Page 8

Chapter

Six

JUNIPER

S pring petals drifted beneath my feet as I followed Diana down the winding garden path that led across her estate toward the guest cottage.

Unlike my clumsy gait, she seemed to float above the scattered blossoms, her movements fluid in a way that made my neck prickle.

Late afternoon sun filtered through newly budding branches, casting dappled light across our path.

"I must admit," Diana said, glancing back at me, "I haven't had anyone stay here in ages.

Took me all morning just to air it out properly.

" Her laugh carried on the breeze like wind chimes.

"My work keeps me surrounded by people most days, so I tend to guard my private time.

But the cottage deserves some life in it.

" She paused, then added with casual grace, "And don't worry about rent or anything of that nature—we can sort that out once you're settled at the agency. "

She glided through the fallen leaves like gravity was optional, and I tried to squash down my instinct to pick apart every word she said.

After all, less than twenty-four hours ago, I'd trusted someone I'd known my whole life and ended up in a shallow grave.

That was bound to make me jumpy. And now, I was following a stranger who moved like a dream and spoke in riddles.

But what choice did I have? It was either trust the mysterious Diana, or try my luck with no money, no ID, and a pack of wolves potentially hunting me. Sometimes you had to pick the devil you didn't know.

The path curved around an ancient oak, and there it stood—a cottage that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale.

Weathered stone walls rose from beds of wild mint and early daffodils, while stubborn wisteria claimed one entire corner in cascades of purple blooms. Mullioned windows caught the dying sunlight like jewels, and a heavy wooden door, painted sage green, stood beneath a peaked roof of moss-darkened slate.

Something about it pulled at me, like a half-remembered dream.

Diana pulled out a brass key that seemed to dance with its own light.

"Fair warning. It smells like I murdered every lemon in a ten-mile radius. Cleaning supplies," she explained, working the lock.

I jerked a bit at the imagery, considering the recent attempt on my own life. She didn’t appear to catch it, continuing on.

A flash of deep purple rippled in the air around Diana as she worked the lock—like heat waves but wrong. I blinked hard, chalking it up to stress, lack of sleep, and you know, the whole being buried alive thing. When I looked again, there was just Diana, elegant and impossible as ever.

The door swung open without a sound, releasing a wave of lemon-scented air mixed with something earthier—dried herbs and old wood and the faint sweetness of lavender.

The interior was a study in organized chaos: exposed wooden beams crossed a white-painted ceiling, while built-in shelves lined every available wall space.

A stone fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by mismatched but comfortable-looking furniture that somehow worked together perfectly.

"It's not the Ritz," Diana said, gesturing to the living area. "But the desk gets a killer morning light if you're one of those disgusting morning people."

I barely heard her. The kitchen had my full attention.

It was smaller than my old one, but efficiently laid out with butcher-block counters and open shelving displaying an impressive collection of copper pots.

They could have been twins to mine, right down to the way they caught the light.

But the dents were wrong–these had different battle scars.

My heart did a weird little stutter. Three days ago, the man I'd loved had buried me in the woods, and here I was, getting emotional over cookware. I forced my breathing to steady, pushed the memory down where it belonged. I could fall apart later.

Diana breezed past my obvious shock, opening a cabinet that looked like she'd raided a specialty tea shop. Dozens of tins and jars lined the shelves in neat rows.

"I might have a slight tea problem," she admitted. "The good stuff's in here." She tapped a drawer with a wink that definitely wasn't suspicious at all.

My eyes drifted up to the rafters, where herbs hung in neat bundles–sage, thyme, rosemary, and others I couldn't immediately identify. Just like I used to...No. Not going there.

A reading nook tucked into the corner window saved me from that particular pit of memories. The worn leather armchair was perfectly positioned for keeping an eye on both the garden and the approach to the cottage. Not that I was paranoid or anything.

Diana led me through the rest quickly. The bedroom held a king-sized bed draped in crisp white linens that practically glowed in the fading light, while the bathroom sparkled with new fixtures and a clawfoot tub that looked like it had stories to tell.

