Page 8

CADE

L yra discovered the forced proximity clause in her magical inheritance exactly eighteen hours after the council meeting, when she tried to take a shower alone and nearly electrocuted herself.

She'd spent the previous evening methodically warding the inn's perimeter with the kind of focused determination that usually preceded either breakthrough or breakdown.

Salt circles at every entrance, protective herbs tucked into window frames, and sigils carved into strategic doorframes with a knife she'd found in Vera's spell supplies.

The wards weren't just meant to keep out unwanted supernatural visitors—they were a statement of independence, a magical middle finger to anyone who thought they could tell her what to do with her own property.

The protective enchantments had felt solid and stable as she'd worked, her chaos magic surprisingly cooperative as it wove through the familiar patterns. She'd gone to bed feeling smugly satisfied, convinced she'd just solved her wolf shifter problem with good old-fashioned magical engineering.

She should have known it wouldn't be that simple.

The first sign of trouble came when she stepped into the inn's clawfoot bathtub and every piece of electrical equipment in the room started sparking.

The lights flickered wildly, the hair dryer spontaneously turned on, and her phone started playing music at random intervals.

By the time she'd grabbed a towel and fled the bathroom, the mirror was fogged with condensation that seemed to move in patterns that hurt to look at directly.

"What the actual spell?" Lyra muttered, poking her head back into the bathroom cautiously. The electrical chaos had stopped the moment she'd left the room, but she could feel something hovering just on the edge of her awareness—a presence that felt protective and disapproving in equal measure.

A vibration broke her focus—her phone lighting up a message, though she was fairly certain she hadn't given anyone her number yet. The message was from an unknown sender and contained only five words: "Ancient magic requires ancient solutions."

"Nico," Lyra said to no one in particular in the hallway. "I'm going to strangle that smug fae with his own cryptic warnings."

She tried three more times to shower alone, with increasingly dramatic results.

The second attempt shorted out the inn's electrical system entirely.

The third triggered something akin to a magical feedback loop that made every piece of metal in the bathroom glow cherry red.

The fourth attempt was interrupted by the fire alarm, though there was no actual fire—just the scent of ozone and something that reminded her disturbingly of brimstone.

By ten in the morning, Lyra had admitted defeat and called The Spellbound Sip.

"Junie?" she said when the older woman picked up. "It's Lyra. I hate to ask, but do you happen to have shower facilities that don't try to electrocute chaos witches?"

"Oh, honey," Junie said, and Lyra could hear the sympathy in her voice. "The proximity protocols kicked in, didn't they?"

"The what now?"

"Founder's magic comes with built-in safeguards," Junie explained. "When you're bonded to something as powerful as a rune seal, the magic tries to protect its investment. That means making sure you're not alone when your power levels are fluctuating."

"My power levels are fluctuating?"

"Every day for the first few weeks, probably. Your magic is trying to adapt to the rune connection. It's a bit like magical puberty—messy, unpredictable, and absolutely miserable for everyone involved."

Lyra sank into one of the kitchen chairs, still wearing yesterday's clothes and feeling like she hadn't slept in a week. "Please tell me there's a way to turn it off."

"Not exactly," Junie said carefully. "But the protocols usually accept magical proximity from other supernatural species. Especially those with compatible power signatures."

"Compatible how?"

"Well, founder bloodlines tend to resonate with each other. Wolf, witch, and fae magic were designed to work together, so?—"

"Oh, no," Lyra interrupted. "No, no, no. I am not asking Cade Halloway to babysit me because my magic is having some kind of supernatural temper tantrum."

"It's not babysitting," Junie said reasonably. "It's just... companionship. Until your power stabilizes."

"How long does that take?"

"Hard to say. Could be days. Could be weeks. Vera's adjustment period lasted about three months, but she was particularly stubborn about accepting help."

Lyra dropped her forehead to the kitchen table with a thunk. "I'm doomed."

"You're dramatic," Junie corrected. "There's a difference. Now come down to the café and get some breakfast. I'll call Cade and let him know about the situation."

"Junie, no?—"

But the line had already gone dead.

