golden sparks danced between them. "It doesn't hurt anymore. It feels..."

"Right," he finished for her.

Sylvie slipped from the bed, wrapping herself in a silk robe. Her body felt different—his, but also strangely more her own than it had been in weeks. She moved to the window, pushing the curtains aside to let more light stream in.

"I need to go to the shop," she said. "Make sure nothing's exploded since we've been... occupied."

Nicholas stretched, the sheet falling dangerously low on his hips. "Want company?"

"No." She shook her head. "You need rest. That relic drained you, and the shift..." She stopped, remembering how his claws had slid out during their most intimate moments, how his eyes had gleamed tiger-gold. Not a full shift, but power bleeding through nonetheless.

"I'm fine."

"You're exhausted." Sylvie crossed her arms. "And I need a minute to process... everything."

Nicholas studied her face, then nodded. "Scared?"

"Terrified," she admitted. "But not running."

He smiled, relief evident in his eyes. "Progress."

Sylvie leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "Stay. Sleep. I'll bring breakfast back."

"Bossy witch." But he burrowed back into her pillows, already half-asleep again.

The Moonshadow Apothecary smelled different when Sylvie unlocked the front door.

The usual blend of herbs, wax, and smoke remained, but now intertwined with notes of pine and warm spice, Nicholas's scent embedded in the very walls of her sanctuary.

Her magic had pulled him in, weaving him through the shop's essence.

She moved through the familiar space, trailing her fingers over jars and books, expecting to find disaster. After weeks of magical mishaps with exploding candles, levitating herbs, smoke that formed accusatory shapes, she'd grown accustomed to cleaning up after her unruly power.

But everything was in order. Peaceful. As if her shop had exhaled in relief along with her.

At her workbench, Sylvie gathered supplies.

Beeswax, not paraffin. Dried lavender and rose for love.

Citrine chips for clarity. Cedarwood oil for strength.

Her hands moved with practiced precision, melting, mixing, pouring.

This wasn't a commissioned piece or a spell for a customer, this was for her. For them.

As the wax cooled, Sylvie realized what she was making: a candle of hope. After years of warding love away, of protecting herself from heartbreak, here she was, purposefully inviting it in.

The irony wasn't lost on her.

When the wax had set, she carved their initials into the side—not hidden in the bottom as she'd unconsciously done before, but visible, deliberate. Her finger traced the interlocking letters, and the candle warmed beneath her touch.

Magic responded to intent. That had always been the foundation of her craft. And for the first time in weeks, her intent was clear.

She'd choose this. Choose him. Not because a spell went wrong or a bond forced her hand, but because when given the chance to love safely or love completely, she finally understood which was the greater magic.