Everything was clean and carefully prepared, as if she'd been expecting me specifically.

When she paused at the bedroom door frame, that strange shimmer flickered around her again.

"I keep to myself in the main house," she said, the air practically vibrating around her. "This space is yours."

"Thanks," I managed, swallowing back about fifty questions.

Her smile was gentle but knowing, like she could read every question I wasn't asking. "Rest. Tomorrow's another day." Then she was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I waited until Diana's footsteps faded completely. A glass-paned door caught my attention, tucked between the herb rack and pantry. It opened onto a small patio garden—late-season herbs sprawling everywhere, stubborn marigolds dotting the borders, kale and winter squash spilling over neat beds.

The peaceful setting hit me like a physical blow. After a night of running, of holding myself together in front of strangers who couldn't know what had happened, it was a relief to let it go.

My legs gave out, and I sank onto a stone bench, letting the tears finally come. Not the hysterical sobs I'd been expecting, just a steady stream of relief and exhaustion and lingering terror. When the tears dried, I felt hollowed out but somehow lighter.

Time to go in.

I put the copper kettle to use, careful not to look too hard at its familiar shape. The ritual of measuring leaves from a tin labeled "Evening Calm" centered me, gave my hands something to do while my mind processed the day.

The reading nook beckoned. I curled into the armchair with my tea, spreading out the files from the agency. That arrogant man—whose name I still didn't know—had practically thrown these at me. Five black folders, each containing a client photo that made me pause.

The more I studied them, the more wrong they seemed.

The woman with silver-white hair had an ethereal quality that went beyond good lighting.

Another woman's eyes reflected an actual golden gleam in the camera flash.

A redhead with a predatory grace that made my newly-enhanced instincts buzz with recognition.

I flipped through the intake forms, looking for clues.

The questions seemed normal at first glance, but some were oddly specific.

"Night owl or early bird?" could mean preference for evening dates, but paired with "Any dietary restrictions or preferences?

" it started to paint a different picture.

Especially when one client had written "rare" under preferred meal preparation.

A thought struck me. I'd walked into that dingy office, been hired on the spot for ten thousand dollars, and walked out with these specific files. The man behind the desk had been dismissive, almost hostile, until Diana's name came up. Then he'd practically shoved work at me without explanation.

What kind of matchmaking service operated like that?

I started organizing the files, looking for patterns. The redhead with predatory eyes went in one pile—something about her screamed danger in a way that felt familiar. The ethereal woman in another. The one with golden eyes definitely belonged with the redhead.

My hand froze over a fourth file. The man in the photo looked normal enough, but there was something about his smile that didn't reach his eyes. Something that reminded me of old stories my grandmother used to tell, about creatures that fed on more than food.

The pieces clicked together slowly. These weren't just difficult clients. They were...different. And if they were different, then what did that make the agency? What did that make Diana, with her impossible grace and that strange shimmer I kept seeing?

I set down my tea with shaking hands. Whatever I'd stumbled into, it was bigger than a simple matchmaking service. The question was: did I run, or did I stay and figure out exactly what I'd gotten myself into?

A circuit of the cottage gave me time to think. Every window locked securely, every door solid. Small symbols were carved into the frames—protection charms I'd once dismissed as folk superstition. Now they hummed with subtle energy under my fingers, making my skin tingle.

Tomorrow I'd have to face whatever this was. Meet these clients, pretend to understand what I was doing, figure out how to navigate this new reality. But for now, I had walls between me and the world, a door that locked, and work to focus on.

Even if that work was apparently more complicated than I'd thought.

I changed into one of the soft t-shirts Diana had left for me, then slipped between sheets that smelled faintly of lavender. The cottage settled around me with small creaks and sighs, like it was welcoming me home. For the first time in three days, my mind wasn't racing with immediate panic.

I drifted off wondering what exactly I'd agreed to do, and whether I was brave enough—or desperate enough—to see it through.