Page 7 of Furever Bound (Hollow Oak Mates #7)

SERA

T hree days of intensive folklore sessions with Maddox had produced a strange kind of productive tension that left Sera feeling simultaneously intellectually stimulated and emotionally frustrated.

Their working relationship had settled into a rhythm of passionate academic debates punctuated by moments of electric awareness that neither seemed ready to acknowledge directly.

"You're oversimplifying the cultural significance," Maddox said, adjusting his glasses as he pulled another ancient text from his meticulously organized shelves.

She'd learned to anticipate when he was about to make a particularly academic point—his voice took on that professorial tone that made her want to both argue with him and step closer.

"I'm making it accessible," Sera shot back, her notebook balanced on her lap as she sat cross-legged in the leather chair that had somehow become "hers" during their sessions. "There's a difference between simplification and translation."

"Is there?" He settled into his chair with that controlled grace she'd grown to recognize, the way he moved that suggested leashed energy beneath the scholarly exterior. "When you translate folklore into social media format, what essential elements get lost?"

"What essential elements get preserved when only academics can access them?" she countered, meeting his piercing blue gaze with the kind of direct challenge that had become their standard dynamic.

These arguments had become less about actual disagreement and more about the intellectual equivalent of verbal sparring, each testing the other's knowledge and convictions while dancing around the attraction that seemed to intensify with every interaction.

"Context," he said, opening the leather-bound volume with reverent care. "Nuance. The understanding that some stories carry power beyond entertainment value."

"And isolation," she replied, leaning forward slightly. "Elitism. The assumption that ordinary people can't handle complex cultural concepts."

His pause suggested she'd scored a point, and the way his eyes lingered on her face made her heartbeat pick up.

"Tell me about your audience," he said, changing tactics with the smooth precision of someone accustomed to intellectual maneuvering. "Who are these eight hundred and fifty thousand people who follow your content?"

The question caught her off guard with its directness. Most people assumed her follower count represented vanity metrics rather than genuine human connection.

"People looking for something real. Most of them are women between twenty-five and forty-five, college-educated, living in urban areas where they feel disconnected from cultural roots or natural beauty."

"So they consume your content as a substitute for authentic experience?"

"They consume my content as inspiration to seek their own authentic experiences," she corrected, feeling defensive heat rise in her cheeks. "I show them possibilities they might not have considered."

"And you think mountain folklore will provide that inspiration?"

"I think mountain folklore represents exactly what they're craving—stories that connect people to place, to community, to something larger than individual achievement."

Her voice had grown passionate without her realizing it, and when she looked up from her notes, she found Maddox studying her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"You understand more than I initially thought," he admitted, his tone softer than she'd heard before.

"Careful, Professor," she said, trying to lighten the suddenly charged atmosphere. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It was."

The simple acknowledgment hung between them like a bridge neither seemed ready to cross. Ember squawked from her perch, her telepathic amusement apparently extending to their verbal dynamics, and the sound broke whatever spell had been building.

"So," Sera said, clearing her throat and focusing on the book in his hands, "what's today's lesson in cultural preservation?"

"Local legends," Maddox replied, though his voice retained that rougher edge. "Specifically, stories that residents still actively believe rather than simply preserve as historical curiosities."

He opened the volume to reveal hand-drawn illustrations of creatures that looked like they'd stepped from fever dreams. Detailed sketches of shadowy figures with antlers, spirits that moved between trees, beings that seemed to shift between human and animal forms.

"These aren't just stories," he continued, his academic tone returning but carrying undertones she couldn't quite identify. "They're active folklore—legends that continue shaping behavior and community decisions."

"Active folklore," she repeated, studying a particularly detailed illustration of a creature labeled "Grimjaw the Bone Collector. Meaning people still believe these things are real?"

"Meaning people still live as if these things are real," he corrected, watching her reaction carefully. "Whether that's literal belief or cultural respect varies by individual."

The drawing of Grimjaw commanded her attention with unsettling intensity. The artist had captured something genuinely menacing in the creature's shifting form—antlers that looked suspiciously like human bones, a figure that seemed to exist partially outside normal reality.

"This one's particularly detailed," she observed, noting the careful attention to anatomical specifics that suggested more than imagination. "Grimjaw the Bone Collector. What's his story?"

"Traditional warning tale," Maddox said, though something in his tone suggested there was more to it. "Parents tell it to keep children from wandering too far into the woods alone. The creature supposedly hunts isolated individuals, especially during times when community bonds are weakened."

"And people still tell this story?"

"People still avoid certain forest areas after dark," he replied. "Still travel in groups during particular seasons. Still maintain protective practices that have been passed down for generations."

Sera studied the illustration more closely, noting details that made her skin crawl despite the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. "The artist was incredibly talented. This feels almost photographic."

"Sometimes folklore inspires remarkably vivid artistic interpretation," Maddox said carefully.

"Or sometimes folklore is based on remarkably vivid real experiences," she suggested, testing his reaction.

His pause was long enough to feel significant. "What makes you say that?"

"The consistency of details across different sources," she said, flipping through pages of similar illustrations. "Most folklore varies significantly in the retelling, but these descriptions are remarkably stable. Almost like people are documenting actual encounters rather than evolving stories."

She looked up to find him watching her with an expression that mixed approval and concern.

"You have good instincts," he said finally.

"Good enough to handle the real answers about what's happening in this town?"

The challenge hung between them like a dare, and for a moment she thought he might actually tell her whatever truth he'd been carefully dancing around for three days.

Instead, his phone buzzed with what looked like an urgent message, and she watched his face change as he read it.

"Everything alright?" she asked, noting the way his shoulders tensed.

"Just Council business," he said, tucking the phone away. "Nothing that affects our research."

But something in his tone suggested that whatever message he'd received, it affected far more than he was willing to admit.