Chapter Seven

The teleportation spell landed with a satisfying thump against my floorboards, my boots scuffing the worn wood as I stepped into my quiet, sun-drenched cottage.

Home.

My garden boots were muddy. My cardigan smelled faintly of damp moss and rosemary. I was half sure my braid contained at least one dried leaf from the plants I’d just harvested. And honestly? I loved it.

The coven had sent word for more herbs—again—despite half the council pretending they didn’t use my supply. I’d harvested bundles of mugwort, moon lavender, and a small clutch of feverfew (because Darcy had been getting headaches and absolutely refused to admit it).

I’d strung the bundles upside down on the overhead drying lines. They danced gently in the breeze through the open windows like they were part of some secret forest ballet.

I even threw vegetables and fresh herbs into a large pot inside my fireplace for dinner. Dylan disappeared before sunrise with a messenger wolf. It was...weird to drink coffee on the porch alone again.

With that done, I had earned one very precious thing.

Knitting time.

I threw myself onto my orange couch with a grunt, pulled the moon blanket over my legs, and grabbed my current project—a moss-green scarf for... someone. I hadn’t decided who yet. Maybe I’d just keep it. It was soft. Mossy. Dramatic.

Reading glasses perched on the bridge of my nose, I was halfway through a complicated double-cable pattern when the front door creaked open.

Boots. A soft shuffle. Then stillness.

I didn’t look up.

“You’re standing like you’re afraid to be yelled at,” I said calmly.

No answer.

“I see you,” I said in a sing-song voice without looking up.

Still nothing.

With a dramatic sigh, I reached for the ball of yarn next to me, pulled it free from its basket, and launched it toward the entryway.

It smacked solidly against a chest with a satisfying pomf, bounced off, and rolled across the floor like a chubby, fuzzy escapee.

“Catch,” I said finally, looking up over the rim of my glasses.

Dylan stood in the doorway, picking up the ball of yarn like it had offended him. He looked dustier than usual, shirt half untucked, hair ruffled, and eyes a little too sharp for someone who was probably supposed to be studying pack law.

“Why did you throw this at me?”

“It’s tangled,” I said, returning to my scarf. “Fix it.”

“...Why me?”

“Because my patience is lower than my caffeine supply and you have opposable thumbs. Besides, didn't you declare undying loyalty and usefulness to a certain witch?”

He bent down and started slowly winding the yarn around his forearm. “You wear glasses now?”

“They’re reading glasses,” I said primly.

“You read patterns.”

“Don’t sass the woman who may or may not have cursed her shampoo to make wolf fur fall out.”

He cracked a grin. “Is that why my hair’s been parting weird?”

“Maybe.”

He worked in silence for a few moments, then asked casually, “This for someone in the coven?”

“Hm?”

“The scarf.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s for me. Maybe I’ve decided the world doesn’t deserve soft things anymore.” I blurted out the last part half-jokingly.

“World’s still got you.”

I paused mid-stitch.

The words had been soft. Almost accidental.

I didn’t say anything. Just flicked my eyes over the rim of my glasses and gave him a slow blink. “Careful, wolf. Compliments might get you more chores.”

He grinned. “Untangling yarn is a chore.”

“Then look how well we’re already getting along.”

Once Dylan finished untangling the yarn—more or less—he flopped onto the couch like a battered wolf that had survived battle, defeat, and bureaucratic training all in one day.

“You look half-dead,” I noted, rising from my armchair.

“Beta Callen made me recite every founding law. Backwards. While holding a boulder.”

“That sounds both horrifying and made up.”

“I wish it were,” he mumbled into a throw pillow. "Everyone is so dramatic and intense here."

I wandered into the kitchen, bare feet padding softly across cool tile, and plucked a handful of the freshly harvested herbs still sitting on the drying rack. I’d already labeled them for the coven. What they didn’t know wouldn’t kill them. Or rather, I’d make sure it didn’t.

A bit of lemon balm, a pinch of moon lavender, and just a breath of feverfew.

I steeped it in a mismatched mug shaped like a toad (my favorite), then poured a second for him into one with a suspicious chip in the handle.

“You didn’t even ask if I wanted tea,” he said as I handed it over.

“I don’t make tea. I provide solutions.”

He sipped—and blinked. “This is... really good.”

“I know.”

“You made this for me?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

I leaned against the counter, blowing gently on my own mug as he took another long sip like his bones were slowly resetting. I watched his shoulders relax, his breathing even out, and the subtle tension in his jaw begin to ease.

I didn’t say anything about how I’d plucked those herbs just a few hours ago with his stress already in mind. He didn’t need to know.

A few minutes later, the stew was ready—thick, spiced, and bubbling in the blackened cast iron pot I’d used for everything from potion broth to pear preserves. I ladled it out into mismatched bowls and dropped a chunk of bread beside each.

We sat together at the small table by the window, the sun slipping low and staining the sky a slow, bleeding orange.

“This is... incredible,” he said after the first bite.

“It’s edible.”

“No, seriously—this tastes like actual comfort.”

“It’s stew,” I said, mouth full. “It’s supposed to.”

We ate in companionable quiet, broken only by the occasional grunt of approval or exaggerated sigh from Dylan.

Outside, the shadows grew longer. Inside, the warmth lingered—but something in it had begun to shift.

I felt it in the way my spoon slowed. In the way his eyes had started flicking more often toward the window. Like something was stirring just beyond the treeline.

“You feel it, don’t you?” I said quietly.

He looked at me, all pretense of comfort fading. “Yeah.”

The air had taken on a strange weight—subtle but unmistakable. The kind of pressure that lives just before a storm. Magical equilibrium about to break.

“The rituals are close,” I murmured, staring into my stew like it held answers.

Dylan set down his spoon. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m prepared,” I corrected sharply. Then softer, “But yeah. A little.”

“I thought you said you’ve done this before.”

“I have. Dozens of times. But not like this. Not with guests who might tear each other apart between the opening circle and the final blessing.”

“And not with me,” he said, voice low.

I met his eyes.

“No,” I said. “Not with you.”

Silence stretched between us—thick, heavy with the things we hadn’t said and the pieces we weren’t sure how to name yet.

“It’s going to be chaos, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Oh, absolutely.”

He picked up his bread, took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. Then, with a straight face: “Want me to stand guard for you?”

I laughed quietly. “Maybe. But this time you’d be standing between a bloodthirsty vampire and Darcy when she’s low on sleep and defensive about her incense budget.”

He nodded solemnly. “Sounds worse than the wolves.”

“It is.”

The dishes sat forgotten on the table. Outside, the night crept closer.

And somewhere deep in the forest, something old stirred.