Page 5

Kieran

Dahlia led me into a small, bright room that smelled faintly of soap and something floral. She gestured at a shiny metal contraption fixed to the wall. “This is the shower,” she said, her grin barely contained. “It’s how you get clean without having to find a river or pond.”

I stared at it suspiciously. “Looks like some sort of torture device.”

She laughed. “No, no. See these knobs?” She pointed at two round things. “One controls the cold water, the other the hot. You twist them to get the temperature just right.”

I reached out cautiously, turning one knob. Suddenly, water sprayed out like a burst from a spring. I jumped back, scowling. “Damn thing is gonna drown me.”

“Just step under it and turn it off when you’re done,” she said, amused. “The shampoo is for your hair and the body wash is, well, for your body.” She pointed to some colorful bottles lined on a shelf. “They clean better than mud and river water.”

I narrowed my eyes at the bottles. “Suspicious.”

“Try it. They won’t bite,” Dahlia teased. “I’ll bring you a towel. I wasn’t expecting company, so they’re still in the dryer.”

Grumbling, wondering what a ‘dryer’ was, I step into the shower stall, eyeing the mysterious contraption mounted on the wall. It’s a silver thing with knobs and buttons that look complicated. I twist the left knob, and a sudden blast of cold water hits me like a bucket of icy river water.

“ Fuck !” I curse, jerking back.

Dahlia’s voice floats through the door. “Hot water’s the other knob.”

With a grunt, I adjust the other knob slowly , and the water shifts to a more tolerable lukewarm.

I step under the spray, the warm water sluicing over my beard and tangled hair.

I close my eyes, trying to pretend it’s a natural spring in the woods, but it’s not.

This new magic was confusing — and aggravating. But it did feel... clean.

I spot a bottle sitting on a ledge labeled Shampoo . The label promises “nourishing lavender” or some nonsense. I squeeze some out into my palm. It feels like mucus.

I lather it into my hair. It smells weirdly sweet, almost like the flowers outside. My fingers tangle in the suds, and the shampoo slips down my arms.

“Good grief,” I mutter, trying to wash it out. The water carries the foam away, but my scalp still itches.

Then I see another bottle— Body Wash . More mucus. I rub it over my skin, grimacing at the artificial smell.

I start scrubbing the grime from my skin, my beard, the dirt I can feel settled deep in my pores from years trapped in that damned locket.

After what feels like forever, I finally turn off the water and step out, shivering.

Dahlia’s waiting with a towel in her outstretched arms, her eyes averted but amused.

“You look like you fought a forest fire,” she says.

I snarl. “It’s the blasted water. I’m certain it’s trying to drown me.”

She laughs. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

I grab the towel and wrap it around myself, grumbling. “I’m more of a ‘bathe in a river’ type.”

“But this way,” she says, “you don’t get poison ivy.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I follow her path toward the kitchen, drying off, still muttering about the witchcraft that is modern plumbing.

My stomach growled — traitorous thing — just as I rounded the corner toward the kitchen.

“Absolutely not!” Dahlia's voice cut through the air like a blade.

I froze mid-step. She stood near the stove, pointing a wooden spoon at me like it was a sword.

“What?” I asked, annoyed and hungry.

“You are not walking around my house naked, Kieran.”

“I’m not naked, Flower,” I said, gesturing vaguely to the towel. “This is technically clothing.”

“That’s technically my last clean towel, and you are one gust of wind away from being very naked in my kitchen.” She shot me a pointed look. “Go to the bedroom—first door on the left down the hall. Clothes are on the bed. I found some of my uncle’s old stuff that should fit you.”

I frowned. “You’re really going to stop me from eating because of a lack of pants?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I have standards. I don’t eat dinner with a naked man unless it’s the third date.”

That made me pause.

“…So if this were the third date, I could be naked?”

Noted.

“Bedroom. Now,” she snapped, turning her back and stirring something in a pot like she wasn’t blushing.

Grumbling, I padded down the hall, muttering, “Don’t know what’s wrong with a little towel-based dining…” but secretly, I was a little amused.

And hungry enough to do as I was told. For now.

I stepped into the bedroom she’d pointed me toward, still wrapped in the towel like some disgraced Roman emperor.

The room was small but cozy, with soft lighting and the faint smell of lavender.

The bed was neatly made, and sitting on top was a folded pile of clothes: A linen button-down shirt in a soft cream color.

Dark brown trousers with real buttons and a slightly high waist. A knit sweater in a deep forest green.

