Page 7

DOMINIC

D ominic hadn’t expected domestic captivity to suit him.

But here he was—day four in Lillith’s hyper-warded, mood-swingy little cottage—and he hadn’t so much as attempted murder. Not even once. That felt like growth.

It should’ve been torture. No space. No girls. No night patrols or fights with goblin smugglers in the Whispering Woods. Just one incredibly annoyed fae with a vocabulary sharp enough to skin flesh from bone and a wardrobe full of aggressively soft sweaters.

And cats. Magic cats. That judged him like they'd been appointed by the Moonlit Pact itself.

He sat cross-legged on the braided rug in the living room, flipping through a local grimmoire he’d stolen from the bookshelf without asking.

The spine crackled in protest—it hadn't been opened in decades.

It was filled with swirling script and half-faded ink that talked more in riddles than straight facts. Typical.

“What are you looking for?” Lillith asked from somewhere behind him. Her voice was that usual mix of suspicion and weary tolerance.

He smirked without looking up. “Answers. Forbidden knowledge. Maybe a love potion.”

“I have poison instead.”

Dominic laughed and turned his head. She was standing in the kitchen, her hair piled in a loose bun, glasses perched low on her nose for the intricate things she claimed she was doing, and a tea towel slung over her shoulder like she owned the entire coven council.

The sight shouldn’t have done anything to him.

It did.

Everything she did lately… did .

They weren’t fighting like they had at first. Weren’t circling like wolves with something to prove. They still sniped at each other, sure, but it wasn’t as barbed. More… familiar. Teasing, even.

They moved around each other with unspoken ease. She left the sugar out because he hated his tea bitter. He didn’t touch the lavender drawer because she muttered hexes at it when he did.

This weird, enchanted house was slowly shifting. He could feel it in the way doors creaked open more easily when they were in the same room, how the lights dimmed sweetly during their nightly tea sessions, and how the floorboards didn’t creak when they crossed paths now.

It was like the house itself was rooting for them.

A fact he found both hilarious and vaguely threatening.

He shut the book with a thump and stood, stretching. “What’s the over-under on us not committing homicide this week?”

Lillith shot him a side glance over her mug. “Honestly? Better than expected.”

Dominic grinned. “So, I’m growing on you.”

“Like mold.”

“Admit it,” he said, striding toward her. “You’d miss me if I poofed.”

“Only if the poof was dramatic. Smoke, sparkles. Maybe an apology note.”

He was close now, closer than thirty feet, naturally, but also closer than a man with wandering hands and a history of not staying put usually let himself get. She didn’t back away.

He noticed the edge of her journal, peeking out from under a folded tea towel on the kitchen table. It had been there earlier, too, but now it was flipped open—just barely.

Curiosity tugged harder than caution. He reached out.

Lillith stiffened.

Too late. He saw.

Little lion paw prints, scattered across the page in neat little rows. Some mid-step, some curled as if at rest. No writing. Just… quiet sketches. Simple. Detailed.

“You were drawing me ?” he asked, voice dropping.

She flushed and reached for the journal, but he beat her to it, fingers brushing hers. The spark between them flared—not literal magic, but close enough to make his lion stir under his skin as he took the journal to get a better look.

“Just doodles,” she said, too fast. “My hand was restless.” She was up and in his face trying to get her journal back as he held it just out of reach.

Dominic couldn’t help but smirk at the sketches but then he looked at her. The freckles across her nose. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The faint smudge of ink on her cheek where she’d clearly rubbed her face mid-sketch.

“I don’t mind,” he said softly.

She blinked. “You’re not going to tease me?”

“Thought about it. But then I remembered I’m not a complete ass.”

She scoffed. “Debatable.”

They were standing far too close now. Her breath brushed his neck. The air thickened between them, wrapped in tension and something just left of affection.

His hand twitched toward her cheek as his other slowly lowered the journal to her level.

Her lips parted.

He leaned in.

Everything still, until…

YOWWWWL.

CRASH.

BANG.

From the parlor, two glowing blurs launched themselves into the room like feline missiles. Peony and Biscuit—Lillith’s enchanted house guardians—tore across the floor, tails sparking with minor ward magic. One leapt straight at Dominic’s thigh.

“HELL—Ow?—!”

“Biscuit, NO!” Lillith cried, diving to intercept.

Peony took advantage of the distraction to sink her illusory claws into Dominic’s boot. Not painful, but definitely inconvenient.

“They sense heightened emotional spikes,” Lillith panted, holding a wriggling Biscuit to her chest. “You triggered a defense protocol.”

“I looked at you.”

“You almost kissed me ,” she snapped, face red as a love potion gone wrong.

He straightened his shirt with a grunt. “You weren’t exactly dodging.”

She pointed a finger. “Don't you dare finish that sentence.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Not saying a word.”

Peony finally released her hostage and padded smugly to the corner.

Lillith blew a curl out of her face and sighed. “I need a vacation.”

“We’re on house arrest. That counts.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am. Still not hexed.”

She shoved past him to the stove and snatching her journal, muttering about tea and curses and how she should’ve summoned a goat instead.

Dominic stood in the middle of the room, one hand still tingling from where it almost— almost —touched her cheek.

His lion was pacing again, tail lashing with anticipation.

It was getting harder to tell if the tether was keeping them together… or just giving them permission to finally close the distance.