Page 1 of Kissing Potions and Elves (Oakvale Ever After #1)

ISOBEL

I ’m nearly finished mopping the café, ready to head home for the evening, when a sharp knock on the door makes me jump. It’s not a polite knock, either. It’s one of those firm, crisp knocks that says I don’t care that your sign says Closed. Open the door anyway.

I freeze mid-swipe, staring at the window through the steamy glow of our lantern charms.

Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him. Please don’t be—

It’s him.

Lyrion.

Of course it is.

Tall, brooding, and annoyingly elegant, he stands framed in the café window, his broad shoulders squared confidently despite the drizzle soaking through his cloak.

His pointed Elf ears peek up through the damp strands of his long, straight black hair as it falls forward, framing a face so strikingly handsome it momentarily steals my breath.

With piercing violet eyes, his features are sharp and refined, with high cheekbones that seem sculpted from marble, a strong, defined jawline, and full lips that look perpetually set in a faint, alluring smirk.

The fine fabric of his dark tunic clings to his lean, muscular form. His trousers are neatly fitted, tucked into polished black boots that gleam even in the dim lantern light. His dark cloak adds an extra layer of sophistication to his appearance.

My pulse quickens as his lips part, just enough for me to glimpse the sharp points of his canines, a subtle but unmistakable reminder that he’s a High Elf. His long, graceful fingers tap impatiently against the glass, revealing short, gleaming black claws.

He knocks again, and the sound echoes through me like a summons, pulling me reluctantly yet irresistibly in his direction.

With a deep breath to steady my nerves, I wipe my hands on my apron and shuffle to the door, unlocking it with a trembling hand. The moment I crack it open, I’m hit with his delicious scent of parchment, and rain-drenched pine.

Every inch of him radiates noble elegance, his presence so commanding yet effortlessly refined that my heart races wildly, warmth blossoming in my cheeks.

“Good evening,” I squeak.

Lyrion winces and presses his fingers to his temple.

I recognize the signs. It must be another one of his headaches. He seems to have them rather often and he comes here for Tressa’s famous headache potion tea.

His gaze barely flicks toward me. “I need tea.”

Right. No hello . No sorry to bother you so late. Just... tea. Like a royal decree.

I twist my fingers in the hem of my apron, trying to sound polite. “We’re actually closed for the evening, my lord.”

I instantly regret calling him that. He’s not technically a lord—probably.

Though everyone says he’s of noble blood.

His robes are always too fine, his boots too polished, and his posture too straight for a common Elf.

Not to mention, his gaze is extremely judgmental.

He even drinks tea like he’s judging the leaf’s lineage.

He lifts one perfectly arched brow, then rubs his temples again. “I can see that. But I’m not asking for the entire menu. Just a headache tonic. One cup.”

“But—”

He steps forward like the door isn’t even there, and I instinctively move back. Before I know it, he’s inside, shaking water from his cloak and looking around the shop like he owns the place.

I trail behind him helplessly. “I—I really think it might be better to wait until morning,” I offer, twisting a damp dish towel in my hands. “Tressa is much better at the potions. I mostly, um... wait the tables and clean.”

“I don’t have until morning,” he says, voice tight and clipped. “The headache has been building all day, and now it feels like a hammer behind my eyes. I need the tonic now.”

He moves to sit at his usual table by the window and rests his elbows on the surface, fingers pressing against his temples.

His notebook is nowhere in sight for once. That alone tells me how bad it is.

Still, I hesitate. I shouldn’t do this. I’m worried I’ll mess up the recipe. I have trouble identifying the ingredients because I can’t read. It’s the reason I always volunteer to work the front counter and wait tables while Tressa mixes the potions.

But Lyrion looks exhausted. Paler than usual. His jaw is tense, lips drawn in a thin line.

And stars help me, I want to help him.

I’ve had a crush on him for two whole months. Ever since he first came into the Enchanted Teacup Café and didn’t look at me. Not once. He just handed me his order while scribbling in his book. And when I delivered his tea, he never thanked me, never smiled… never even asked my name.

But I noticed everything. Like how the tips of his ears darken slightly when he’s tired, how he tucks his hair behind them when he reads, how he always taps the side of his teacup exactly twice before drinking.