Next to it all, a pair of thick wool socks and sturdy leather boots that looked worn but well-cared-for.

I pulled the towel off and got dressed slowly, savoring the feel of proper cloth again—natural fibers, solid stitching.

The trousers fit well, and the sweater felt oddly comforting, like stepping into a memory.

Even the boots were broken in, easy to lace, and made the floorboards creak just right when I stood.

It almost made me feel human again.

Almost.

I caught my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Beard still damp, hair curling at my jaw, dressed like some relic from another time—but at least I looked less like a lunatic and more like a man.

I stepped into the hallway and made my way back to the kitchen.

Dahlia looked up from the stove and gave me a slow once-over. She smiled. “Now that’s more like it.”

“I assume this means you no longer find me offensive to dine with?” I said dryly.

She smirked, flipping something in the pan. “Definitely an upgrade. Still not eating with a naked man until the third date, though.”

“So I heard.” I pulled out a chair and sat down, adjusting the cuffs of my sleeves.

Dahlia slid a bowl in front of me with a practiced hand, followed by a plate holding some sort of golden, oozing sandwich.

“It’s just grilled cheese and tomato soup,” she said, easing into the chair across from me. “Classic comfort food.”

I stared at the bowl. Red. Thick. Slightly steaming.

My stomach growled, but my instincts screamed.

“What is this?” I demanded, leaning back in my chair and narrowing my eyes at the soup like it might leap up and throttle me.

Dahlia blinked. “I just said—”

“No, I know what you said. You expect me to eat that?” I jabbed a finger at the bowl. “ That is made of tomatoes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes…?”

“Tomatoes are poisonous.”

Her mouth fell open for a beat. “Excuse me?”

I stood up, nearly knocking the chair over. “This is a trap. You lure me in with a place to stay, clean clothes and hot water, get me to lower my guard, and now you’re trying to kill me with soup.”

She just stared at me, stunned into silence.

“You can’t seriously expect me to eat that. The red alone is ominous. That’s the color of warning. Of death. That’s devil fruit right there.”

She started laughing—full-on, shoulders-shaking laughter.

I scowled. “I fail to see the humor in being poisoned. ”

“Kieran,” she said between giggles, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “tomatoes are not poisonous. They were once thought to be, yeah, like...in the 18th century. But people figured it out. You’re fine. It’s not going to kill you.”

“I’m not convinced.”

She picked up her own spoon and took a dramatic, slurpy bite, then dipped the grilled cheese into the bowl and took another. “See? Not dead.”

I watched her for a long moment, suspicious. She didn’t convulse. Didn’t foam at the mouth. She even smiled.

My stomach growled again.

Damn it.

Grumbling, I sat back down and tore a cautious corner off the sandwich. The melted cheese stretched, gooey and golden, and the bread was crisp with just the right amount of butter. It smelled...like food. Real food. Warm, comforting, nostalgic, even.

I dipped it into the soup.

Took a bite.

Paused.

Chewed.

Glared at her. “I hate how good this is.”

She beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

“I still say it’s a suspicious dish.”

“And yet you’re going for another bite.”

I didn’t dignify her with an answer. I just scowled and kept eating—because, poison or not, it was the best damn thing I’d tasted in over a century.

“So, I have to ask,” Dahlia said, stirring her soup anxiously, “what did you mean by ‘the thing that put me in there’? What do you think is coming? How did you end up in the locket? What even are you?”

I looked down at my hands for a moment, then met her eyes. The truth wasn’t easy, but she deserved it.

“I’m Kieran Voss,” I began, voice low. “A witch—or at least, that’s what I was told. That locket isn’t just jewelry. It’s a prison.”

She waited.

“Years ago, I was in love. My first love.” I swallowed hard. “She was… stabbed. She was dying.” I closed my eyes briefly. “At least, that’s what I believed.”

I shook my head. “But later, I found out the truth was darker. She may not have died at all. She lied. Lied about the wound, about everything. Why? I don’t know. Maybe to protect me, or maybe… something worse.”

I hesitated, voice thick. “I tried to save her anyway—when she was stabbed she gave my brother a spell, to save her. I used magic I barely understood. But it backfired. Instead of saving her, I became the target.”

“And my brother, Silas…” I clenched my fists. “He betrayed me. He tampered with the spell somehow and sided with the dark forces that trapped me inside the locket. It was meant to keep me from interfering with whatever plans they had.”

