Page 3

DOMINIC

T he first thing Dominic Kane noticed was the smell of rosemary.

The second was that he was wet.

He cracked one eye open, groaning as cold porcelain pressed against his spine and a clawing ache bloomed in his ribs. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where the hell he was—only that his neck ached like he’d been sleeping inside a breadbox and his legs were hanging out like a broken scarecrow.

Then he saw the tiny green soap shaped like a cat.

And he remembered.

Lillith.

He was in her bathtub.

A clawfoot relic of a thing, painted pink sometime back in the seventies and lined with all the potions, lotions, and glitter-drenched nonsense a fae woman like her would keep stocked.

Rosewater vials. Rune-infused scrubs. A half-burned candle labeled “Ward Off Weirdos.” Which—he had to admit—wasn’t working, considering he’d spent the night curled up like a damp pretzel in the tub less than twenty feet from her bed.

Not that he’d had a choice.

Thanks to Prince Thaloryn and his twisted sense of humor, Dominic couldn’t wander more than thirty feet from Lillith without the cursed bond yanking his guts into knots.

After their botched ritual and failed attempt to find Hazel or Twyla the night before, they’d returned to her cottage in silence.

Neither one of them had suggested alternative arrangements.

And her bed? Yeah—off-limits. Emotionally. Logistically. Her scowl alone had made that clear.

So the tub it was.

He let his head fall back against the porcelain and closed his eyes for a second longer. His lion paced just beneath the surface, claws lightly unsheathed, restless in that way he hadn’t felt since his exile from the pride.

They were cursed.

Bound by a proximity tether with unknown magical properties, courtesy of a power-hungry fae prince who thought playing with people’s souls was poetic vengeance.

Dominic wasn’t a scholar, but he wasn’t stupid either.

He could feel the bond now—like a taut string tied to his ribs, humming faintly with the pull of her energy.

And the worst part?

He didn’t hate the feeling.

“You awake in there?” Lillith’s voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and unimpressed.

He smirked, even though his back ached like hell. “Depends. You planning to throw anything?”

The door creaked open.

She stood in the hallway just outside the bathroom, wrapped in a slate-blue robe, curls still damp from a rinse and shoulders tight like she’d slept on tension. Arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes stormy.

“I would,” she said dryly, “but I like my spoons intact.”

Dominic sat up with a wince, water sloshing around his waist. “So you did leave me to drown.”

“I let you survive in the tub,” she corrected. “After you passed out like a swooning governess.”

“Don’t recall fainting.”

“Oh no?” Her brow lifted. “You face-planted on my floor mid-rant and mumbled something about cursed lattes.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sounds like me.”

She stepped into the room and tossed a towel onto a nearby stool. “You can use that. Just… try not to drip on my sigils.”

Dominic rose, muscles groaning from hours of awkward bathtub sleep. He grabbed the towel and tossed it over the toilet lid with a lazy flick. As he peeled off his damp shirt, cold air kissed his skin—and caught Lillith’s attention.

She turned her head and immediately slapped a hand over her eyes. “Whoa, hey! Just 'cause other girls melt when you flex doesn’t mean I do. Wait ‘til I leave, okay? Gods.”

He watched her storm out, pretending not to notice the way her cheeks turned bright pink before she shut the door behind her.

That blush though? That was new.

He let out a slow grin as he tugged his pants off and turned the shower dial. The steam rose like fog, wrapping around him in a comforting cloud, but his thoughts didn’t relax with the heat. If anything, they ran wilder.

Lillith had always been immune.

He couldn’t count how many times he’d sauntered into town square or the Spellbound Sip and gotten looks from witches, dryads, shifters—even a banshee once—who all acted like he was something worth unwrapping.

Dominic Kane had a reputation, and he wore it like a leather jacket—casual, cocky, and well-worn.

But Lillith?

She looked at him like he was a walking migraine. Like his charm was a particularly irritating spell she’d already warded herself against.

And yet… the flush in her cheeks, the way her voice caught just barely when he peeled off his shirt—she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended to be. He’d seen cracks in that cool exterior, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something other than amused pursuit.

