Page 10 of Kissing Potions and Elves (Oakvale Ever After #1)

LYRION

A s we weave through the bustling town square, the sweet, inviting scent of freshly baked honey cakes drifts through the air, pulling my attention toward the crowded stall. Recalling the wistful way Isobel looked at them earlier, I find myself walking toward the vendor without even thinking.

Isobel gives me a puzzled glance. “Lyrion, what are you doing?”

“Hilda enjoys honey cakes.” My ears grow warm as I lie. I’ve never seen her eat one, and I have no idea if Hilda actually likes these or not. I select a large, golden cake dripping with sticky honey, its sweet fragrance wafting enticingly. “We can get one for dessert for this evening.”

“Excellent choice,” Errol says . “Honey cakes are Isobel’s favorite, though she rarely gets to indulge. Everyone knows the way to a female’s heart is through her stomach.”

I scowl down at Errol’s furry face peeking from the satchel, silently retorting, “I’m not trying to win anyone’s heart. I’m simply buying a dessert.”

“Right.” Errol’s whiskers twitch. “Keep this up, Elf, and you may yet earn my approval to court my mistress.”

“I’m not courting her,” I protest. “It’s merely a kind gesture.”

“Of course,” Errol drawls, his voice dripping with smug disbelief. “And I’m the King of the Fae.”

Ignoring the irritating feline, I hand the baker a few coins and accept the wrapped cake. Turning back to Isobel, I find her watching me, eyes bright and curious, her lips curved into a lovely smile. My heart makes a strange, unfamiliar leap in my chest.

My thoughts drift briefly to that first afternoon at the café, weeks before the potion. I remember clearly watching from my usual corner as Isobel chatted with an elderly woman.

She’d tucked an extra blueberry muffin into the lady’s basket and paid for it out of her own money, giving the old woman a sweet, conspiratorial wink.

It was a small kindness, easily overlooked, but I had noticed.

Even then, without magic clouding my senses, I’d found her captivating—far more than I’d allowed myself to admit.

As we continue our walk, I pretend not to notice how Isobel keeps stealing delighted glances at the package or how Errol’s smug purring echoes loudly in my mind.

Moon and stars, what have I gotten myself into?

When we return home, Isobel takes the satchel. Carefully, she places Errol onto the polished floor, murmuring softly to the bedraggled creature.

“Stay out of trouble,” she instructs, gently smoothing his fur.

The cat merely stretches languidly, then proceeds to inspect the entry hall like some visiting dignitary.

I bite back a sigh as he enters the kitchen and hops onto the counter as if he owns it, while Isobel pours milk into a porcelain saucer for him to drink.

He laps it up with a contented purr, and then turns to me, his green eyes studying me intently. “ This is much better than that attic. Comfortable surroundings. Good milk. You’ve made an excellent choice in adopting us.”

I blink, mildly stunned by the sheer nerve of the animal. “I did not adopt you. This is only temporary. You’re a guest.”

He tilts his head to one side, tail swishing lazily behind him. “We’ll see about that.” He saunters across the counter and surveys the kitchen. “ I believe I shall enjoy it here immensely, ” he adds, licking a drop of milk from his whiskers.

My lips twitch despite myself. Cheeky little fur ball. “ Just don’t break anything, alright?”

He dips his chin. “I’ll try my best, but I make no promises.”

“Lyrion?” Isobel’s curious voice snaps me from my conversation with the cat. “Are you talking with Errol again?”

I nod.

“What’s he saying?”

I clear my throat, straightening to my full height. “Your cat was simply… expressing his gratitude for the accommodations.”

“That’s so amazing that you can talk to animals,” she says, eyes bright with wonder as if I’ve just performed extraordinary magic. “What else did he say?”

I hesitate, suppressing a smile at her delight. “He approves of my home and the quality of the milk. Apparently, he thinks he’ll like it here.”

Isobel laughs.

I catch myself smiling at Isobel’s laughter, marveling at her ability to find joy in something as trivial as a cat’s approval, but I quickly clamp down on the warmth rising within.

Lady Elyssia is my intended, the woman I’ve agreed to marry.

Isobel is merely a temporary complication.

Nothing more. I should not allow myself to get too familiar with her.

“Now, perhaps we should get to work.” I gesture to the hallway. “I’ll show you my workroom. Maybe you’ll be able to recognize the herbs you used.”

Scooping up Errol, she follows me down the hall. When I push open the heavy door to my workspace, she steps inside and immediately freezes, her mouth dropping open.

“Oh.” She stares around her in awe. “You have… everything.”

My workroom has always been my pride and solace, but seeing it through her eyes, I realize for the first time how expansive it truly is.

Shelves line every wall from floor to ceiling, packed with meticulously labeled jars, vials, dried herbs, and rare specimens.

A large worktable stands at the center, scattered with parchment, quills, and half-written notes.

Her gaze shifts back to me. “What do you do with all of these?”

I tip up my chin. “I study herbs, their properties, and effects.” I gesture to the organized shelves. “I’m creating an updated herbal compendium. The current Elven guide is centuries outdated.”

She studies me curiously. “What made you wish to take on such a large project?”

I hesitate briefly, remembering my visit to an Elven mage years ago—an uncomfortable memory, but one that made my research even more necessary.

When I sought out a mage to cast the Heartshade spell, I’d been startled by how archaic the process was. This suppression spell is commonplace among Elven nobility, designed to dull the recognition of one’s fated mate.

It’s used to prevent future complications and heartbreak, especially for those already promised elsewhere. Since I am betrothed to Lady Elyssia, I considered it a prudent measure. I’d never questioned the necessity of such magic before. At the time, it had simply seemed practical.

I’ve had a problem with headaches ever since, even though the mage assured me they would subside after a few months. I’ve spoken with many others who have experienced the same issues. Which is yet another reason I felt motivated to pursue my research.

I turn to Isobel. “Our knowledge of certain magics and potions is dangerously outdated,” I add, pushing aside my lingering discomfort of the memory. “It’s important that we understand as much as possible about the ingredients used, what these spells do, and what consequences they may hold.”

“That’s incredible,” she says, voice full of awe. “What a noble thing to do.”

Her words take me by surprise. Among Elves, especially the highborn, my interests are viewed with disdain, a pursuit deemed far beneath my noble heritage. Yet here she stands, genuinely impressed.

“It’s merely my passion.” I shrug, trying not to let her praise go to my head. “Most of my kind don’t value it. But knowledge has always mattered greatly to me.”

She smiles. “Well, I think it’s wonderful.”

I clear my throat again, uncomfortable with how deeply her approval affects me.

“Perhaps you should take a look around and see if you recognize any of the ingredients you used in the tea.”

Immediately, she looks down at her hand, anxiety flickering across her features.

Unease coils within. Why does she look so uncertain? Does she have any idea what she may have used? If she cannot identify the herbs, reversing this inconvenient spell will become significantly harder.

My gaze inadvertently drops to her lips, plump and slightly parted with worry. Gods above, why must she look so tempting?

With a frustrated huff, I force myself to look away, reminding myself that this attraction is merely the potion’s doing. I clench my jaw. This entire situation is most inconvenient to say the least.