Dahlia’s spoon froze mid-air. Her eyes searched mine.

“That betrayal shattered me. I was locked away, powerless, while everything I cared about… slipped through my fingers.”

I looked down again, voice quieter. “And those dark forces? They’re still out there. Hunting. I can feel them. I think they want to finish what they started. With me—and maybe now, with you too.”

She swallowed hard but didn’t look away.

“We’re connected, Flower. I don’t know what’s coming, but it won’t be easy.”

She stared at me for a long beat, the flickering candlelight making her eyes seem darker, deeper. I could see the storm of thoughts behind them, feel the weight of the questions she wasn’t sure how to ask.

Finally, she exhaled. “Jesus, Kieran.”

She pushed her bowl away slightly, no longer interested in the soup.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, voice a little shaky.

“Your first love lied about dying—why, we don’t know.

Your own brother betrayed you. You were cursed and locked in that thing for God knows how long…

and now something evil might be coming for me just because I put on a necklace I didn’t know was magical? ”

She rubbed her hands over her face. “What the hell kind of hellscape date is this?”

Despite everything, I let out a short, tired laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

Dahlia looked up again, all sarcasm slipping from her voice. “I’m sorry. I just—this is a lot. It’s insane. But somehow, I don’t think you’re lying. I… believe you.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she shook her head like she couldn’t believe she was saying it.

“Maybe I’m insane, too. But… if what you’re saying is true, then we need to figure out what’s coming. Together. Because I’m not about to let some creepy, ancient evil thing crash into my life without a fight.”

She looked down at the locket resting against her chest and muttered, “Especially not over a piece of cursed jewelry I got for my birthday.”

She reached out and placed her hand over mine. “You’re not alone anymore, Kieran. Whatever’s coming, we’ll deal with it. You’ve already been through hell. I’m not letting it swallow you again.”

The electricity in her touch made me pull my hand back slightly. I replaced the stony look on my face, trying not to let it slip how badly I wanted her skin on mine.

You just met her, Kieran. You know nothing about her.

Yet her raw magnetism was there. Even I couldn't deny that.

There was silence between us, heavy and full of unspoken truths. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be used or a man cursed by his own mistakes.

Returning to my food, I scowled through the last few bites, fully aware that she was watching every spoonful of the alleged poison. Once the bowl was empty, I shoved it away like it had offended me, then slouched in the chair like that might hide the fact that I was… full.

And warm.

And, gods help me— comfortable .

Dahlia stood and started gathering the dishes. I made a vague attempt to help, but she waved me off.

“I’ve got it. You’ve had a rough day, resurrecting and all.”

“You say that like I took a nap and not spent decades trapped in a cursed trinket,” I muttered.

As she turned to the sink, I watched her. Moving around the kitchen like she belonged here. Like this place welcomed her.

She didn’t seem afraid of me. Not really. Just annoyed and maybe a little amused. Which was—odd. After all, I was a strange man who appeared out of a locket in a flash of light and shadow in her kitchen.

Instead, she made me soup. Argued with me. Told me to shower and made jokes about third dates.

I wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“So…” I said after a pause, tapping a finger against the table. “What now?”

She rinsed the dishes and glanced back at me over her shoulder. “Now you get to sleep in an actual bed instead of a piece of jewelry.”

“Are you sure I won’t wake up cursed again?”

She considered that. “Honestly? Not sure. But I’ll keep an eye on you. Make sure your locket doesn’t start glowing or chanting in Latin.”

“Comforting.”

She dried her hands and turned around, leaning against the counter. “You don’t remember anything else about how you got trapped?”

I hesitated. My jaw clenched, and something deep inside me stirred—a flicker of memory, like smoke from a dying fire. Blood. Betrayal. A name I couldn’t quite grasp.

“No,” I said gruffly. “Just flashes. Nothing useful.”

She nodded, like she understood. “It’ll come back. Or maybe it won’t. Either way, you’re here now.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know how to say what I was feeling. Gratitude felt foreign in my mouth.

So I stood, slowly, joints popping like old wood. “Where’s the bed again?”

She pointed down the hall. “First door on the left. Sleep as long as you need. Tomorrow… we’ll figure out the next step.”

I walked to the doorway, then paused and looked back at her.

“Thank you, Flower.” I said quietly. The words tasted unfamiliar.

Dahlia tilted her head. “You’re welcome, locket boy.”

I grunted and disappeared down the hall, hoping she didn’t see the way my ears turned red.