Forty-five minutes later, Lyra was halfway through a stack of pancakes that tasted like comfort and resignation when Cade walked into The Spellbound Sip.

He was wearing work clothes—faded jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up—and he moved with the easy confidence of someone who belonged wherever he happened to be standing.

"Morning, Sunshine," he said, settling into the chair across from her without being invited. "I hear you're having some technical difficulties."

"Junie called you." It wasn't a question.

"Junie called me," Cade confirmed. "Along with half the pack. Apparently your magical tantrums are causing interference with electronics all over town."

Lyra set down her fork with more force than necessary. "They're not tantrums. They're... adjustments."

"Uh-huh." Cade's green eyes held a hint of amusement that made her want to throw something at him. "What kind of adjustments involve shorting out the traffic light on Main Street?"

"That wasn't me."

"The traffic light that started working again the moment I got within three blocks of the inn?"

Lyra glared at him. "Coincidence."

"Right." Cade flagged down Junie and ordered coffee, black.

"So here's the deal. Your magic thinks you need a babysitter, and apparently I'm the lucky volunteer.

We can either fight it for the next however many weeks and deal with constant magical chaos, or we can work together and minimize the damage. "

"Option three," Lyra said sweetly. "I lock myself in the inn and you stay far, far away."

"Already tried that, remember? You nearly burned down the bathroom."

"I didn't burn anything. I just... energized the plumbing."

Cade's mouth twitched in what might have been a suppressed smile. "Energized the plumbing. Is that what we're calling it?"

"Look, Alpha boy, I don't like this any more than you do. But I'm not going to apologize for having magic that doesn't come with an instruction manual."

"I'm not asking you to apologize," Cade said, accepting his coffee from Junie with a nod of thanks. "I'm asking you to be practical. Your magic is tied to mine now, whether we like it or not. Fighting it is just going to make things worse for both of us."

Lyra studied his face, looking for any sign that he was enjoying this turn of events. But his expression was carefully neutral, professional in the way that suggested he was treating this like any other pack responsibility.

"Fine," she said finally. "But we're setting ground rules."

"Such as?"

"Such as this is temporary. Such as you don't get to boss me around just because you're proximity support. And such as we keep things strictly business."

"Agreed," Cade said without hesitation. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. You're helping me fix the inn. If you're going to be hanging around anyway, you might as well make yourself useful."

Something shifted in Cade's expression—a hint of satisfaction that suggested he'd been hoping she'd say exactly that. "Deal."

Two hours later, Lyra was beginning to understand why half the women in Mistwhisper Falls probably had crushes on their local alpha.

Cade had arrived at the inn with a truck full of lumber and the kind of easy competence that made difficult repairs look effortless.

He'd taken one look at the sagging front porch, made a sound of professional disapproval, and immediately started diagnosing structural problems with the focused intensity of someone who actually knew what he was doing.

"The support beam here is rotted through," he said, running his hands along the porch's foundation. "And these floorboards need to be replaced entirely. When's the last time anyone did maintenance on this place?"

"Probably not since Vera died," Lyra admitted, trying not to notice the way his flannel shirt stretched across his shoulders when he bent to examine the foundation. "I don't think she was much for home repair."

"No, she was more of a 'fix it with magic and hope for the best' type," Cade said dryly. "I replaced her kitchen sink three times in five years."

"You knew my grandmother?"

"Everyone knew Vera. She was..." Cade paused, clearly searching for diplomatic phrasing. "Memorable."

"That's one word for it." Lyra settled on the porch steps, content to watch him work. There was something hypnotic about the way he moved—economical and precise, without any wasted motion. "What was she really like? I only knew her when I was little, and then she cut us off."

Cade straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. "Brilliant. Stubborn. Absolutely ruthless when it came to protecting this town." He paused. "And scared, I think. Especially toward the end."

"Scared of what?"

"Of not being strong enough to hold the seal. Of dying and leaving it unprotected." Cade's green eyes met hers. "Of what would happen if someone unprepared inherited her responsibilities."

The words hit harder than they should have. "Someone like me, you mean."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." Lyra picked at a splinter in the porch railing. "Everyone keeps talking about how important this founder stuff is, but nobody seems to think I'm capable of handling it."