And now he’s here. Talking to me . Needing me.

“Okay,” I breathe. “One cup. Just sit tight.”

He doesn’t even nod. Just closes his eyes and mutters something in Elvish that sounds like thank you, but might also be something less polite. Either way, I scurry off like a rabbit trying not to get eaten.

In the back room, I reach for the potion book, flip to the headache tonic recipe, and squint at the page. Tressa earmarked this potion because it’s one of the most requested by customers.

The script is full of curlicues and tiny symbols I cannot read, so I do what I always do: I match the shape of the letters to the labels on the jars.

Easy enough. Right?

I grab a few jars. One with a squiggly swirl. One with a little crossy star thing. One that definitely starts with an S… I think. Although I cannot read words, I know my numbers. I measure as carefully as I can, mixing everything into the teapot like I’ve watched Tressa do at least a dozen times.

It smells okay. Sort of floral, with a sharp peppery note.

That’s good. Probably.

I pour it into the porcelain cup, place it on the delicate saucer, and carry it to the broody object of my affections at his usual table.

Lyrion doesn’t look up as I approach. He just accepts the cup silently, cradles it in his hands, and takes a long sip.

Suddenly, he goes still. His fingers pause around the cup, knuckles whitening. His breathing slows, each inhale measured and controlled, like he’s trying to steady himself.

With meticulous, exaggerated care, he sets the cup down onto the saucer, the faint clink echoing loudly.

My heart pounds an erratic rhythm. “Is everything… alright? Would you perhaps like some milk in your tea?”

Instead of answering, he lifts his gaze slowly, deliberately, until his eyes find mine. The cool detachment that usually shields him shatters completely, replaced by something raw, hungry, almost feral.

My pulse quickens as his pupils expand until only a thin rim of violet is barely visible around the edges.

I’m frozen in place, unable to move or even blink as his intense gaze holds mine. Something shifts in the air between us, charging it like the sky before a summer storm. He rises from the chair in one smooth, predatory motion, movements fluid and graceful yet edged with a barely restrained tension.

My heart hammers in my chest as he closes the distance between us.

“Is your headache gone, my lord?” I wince inwardly as I once again use a title he’s never claimed to have. “Are you… feeling much improved?”

As he draws steadily closer, his piercing gaze is locked on my own. I’ve never had the full weight of his attention fixed upon me before, and I cannot tell if he’s angry or… something else.

Stars above, it feels as if all my secrets are raw and exposed before him. “Is everything alright?”

He’s so close, heat radiates from his body to mine. His spicy, intoxicating scent of parchment and pine envelops me.

Hesitantly, Lyrion raises his hand, his fingers curling slightly as though he’s unsure of his own intent. Then, with aching slowness, he reaches out and gently cups my cheek.

Warmth spreads from the intimate touch, igniting a heat deep within that I’ve never felt before.

“Lovely,” he whispers as his other arm loops around my waist.

I gasp as he pulls me flush against him. Before I can gather my scattered wits, he tilts his head and captures my mouth with his own in a passionate kiss.

His lips move possessively over mine, hot and demanding, his hand sliding into my hair, tangling in the loose strands to hold me close.

Gods help me, his kiss is desperate and fierce, devouring me with an intensity that steals the very breath from my lungs. Overwhelmed by sensation, I cling to him as heat floods my body, melting every coherent thought into liquid fire.

My knees grow weak, threatening to give way beneath me, but his strong arm tightens around my waist, anchoring me firmly against him.

I’ve never been kissed before, and certainly never imagined it would be anything like this. All-consuming, and possessive, like he’s claiming something he’s craved forever and only now discovered.

Dizzying pleasure spirals through me as he deepens our kiss. I curl my fingers in his tunic, clinging to him as the world begins to spin. Nothing matters but the heat of his lips, the scent of him, and the press of his body against me.

When he finally pulls away, his lips hover over mine, his warm breath mingling with my own as I blink up at him, dazed, my heart pounding in my chest.

Heavens above, what was that?

His brow furrows deeply as his eyes search mine. “That,” he breathes, voice low and rough, “wasn’t normal.”

My breath stutters in my lungs. What did he just say?