Page 11

Dahlia

Kieran’s hand found mine as we stood just outside the automatic doors of the grocery store, the afternoon sun warm on our faces and our shopping cart loaded with bags. His grip was steady, sure. Not tight, not uncomfortable — just there .

I glanced down at our joined hands, then up at him.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was watching the parking lot, squinting slightly like he was expecting Thea to come barreling through the asphalt with a cavalry behind her.

I stared at his profile for a moment. The wild tangle of his hair, the bit of beard he hadn’t quite tamed. He looked like a painting someone dragged into the future, all dark brows and stormy presence.

Still, his hand didn’t leave mine.

And for some reason, I didn’t want it to.

I cleared my throat, shifting a little under the weight of the silence. “Is… this a normal thing? For 18th-century men?”

He blinked and looked down at our hands like he’d forgotten what they were doing there. “What?”

“This,” I gestured vaguely. “Handholding. The whole... knight-and-sword protective energy.”

He tilted his head. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

I’d rather you do it all the time.

“No,” I said a little too quickly. Then backpedaled. “I mean, it’s fine. Totally fine. Just trying to figure out if you think I’m, like, your ward or something. A damsel to protect. Because I’m not really that girl.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “You’ve taken me in. Fed me. Clothed me. Potentially saved me from a soap that made my skin feel like I’d rolled in ants.”

I huffed a laugh.

“So,” he continued, a little more softly, “if I’m holding your hand, it’s because I want to. Not because I think you’re weak, Flower.”

I looked down at our hands again. His thumb brushed against mine absently. It wasn’t romantic. Not really. At least, I didn’t think it was.

But I’m also not good with history.

Maybe this is just how they did things back then. A gentleman’s way of saying, “You’re under my protection,” like I’m a glass unicorn that might break at the slightest provocation.

Maybe that’s all it is.

I can’t tell.

And I don’t really want to ask. Because if I do, I might not like the answer.

Thea’s Escalade turned the corner and I quickly pulled my hand back, busying myself with straightening the grocery bags like they were in any danger of rearranging themselves.

I could feel the blush climbing up my neck and spreading across my face.

Kieran didn’t comment on it. Just grabbed the heavier bags and followed me to the car.

The SUV idled at the curb as Thea leaned over the console, watching Kieran struggle to shove the last of the bags into the back seat like it was a game of grocery Tetris.

I climbed in beside her, grateful to be off my feet.

Kieran finally managed to shut the door and slid into the back with a dramatic huff like he’d just returned from war.

Glancing back, I notice that Kieran has mastered the seatbelt.

Damn. Quick study. Maybe the modern world isn’t ready for him.

“Alright,” Thea said, pulling away from the curb. “I found some leads.”

I perked up instantly. “Yeah?”

“Sort of.” She glanced at me, then at Kieran in the rearview mirror. “There’s practically nothing on the Rite of Soul Preservation itself—just scraps. The kind of thing people mentioned in passing, like they were afraid to write it down in full. But I did find more on what happened to the coven.”

I twisted in my seat to face her. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, flipping on her blinker and turning out of the parking lot.

“About a hundred and fifty years ago, there’s a noticeable stop in any documentation of the Voss coven—Kieran’s coven, I’m guessing.

” Thea glanced at him again in the rearview, and he nodded solemnly.

“There were a few scattered mentions after that, mostly from rival groups saying the Voss line had ‘fallen’ or ‘been silenced.’”

Kieran’s jaw clenched in the rearview. I could practically feel the way he stilled behind me. “Silenced,” he repeated, voice like gravel.

Thea nodded grimly. “Yeah. The records didn’t say how or why, but the language was pretty ominous. Like it wasn’t just natural decay or a slow death. Like something or someone made sure they vanished. Overnight.”

“They were powerful,” Kieran muttered, his tone low. “Someone would have had to be just as powerful to do that.”

I turned back in my seat, chewing on my lip. “So the Rite might have been tied to whatever happened to them? To the coven disappearing?”

Thea nodded. “Could be. I think someone—some thing —used the Rite to trap him and wipe out the rest.”

A silence settled between us, thick and heavy like a wool blanket soaked in rain. Thea glanced at me, her usual snark softened by concern.

“I’m going to keep digging,” she added. “But whatever happened… this thing had reach. And teeth.”

Kieran didn’t speak, but I caught the way his hand gripped the strap of a grocery bag like he was trying not to crush it.

Thea signaled to turn onto the highway, then glanced between the rearview mirror and me, like she was still debating whether to drop the last bombshell.

“There’s one more thing,” she said finally, hesitating. “And it’s… weird.”

“Weirder than my week?” I asked, thumbing toward the back seat.

Kieran grunted in a way that sounded vaguely offended.

Thea sighed. “There’s a record. Just one. I found it in an archived shipping log from the late 1700s. Someone named Silas Voss traveled from North America to the British Isles. The handwriting is awful, but the name and signature match older records of the Voss coven leader.”

Kieran leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make sense. Silas would’ve been in his eighties—if not older—by then. We weren’t exactly living soft lives.”

Thea nodded. “I know. That’s what makes it interesting.”

From the passenger seat, I let out a low snort. “You came out of a necklace , Kieran. And late-in-life travel is what you’re hung up on?”

That earned me a long-suffering glare from the back seat. “There are rules to magic. Or at least, there were.”

“Maybe he broke them,” Thea said, eyes on the road, but her voice sharpened by thought.

“Or maybe someone else broke them for him. There’s too much missing.

The rite, the coven’s vanishing, you getting bound to jewelry like a cursed heirloom…

and now this travel record. If it’s really him, we’re talking about someone who should’ve been long dead. Which means one of two things.”

Kieran didn’t need to ask. I could feel the tension radiating off him like a heatwave.

Thea laid it out anyway. “Either Silas found a way to extend his life… or someone—or something—made sure he didn’t die.”

A beat of silence. Then Kieran muttered, “I always knew he feared death more than anything else.”

Thea exhaled. “I’ve got theories. None of them good. But I need to dig deeper. There’s too many gaps.”

“We need to get home,” I said quietly. “Put the groceries away. And then… we start looking. Hard.”

Kieran didn’t speak, but when I looked back at him, I saw it again—that flicker of something behind the usual grump and grit. Not fear, not quite. But a realization that something he thought ended long ago might still be crawling forward in the dark.

Thea nodded, turning down the familiar road toward my house. “Alright. Let’s go home.”

I cleared my throat, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, good news is we got soap and enough food to feed a small village.”

Thea snorted, but it lacked her usual bite. “Great. Now we just need a battle plan in case something crawls out of the shadows.”

Kieran finally spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “Something already has.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I reached back and placed my hand on his knee. It was the only thing I could offer—steady, human warmth in the middle of unraveling something ancient and ugly.