Page 30

NICHOLAS

N icholas woke to an empty bed. The sheets still held Sylvie's warmth, and he rolled into the space she'd left, breathing her in. His tiger stretched beneath his skin, content in a way it had never been before. No restlessness, no urge to prowl or hunt. Just... peace.

He glanced at the bedside clock—nearly noon. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so deeply. The exhaustion of the past weeks, the constant struggle against the bond, the relic's drain on his energy—all of it had finally caught up with him.

His phone buzzed with a text from Rollo: Still alive or did the witch finally hex you?

Nicholas grinned, typing back: Very much alive. Better than alive.

About damn time. Sanctuary needs you back eventually. The wolves are getting cocky.

Nicholas set the phone down, stretching languidly. His muscles ached pleasantly, reminding him of every moment with Sylvie. The way she'd arched beneath him, the soft sounds she made when he?—

The bedroom door opened, and Sylvie appeared with a brown paper bag and two coffee cups balanced precariously in her hands.

"You're awake." She kicked the door closed behind her. "I was starting to think you'd hibernate until spring."

Nicholas sat up, sheet pooling at his waist. "Is that from Sip?"

"Cinnamon rolls and coffee." She set everything on the nightstand and perched on the edge of the bed. "I figured you'd need the sugar after last night."

"Thoughtful." He reached for her, pulling her against his chest. "Though I can think of sweeter things."

Sylvie rolled her eyes but didn't resist. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you." The words slipped out easily, honestly, and he felt her stiffen slightly before relaxing into him.

"So..." She traced a pattern on his chest, not meeting his eyes. "About last night."

"Which part? The part where you admitted I rock your world, or the part where?—"

"The bond." She cut him off, cheeks flushing. "It's different now."

Nicholas nodded, suddenly serious. "Gold instead of purple. Stable instead of volatile."

"What does that mean for us?"

He studied her face. The uncertainty in her stormy eyes, the slight furrow between her brows. For someone who'd spent years running from commitment, the answer should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"It means," he said, taking her hand and pressing it over his heart, "that I'm yours. And you're mine. By choice, not just by magic."

Sylvie's lips curved into a small smile. "That's a pretty serious statement from a man who once told Millie Grace he was allergic to second dates."

"I'm recovering nicely." He caught a strand of her blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear. "Besides, I think we're well past the second date, considering."

"We never even had a first date." She laughed, the sound warming him from the inside out.

"I'll fix that." He reached for the coffee she'd brought. "After caffeine."

They ate sitting cross-legged on her bed, trading bites of cinnamon roll and kisses that grew increasingly sticky and sweet. Nicholas couldn't remember a morning that had felt so easy, so right. The golden bond hummed between them, a gentle warmth rather than the electric jolt it had been.

"I should head to the sanctuary," he said reluctantly, licking icing from his thumb. "Rollo's been covering for me, but there's a new rescued mountain lion that's giving everyone grief."

"And I have appointments this afternoon." Sylvie gathered their trash, hesitating before adding, "But maybe dinner? Later?"

"It's a date." The smile she gave him in response made his tiger purr. "I'll pick you up at seven."

After a shower—which took significantly longer than intended when Sylvie joined him—Nicholas finally dressed and headed out.

The day was crisp and clear, autumn settling into its full glory around Briar Hollow.

Red and gold leaves drifted down from the trees lining the streets, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and cider.

He detoured by the Briar Hollow Inn, intending to check on the relic. The magical box that Mayble had helped create should hold it safely, especially now that Sylvie had added her flame to the sealing spell. Still, after everything that had happened, Nicholas wasn't taking chances.

Mayble greeted him at the reception desk, her silver hair piled in an elaborate updo adorned with small bird feathers. "Well," her keen eyes assessed him. "You're looking positively radiant, dear. I take it things with our resident witch went well?"

"You could say that." Nicholas leaned against the polished wooden counter. "How's our guest?"

Mayble's smile dimmed slightly. "Tucked away in the old storage room, just as you asked. The box is holding, but..." She trailed off, frowning.

"But?"

"It's been making noise." She lowered her voice, though the inn's lobby was empty. "Like whispers. None of the guests have noticed yet, but I've had to strengthen the silencing spell twice since yesterday."

Nicholas's tiger stirred uneasily. "I should take a look."

"Suite yourself." Mayble handed him a vintage brass key. "Storage room's in the basement. End of the hall, past the boiler room. I'd come with you, but I've got guests coming in in about five minutes."

The inn's basement was dim and musty, the stone walls damp with age. Nicholas followed the narrow corridor, the single bulbs overhead casting long shadows as he passed. His tiger's senses heightened, picking up the subtle vibration in the air.

The storage room door was heavy oak banded with iron. The key turned with a clunk, and Nicholas stepped into a space cluttered with outdated furniture and stacked boxes. In the center, on a small table draped with black velvet, sat the ornate box containing the relic.

Even from across the room, he could feel it. The malevolent energy pulsed like a heartbeat, a rhythm that sought to match his own. And Mayble was right, there were whispers, too faint to distinguish words but persistent, like insects buzzing around his head.

Nicholas approached cautiously. The box was intricately carved wood inlaid with silver and moonstone, Sylvie's candle wax sealing the edges. It should have been secure. It should have been dormant.

It wasn't.

As he reached for it, a crack appeared along the seam of the box—tiny, barely visible, but unmistakable. Black mist seeped through, tendrils reaching toward him like grasping fingers. The whispers grew louder, more insistent.

...mine...bond...take...

Nicholas jerked back. The mist retreated into the box, but the damage was done. The seal was breaking.

His phone buzzed in his pocket—Sylvie.

"Hey," he answered, backing toward the door. "Everything okay?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing." Her voice was tight with concern. "The candle I made this morning just turned black. All the way through, like ink spreading through the wax."

Nicholas stared at the box, watching another hairline fracture appear along its surface. "I'm at the inn. The relic—it's breaking free."

"That's impossible. The box is sealed with my strongest flame. It should hold for months."

"Well, it's not." He swallowed hard. "And it's whispering. I can almost make out what it's saying."

"Don't touch it. Don't listen to it. I'm on my way."

"No." The word came out sharper than intended, his tiger surging forward protectively. "Stay at the shop. I'll bring it to you."

"Nicholas—"

"Please." He softened his tone. "Trust me on this. I don't want you anywhere near it until we're ready."

After a moment, she relented. "Fine. But be careful. Whatever it wants, I'm pretty sure it's not friendship bracelets and good vibes."

Despite everything, he smiled. "Your concern is touching."

"Just get here in one piece. We'll figure this out."

Nicholas ended the call and turned back to the box. The cracks were spreading, black mist seeping through each new fissure. The whispers had escalated to murmurs, words almost coherent now.

...claimed...bond...mine...

He needed to move fast. Grabbing a discarded tablecloth from a nearby stack, Nicholas wrapped it around the box, careful not to touch it directly. The cloth darkened where the mist made contact, but it contained the worst of it.

As he lifted the bundle, a jolt of pain shot up his arms, like ice and fire combined. The relic was fighting him, its magic lashing out in protest. His tiger snarled, pushing against his skin, demanding release to protect them both.

He made it out of the basement and through the inn's lobby, ignoring Mayble's concerned questions. Once outside, he placed the wrapped box gently on the passenger seat of his truck and started the engine.

The drive to Moonshadow Apothecary took less than ten minutes, but it felt like hours.

The bundle pulsed beside him, the whispers growing louder with each passing minute.

By the time he pulled up in front of the shop, the tablecloth was completely black, and the murmurs had resolved into a single, repeated phrase:

The bond is mine. The bond is mine. The bond is mine.