Page 5

DOMINIC

D ominic had always prided himself on three things: his lion’s instincts, his devastating grin, and the fact that he’d never once let a situation get the better of him. He played life like a card game where he always held the winning hand—and he never stuck around long enough to catch feelings.

Until now.

Now, he was pacing outside Pines & Needles , a building that looked like it had once been a charming old cabin before it got overwhelmed by a spellstorm and reassembled itself using magic, thrift store donations, and pure spite.

It was the town’s unofficial HQ for anything magical that didn’t require licensing—book exchanges, ritual recommendations, gossip with a hint of prophecy, and the occasional illicit fae herb deal tucked inside an innocuous-looking poetry book.

Normally, Dominic wouldn’t be caught dead here. Too many dusty tomes, not enough action. But Markus lived upstairs. And Markus knew things.

He was a wiry, sharp-tongued werewolf with greying curls, an extensive library, and a talent for uncovering inconvenient truths.

He and Rowan—his mate, partner, and the only being in town calmer than tea—ran the shop and co-hosted the weekly Mate Counseling Night .

Which, by all accounts, was half therapeutic advice and half matchmaking via enchanted tarot.

Most of the town swore by them. A few swore at them, but that usually meant they didn’t want to be called out.

Markus could sniff out a lie faster than a demon hound. Rowan? He was the quiet strength in the duo. Broad shoulders, warm hands, a voice so steady it could calm crying spellbabies and cranky forest spirits alike. Where Markus cut with words, Rowan soothed with silence.

Lillith was standing exactly twenty-eight feet away—Dominic had counted—leaning against a twisted old lamppost, pretending to chat with Rowan who had met them halfway up the road.

She stood with her arms crossed, chin tilted just enough to say I don’t care, while her fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against her sleeve.

To anyone else, she probably looked as calm as a moonlit pond.

But Dominic had been around enough apex predators to know when something was about to snap. Lillith’s anger was quiet and sharp, a blade wrapped in silk. She was fighting herself as much as the situation, and he could feel it—coiling in the air between them like a live wire.

She was circling her own cage.

And if he was honest?

He got it.

He wasn’t exactly thriving either.

This curse? It was a logistical nightmare.

A very intimate , very invasive logistical nightmare.

He couldn’t take three steps in the wrong direction without feeling a tightening in his chest like someone had set a hook in his ribs and started pulling.

His usual flings had no patience for someone constantly looking over his shoulder at a furious fae shadowing his every move.

His reputation as a carefree, cocky ladies’ man? Shot.

His ability to sneak away for a one-night romp with the moon-bathed bartender from two towns over? Obliterated.

And yet... some part of him, the reckless, curious part, was kind of enjoying this.

Being tethered to someone who didn’t fawn over him, didn’t pretend to be impressed, who glared at him like he was a pest she couldn’t hex fast enough? That? Was fascinating.

She was the only woman he’d ever met who didn’t melt under his grin. Lillith Verdan was made of sharper stuff.

And she made the lion in him sit up and notice .

But she was pissed. And he got it, obviously, he wasn’t thriving either.

Curses were inconvenient. Curses with physical distance penalties?

Even worse. It was like being leashed to someone with a schedule that never aligned with yours.

Dominic couldn’t go three paces without making sure he wasn’t pulling her off course.

Couldn’t flirt with the charming new fae baker without Lillith glaring daggers through the poor man’s cinnamon roll tray.

His reputation? Shot.

His privacy? Nonexistent.

His peace? Gone.

And yet, part of him was entertained. Being cursed into proximity with a woman who didn’t fawn over him, who fought back with wit and refused to flinch—yeah, it scratched an itch he didn’t know he had.

A door creaked open behind him.

Markus stepped out, tall and lean, his weathered face lined with years of magical study and a few things he’d never spoken aloud. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back, sleeves rolled, hands stained with ink and potion burn.

“Come on in, Romeo,” he said, not unkindly. “Before your leash yanks you sideways.”

Dominic snorted and followed him inside.

The shop smelled like dust, old pine, and something citrusy he couldn’t name. Books lined every surface. Scrolls, too, some floating on the air like they were too dignified to sit on shelves.

“You want tea?” Markus asked, already heading to the back counter.

“Nah,” Dominic said. “I want answers.”

Markus raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He poured two cups anyway and handed one over with a knowing look. Dominic took it, grudgingly.

“So,” Markus began, sitting heavily in a creaky chair. “You summoned Thaloryn?”

“ She summoned Thaloryn,” Dominic corrected, sitting across from him. “I just got in the way. Like a very attractive magical lightning rod.”

Markus chuckled. “And now?”

“Now, we’re bonded. Cursed. Can’t be more than thirty feet apart or we get this tight, burning pressure in our chests. Feels like something’s crushing our lungs.”

Markus went quiet. His gaze drifted toward the window, where Rowan now leaned against Lillith, laughing softly. Lillith didn’t laugh back, but her mouth twitched like it wanted to.

“Sounds like a proximity tether. But those don’t usually trigger without permission.”

“Tell that to Thaloryn,” Dominic said, his tone darkening. “He said it was a punishment. For her. For both of us.”

Markus leaned back, steepling his fingers. “You know what Thaloryn was?”

“A prince?”

“A predator. One of the last high-blood fae who believed bonding magic should be used to control, not connect. The stories—well. Most of them were hushed. But I’ve heard things.”

Dominic’s jaw tensed. “Like?”

“Like he used to experiment with spell pairings. He’d bind couples together in the name of love. Or war. Or just... amusement.”

Dominic felt the weight of that settle deep in his gut. “So this isn’t new.”

“Not for him,” Markus said. “But this—” he gestured vaguely, “—feels different.”

Dominic raised a brow. “How so?”

Markus hesitated. “There’s a theory,” he said slowly, “that Thaloryn could only activate a tether if the bond already existed on a soul level. That he couldn’t make something out of nothing. Just... force it to the surface.”

Dominic went still.

“Are you telling me this curse works because I was already?—?”

“I’m saying the magic doesn’t lie,” Markus replied carefully. “And the fact that neither of you are dead means your spirits accepted the link. Doesn’t mean you’re fated. Doesn’t mean you’re not.”

Dominic laughed—sharp, hollow. “That’s real comforting.”

Markus smiled slightly. “Thought you didn’t mind being stuck with her.”

“I don’t,” Dominic muttered. “Not all the time.”

“She’s not what you expected.”

Dominic looked toward the window again. “She’s... impossible.”

“But?”

He exhaled. “But she’s the only person I’ve met who doesn’t give a damn about what I am. Not the lion. Not the charm. Not the past.”

Markus studied him for a long time. “That scares you.”

“No,” Dominic said. “That’s what makes it something I don’t know what to do with.”

The shop door creaked.

Rowan peeked in. “Time’s up. Lillith’s starting to hum again.”

Dominic stood. “Appreciate the insight.”

“Dominic,” Markus said, voice firm.

He looked back.

“Whatever this is, don’t treat it like one of your games. You get one shot with someone like her.”

Dominic didn’t reply. But his hand brushed the doorframe on the way out, grounding himself before stepping back into her orbit.

She looked up as he approached, arms still crossed, eyes unreadable.

“Well?” she asked.

He smirked. “Bad news. You’re stuck with me.”

“Oh yay,” she sighed sarcastically, but didn’t walk away.

Which, he’d decided, was progress. Even if, technically, she couldn’t.