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LILLITH

T he sign above the shop still shimmered with the drying ink of an enchantment rune, twisted just right to catch moonlight and memory.

"The Verdant Thread," it read—etched in a looping, elegant script that danced when the breeze caught it.

Below, carved into the painted wood by her own hand, were the smaller words: Runes. Remedies. Reminders.

Lillith leaned her forehead briefly against the front windowpane, taking in the glowing space inside.

Shelves lined with stones hummed low with residual magic, and bundles of dried herbs swayed slightly without a breeze.

The candlelight flickered in heartbeats.

The ward on the threshold purred with satisfaction.

This was hers.

All of it.

“You’re glowing,” Twyla’s voice sang behind her, dragging the syllables like they were dipped in syrup and mischief. “And I don’t just mean metaphorically. Your aura’s basically writing sonnets.”

Lillith turned, arching an eyebrow. “You mean your matchmaking spell finally worked?”

“Oh, please,” Twyla said, stepping up beside her with a huff. “I had y’all soul-bound in my head before that stupid curse forced you two stubborn asses into it. Don’t downplay my genius.”

Twyla’s rose-gold curls were piled messily atop her head, secured with what looked like a cinnamon stick and possibly a wand. Her wings flickered into visibility, telltale annoyance, and then vanished again. She held a box of spell-infused pastries like a priestess bearing sacred offerings.

“You brought bribes,” Lillith said, grinning.

“I brought breakfast,” Twyla replied, lifting the box. “And also passive-aggressive I-told-you-so energy. It’s important to stay layered.”

Inside, the shop was warm already. Cozy. Lived-in, even though they hadn’t sold a single rune yet. Dominic had insisted on helping her build every shelf by hand. No magic shortcuts. “So you can feel the roots of it,” he said. “Like the cottage. Like us.”

Lillith had cried when the counter finally stood. She hadn’t meant to. But the moment had felt… real. Permanent. And permanence had once been her greatest fear.

Now, it was a comfort she carried like a second skin.

Dominic was crouched at the back of the shop, tinkering with the rune-laced kettle system that would eventually steep enchanted teas based on the customer’s emotional wavelength. He turned as she entered, eyes bright, sleeves rolled up, that familiar wolfish… lionish, smile tugging at his lips.

“There she is,” he said. “Boss lady herself.”

She walked straight into his arms and kissed his cheek. “I like how that sounds.”

“Good,” he murmured against her temple. “Because you’re stuck with it.”

His hands slid to their favorite resting spot, right around her waist, lingering a second longer than necessary, grounding her. Twyla made a faux-gagging noise and disappeared toward the back with a box of labeling crystals and the last of the cinnamon rolls.

Lillith leaned into Dominic’s chest, letting herself breathe. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It is,” he whispered. “You did it.”

“No. We did,” she said, nudging his nose with hers. “This shop is every part of me I had to hide before. The runes I carved when I was scared. The spells I learned when I needed something to hold onto.”

“You carved my name into one of the stones,” he said, his voice going low and teasing. “I found it under the register. And it’s not the same one you gave me. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“I was feeling sentimental,” she muttered, cheeks flushing.

“You were claiming your mate.” He grinned. “I’m into it.”

She looked up at him, a smirk pulling at her lips. “You’re still the town’s reformed heartbreaker.”

“Fully reformed. Permanently bonded. Whipped beyond recognition.”

“That’s my favorite version.”

They kissed again, soft and lingering, until Twyla’s voice cut through the back room with an indignant, “Okay, some of us are single and tragically beautiful and trying not to vomit, thanks!”

Lillith laughed.

It felt good to laugh like that again—like there wasn’t a shadow prince lingering in the corners of her memories. Like magic didn’t have to mean pain. Like love didn’t have to mean sacrifice.

Later that night, when the shop was locked and the stars blanketed the sky, Dominic took her hand and led her behind the shop. The meadow behind the cottage stretched wild and endless, lit by fireflies and the soft hum of lingering enchantments.

Floating lanterns bobbed lazily through the air, a leftover spell from Twyla’s shopwarming surprise. Lillith leaned into him, head on his shoulder, breath mingling with the early spring air.

“They’re still calling you the Fae-Witch of Flame and Echo,” Dominic said, his voice more awe than jest.

She shrugged. “Let them.”

“You’re a legend now, you know.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “You’re my legend.”

He huffed out a laugh. “That’s cheesy, even for you.”

“I meant it.”

“I know.” He turned to face her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You remember what you said the night I almost didn’t come back?”

She nodded.

“You said the bond wasn’t the curse.”

“It wasn’t,” she whispered. “It was the beginning.”

They kissed then, under starlight, floating lanterns casting halos over their heads like blessings. Magic crackled at their feet—joyful, celebratory. The earth remembered her name now. So did the stars.

Dominic pressed his forehead to hers.

She felt the hum of their soul-bond—not a tether, but a thread woven into her bones. Soft. Fierce. Eternal.

Celestial Pines would always be home. The shop would stand as a promise. Twyla would keep gossiping, and Markus and Rowan would keep pretending not to care. But this was everything.