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JACE

J ace had once stared down a feral rogue wolf on the verge of shifting mid-market without blinking.

He’d walked into a cursed grove alone at sixteen and come back with nothing but a scratch and a scowl.

He’d faced dozens of threats, mundane and magical—and handled them with the kind of brutal efficiency that had earned him the loyalty of his pack and the grudging respect of Celestial Pines' supernatural council.

But apparently, he wasn’t equipped to handle one chaos witch with a soft laugh and a wardrobe that looked like a spellbook exploded in a thrift shop.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered, flipping through a field report on magical crop disturbances that somehow ended with sentient pumpkins demanding union wages.

He hadn’t even realized he was gripping the page too tightly until it tore.

With a sharp sigh, he tossed it aside and shoved to his feet, prowling toward the tall windows of his office. The view was serene, pine trees swaying, the mountains brooding in the distance, and Main Street twinkling with early evening charm—but his focus snagged, as it always did lately, on her .

Lyra.

Down below in the courtyard, she stood with Petra and Milo, laughing about something. Her head tilted back, curls bouncing, one hand pressed over her stomach like she couldn’t breathe from giggling too hard.

And something twisted in his chest.

That laugh had teeth . It dug in and lingered. He’d heard it through stone walls, echoing down the stairwell, like sunshine sneaking through locked shutters.

He turned away sharply.

He didn’t have time for this.

He didn’t have time for her.

But no matter how deep he buried himself in pack disputes and regional diplomacy, Lyra Ravenshade kept getting past his defenses like her very magic was designed to slip between the cracks.

It had been four days . Four days of her working quietly in his space, not doing anything overtly wrong, if you didn’t count the enchanted scroll that briefly started singing sea shanties—but also not doing anything to help him forget the pull.

She was everywhere.

Laughing with Petra. Trading herbal tips with the dryads. Sneaking muffins onto desks like some kind of pastry vigilante.

And always, she smelled like warmth and magic and trouble.

Jace had tried avoiding her. He took alternate hallways. Rescheduled his office hours. Communicated via notes delivered by staff who now raised their brows at him with just enough suspicion to be irritating.

But then he’d catch her humming in the archives, or feel her magic dancing in the air like sunlight through leaves, and suddenly the claws under his skin wouldn’t rest.

So he kept his distance. Mostly. Except when absolutely necessary.

“Lyra,” he’d barked earlier that morning, stepping just inside the door.

She’d jumped, nearly knocking over a teetering stack of grimoire translations.

“Morning to you, too,” she’d mumbled, cheeks flushed.

“You’re meant to be sorting incident reports by tier level. That stack’s from last year.”

“They were nostalgic,” she replied, brushing parchment off her lap. “Also, your filing system is aggressively grumpy.”

“I’m not interested in color-coded chaos.”

She’d smiled, slow and sweet. “Shame. I am.”

And then, just like that, she’d gone back to work, all breezy competence and humming mischief.

And he’d stood there too long. Again.

Now, hours later, Jace was back in his office, chair angled toward the fireplace though he didn’t care about the warmth. His desk sat untouched. His inbox overflowing. But he wasn’t reading field notes or reviewing security rotations.

He was brooding.

Which, fine, he excelled at brooding. Had it down to an art. But this felt… personal.

A knock broke his focus.

Calla Monroe stepped inside like she owned the place, which wasn’t technically true but close enough considering she’d helped half the staff with potions or hex reversals at some point.

Her wild braid swung over one shoulder, and she carried a satchel that always smelled faintly of sage and secrets.

“Got that tincture you asked for,” she said, tossing a small vial on his desk. “For the ward flare-ups near Echo Woods.”

“Appreciate it.”

She didn’t leave.

He glanced up. “Something else?”

Calla cocked her head. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”

“I didn’t realize that was something you noticed.”

“I’m observant. Also, Petra’s been whispering about your ‘new employee situation’ like it’s a soap opera.”

Jace frowned. “It’s not a situation.”

Calla plopped into the chair across from him, arching a brow. “Then why are you asking Petra to keep an eye on her?”

“I’m not?—”

“You are.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s nothing.”

Calla leaned in. “It’s not nothing if it’s making you glower more than usual. Which is impressive, considering your baseline is ‘thundercloud with a jawline.’”

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

She waited.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I just need to know if she’s… adjusting. To the town. To the Keep.”

Calla’s eyes sparkled with something dangerously close to amusement. “Why?”

“She’s your cousin.”

“She’s also an adult. And capable. And, from what I’ve seen, probably the best thing to happen to the Keep in ages.”

He stiffened. “You don’t know her work ethic.”

Calla’s gaze softened. “No. But maybe you don’t either.”

Jace looked away.

He didn’t want to admit it, couldn’t admit it—but Lyra unsettled him in ways that had nothing to do with her chaos magic and everything to do with the mate-bond pulsing just under his skin. Every time she was near, his instincts clawed at him. Claim her. Protect her. Touch her.

It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t manageable.

So he buried it. Like he buried everything else that didn’t fit in the neat, cold lines of duty.

Calla rose, brushing nonexistent dust from her trousers. “She’s good for this place. And maybe good for you, too—if you’d pull your head outta your ass long enough to see it.”

He glared. She smirked. And then she was gone.

Jace sat there long after the door clicked shut, staring at the fire until his wolf huffed softly inside him, pacing behind his ribs.

Outside, dusk fell over Celestial Pines like a velvet cloak. The lights in the town flickered to life, glow globes over storefronts, enchanted candles on porches, soft illumination curling around ward stones set in the sidewalks.

And down in the courtyard, Lyra danced with Milo, twirling in circles, making her skirt flare like flower petals. She didn’t know he was watching. Didn’t know how tightly he was wound.

And she couldn’t know the truth clawing beneath his skin.

Because if she did… she’d run.

And he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let her go.