Page 12

LILLITH

T he cottage hummed with the storm’s aftermath.

Candlelight flickering shadows across worn wood and crooked shelves, the scent of ozone and charred magic still clinging to the air.

Outside, the wind had dulled to a restless whisper, rain tapping softly on the roof like a heartbeat slowing down after a sprint.

Lillith stood in the kitchen doorway, pressing a cool cloth to her chest as if it could quiet the thunder still rolling in her ribs.

He’d shifted.

Fully.

Not half-shifts or aggressive snarls that flickered with beast beneath the skin. No, this had been all lion—fur and fury and golden light, slamming into that shadow like the embodiment of rage and protection. And it had been for her.

She found him where she’d left him, half-sunk into the couch cushions, his eyes closed but brows still tight with pain. His shirt clung to him in bloodied patches, the claw mark across his chest raw and angry beneath it.

“You need to lie flat,” she said gently, setting her supplies on the table beside him.

His eyes cracked open. “You gonna yell at me for saving your life?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He huffed a laugh, then winced. “Okay, maybe no laughing. That hurts.”

“Then don’t be funny.” She knelt beside him, careful and clinical, but the sight of him, strong and wounded, still trying to be cocky, it made her have to steady herself for a moment.

“You shifted,” she whispered, not meaning to say it out loud.

“You keep saying that like I did it on purpose,” he muttered. “It’s not usually something I can just flip on like a light switch.”

She hesitated, soaking a strip of charmed linen in calming balm. “Then why now?”

He looked at her then—really looked—and something unspoken passed between them.

“You were in danger,” he said simply.

That was it. No posturing. No joke. Just truth.

Her throat tightened.

She reached forward and peeled the fabric of what was left of his shirt away. He didn’t even flinch. She cleaned the wound with a careful touch, the skin around it already reacting to the salve with faint sparks of gold where his magic tried to knit him back together.

He watched her in silence, heat in his gaze that made her hands shake just slightly.

“You always this good at patching people up?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“No,” she murmured. “Usually it’s enchanted rats or a rogue dryad with splinters. You’re the first person who’s bled on my sofa.”

“Glad I could be your first.”

She wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t stop the smile from twitching at her lips. “Don’t make me hex you. You’re already half-dead.”

“Only half,” he said, his grin crooked and far too charming for someone that had fought a demon ten minutes ago. “Still got enough blood to be a menace.”

She pressed the bandage firmly against his skin, leaning in closer. “Be a quiet menace.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Just looked up at her like he was seeing something different now. Like he was learning her.

“You’re not afraid,” he said suddenly.

“Of what?”

“Of me. The lion. What I am.”

“I’ve always known what you are,” she said, voice soft but sure. “You’re not a monster, Dominic. You’re just... more. And just because you’re the only lion shifter in town doesn’t make you a leper.”

She went to move away, to grab another bandage, but his hand reached up—callused fingers brushing lightly along her jaw. It was tentative, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

She froze.

“I don’t know what this bond means,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But I know I don’t hate it. Not anymore. And I don’t hate you. ”

Her lips parted, words she hadn’t planned rising to the edge, but she couldn’t get them out. Her heart beat too loud.

His thumb grazed her cheekbone.

She tilted toward him without meaning to, but then a pulse of magic rippled between them, soft and electric, like a held breath finally exhaled. Candles flared once, then steadied. Somewhere deep in the walls, the cottage sighed.

They sprang apart like they'd been shocked.

Lillith stood, clearing her throat, suddenly hyperaware of everything—the heat of her skin, the weight of his gaze, the silence pressing close again.

“We should talk about Thaloryn,” she said, too quickly.

Dominic sat up slower, grimacing. “We should talk about what the hell that shadow thing was. It moved like a curse but it fought like a beast. And it didn’t bleed.”

She nodded, clutching her arms around herself. “Which means it wasn’t conjured. It was given. Shaped by something older. Fae.”

His jaw tightened. “Thaloryn.”

She nodded. “He knew what he was doing when he cursed us. This bond... it’s not just a punishment. It’s protection. Or leverage.”

“He marked us.”

“Yes,” she said, voice low. “And I don’t know why.”

He looked up at her then, the candlelight catching gold in his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s just him,” he said. “That thing wasn’t just meant to kill. It was meant to test. To see how we fought. If we’d survive.”

“Or if we’d break.”

The storm outside faded into silence. Just the occasional drip from the eaves and the steady pulse of candlelight in the corners.

She looked at him—this man she’d known in passing for years, always circling but never close. Always heard about, snapped at but never real.

And now, he was the most real thing in her world.

“I’ll get more tea,” she said. But even as she turned away, she felt the pulse of his presence follow, never more than thirty feet, never less than a breath away.

Now though, after tonight and even maybe before, it didn’t feel like a curse anymore.