Dante sat in the quiet apothecary, surrounded by herbs and the lingering scent of healing magic, and tried to figure out how to love someone by letting them fight without him.
It felt impossible.
But then again, so had changing enough to deserve her in the first place.
27
MAEVE
The Silver Fang felt wrong without people.
Maeve sat behind her bar in the dark, nursing whiskey she couldn't taste. No voices. No laughter. No shifters arguing about sports or humans ordering coffee. Just silence and the weight of failure pressing down until she could barely breathe.
Her tavern. Years of building something that mattered. Gone in one Council vote and a pile of forged documents.
The fire had died hours ago. She hadn't bothered relighting it. Cold felt appropriate when everything else had frozen solid.
Her lioness wanted to fight and hunt down Hector so she could tear out his throat for daring to steal what was hers.
But violence wouldn't fix this. Wouldn't bring back her license or undo the suspension. Would only prove Hector right about unstable females who couldn't control themselves.
So she sat. In the dark. Drinking whiskey that didn't warm and trying not to think about amber eyes and the promise she'd seen there before everything crumbled.
The back door opened. Cold air rushed in along with Twyla, carrying a basket and that knowing expression that meant she'd come to meddle.
"Haven’t you heard. We're closed," Maeve said without looking up.
Twyla ignored her as she moved through the dark tavern with fae grace, setting her basket on the bar. "I brought mulled wine. The kind your grandmother used to make."
That got Maeve's attention. "How do you know what my grandmother made?"
"I'm old, remember?" Twyla pulled out a thermos and two mugs. "I've been in Hollow Oak and many other places longer than anyone. Knew your grandmother before she left. Before you were born. She taught me her recipe."
She poured dark wine that smelled like cinnamon and cloves and comfort Maeve didn't deserve. Set one mug in front of Maeve, kept one for herself.
"Drink," Twyla ordered. "Then talk."
"Nothing to talk about."
"There's everything to talk about." Twyla settled onto a barstool, wheat-colored hair catching what little light filtered through snow-covered windows. "You lost your tavern today. Lost your pride. And you're sitting here in the dark like that's where you belong."
"Maybe it is." Maeve sipped the wine. Heat spread through her chest, familiar and painful. "I built this place. Proved I could run a business without pride backing or male oversight. And one Council meeting destroyed it all."
"Hector destroyed it. Using politics and procedure and your own choices as weapons."
"My choices." Maeve's hands tightened on the mug. "Letting him investigate. Sleeping with him when I knew better. Every choice gave Hector ammunition."
"Every choice was yours to make." Twyla's voice gentled. "You're not responsible for how he twisted them. You're only responsible for what you do next."
"Which is what? Wait two weeks for an audit that'll find nothing wrong because there's nothing wrong? Hope the Council reinstates my license while Hector manufactures more evidence?" Maeve's voice cracked. "I can't fight forged documents and political manipulation. I can't win against someone who makes the rules work in his favor."
"You can." Twyla leaned forward. "But not alone. Not while you're sitting here drowning in shame and anger."
"I'm not drowning."
"You're drowning." Twyla's light brown eyes held hers. "Been drowning since the moment you walked away from that Council meeting. Since you realized Dante's help made things worse. Since you understood that needing someone might've cost you everything."
The words hit too close. Maeve looked away, staring at her reflection in the dark windows. Short black hair mussed. Eyes shadowed. Someone who'd fought so hard to prove she did not need anyone that she'd forgotten how to ask for help.