He felt intrigued.

This curse, ridiculous and reckless as it was, might turn out to be interesting.

When he stepped out of the shower, hair dripping and skin flushed from the heat, he took his sweet time towel-drying. Mostly because it gave him another minute to think. About the bond. The magic. ANd other sensations.

And about what Lillith had really been doing with that ritual.

Something wasn’t adding up.

He dressed quickly and opened the bathroom door, letting the steam swirl into the hall. The smell of warm herbs and honey drifted from the kitchen.

“It’s about time,” she called from her bedroom, rising from where she’d been sitting at the edge of the bed. “You take longer showers than I do.”

He stepped out into the hallway, just in time to feel the invisible thread of magic tug at his gut when she walked away.

The pull was subtle, but insistent—a reminder of Thaloryn’s curse. Thirty feet. Any more than that, and the bond would strain. Hurt. Maybe worse.

He followed her into the kitchen.

The cottage was smaller than he’d expected.

Cozy, cluttered, a space layered with care and protective wards disguised as homey touches.

The shelves overflowed with old tomes and dried flowers, jars of herbs with fading labels, and rune stones arranged in what looked like casual decor—but he knew better.

Everything had purpose. Meaning. Control.

She handed him a mug of tea without looking. He took it, brushing her fingers by accident. Her hand twitched.

The tea was tart. Bright. Sharp, like her. It tasted like spring and old secrets.

“You live alone?” he asked, leaning on the frame of the kitchen’s threshold.

Lillith lifted a brow. “You expected roommates?”

“Honestly? Figured someone this ornery might’ve driven out a ghost or two.”

She snorted. “They tried. Didn’t last.”

He chuckled, sipping again. “Always liked living this close to the woods?”

“It’s quieter,” she said, stirring her own tea. “People don’t drop by.”

“Until now.”

Her gaze flicked up to his—quick, unreadable—then dropped again. “Yeah. Until now. Plus, it helps keep nosy townies from assuming things.”

“Like what? That we’re—what, shacking up?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

The moment was tight but not cruel. Their banter had always had teeth, but there was something underneath it now—a spark, still flickering but real.

Silence settled, like mist on a still morning. Not awkward. Not really. Just waiting.

He studied her as she busied herself wiping down a clean counter. Always moving. Always covering. She wore her stillness like armor and her wit like a sword. But there was something frayed at the edges today.

“About the curse—” he started.

“Don’t,” she said, too quickly. “Not yet.”

He nodded. Respected that.

He knew a thing or two about silence.

But curiosity was a beast that never stopped pacing in his chest. And his lion? The bastard was sniffing the air, sensing tension. Change.

He glanced around the kitchen again. “You always keep runes carved into your cabinet doors?”

“Prevents spontaneous combustion.”

“Handy.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You know, you don’t have to hang around.”

“I can’t go too far,” he said, tone casual. “Call it a hunch. Something still feels off.”

“You mean besides the soul-blasting and surprise bonding?”

“Exactly.”

She sighed, pressing her fingers to the back of her neck like she could rub the stress away. “You’re not wrong.”

“I rarely am,” he replied, shooting her a wink.

Her annoyance rang, but she didn’t argue.

Instead, she moved to a corner table where a large open journal sat, glowing faintly along its seams. She flipped a page, studying a half-drawn circle covered in notations.

He stepped beside her. Close. Close enough to feel the heat from her skin. “That what you were using last night?”

She nodded. “It was supposed to be a summoning anchor. I wasn’t trying to call Thaloryn through, just trying to make contact. Ask questions.”

“About?”

“The Moonlit Pact,” she said softly. “Something’s off. The Whispering Woods are shifting. Their boundaries. Their temper.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve felt it too. Patrols have been harder. Spirits agitated. One of the ward stones cracked last week.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “Which one?”

“North trail. Near the wolfroot clearing.”

She exhaled, sharp and fast. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“And yet,” he said.

They stood together in silence again, bent over the same page, the same runes.

Bound.

Not just by magic.

By something much more dangerous.

A reason.