They’re all dragged into a pile in the center of the floor.
Staring at me like a predator. Sentient even. “Back up,” I tell them.
They rustle like they’re offended.
I sigh and lock the door behind me. This is what happens when the curse builds—magic starts… thinking for itself. Bending things. Nudging things. Rearranging my life like an overbearing mother-in-law I don’t have.
I drop behind the counter, letting my weight settle into the stool. My thighs spill warmly against the seat, grounding me. The curse claws at my spine again, a tremor of static whispering beneath my skin.
This is getting worse. Earlier. Sharper.
I pull the grimoire from the drawer—heavy, leather, older than every building in Snowglobe Hollow combined. The worn cover feels warm, familiar, comforting in a nostalgic, mildly terrifying way.
The pages flutter open without permission… directly on a warding ritual. Simple. Elegant. Meant to stabilize magic.
My pulse races, sending me into a tizzy. “This is fine,” I whisper. “Awardis fine.”
My curls crackle. The lights flicker, shimmering back and forth with a faint buzz. The mistletoe pile scoots an inch to the left like it’s settling in for a show.
I gather ingredients with hands that won’t stop trembling. Salt. Chalk. Rosemary. Belladonna. A pinch of sugar because I’m exhausted and improvisation isn’t a crime yet. I draw the circle slowly. Carefully. The chalk line glows faint silver when I complete it—never a great sign.
My magic surges in my chest and it feels like swallowing a sparkler—bright, hot, frayed at the edges.
The curse responds, tightening like cold fingers around my ribs. I take a breath. My lips part around the incantation.
“Just a ward,” I remind myself. “Not a summon. Not a binding. Just—”
My magic leaps, sparks flying. Candles roar to life. The grimoire slams shut. The air explodes outward in a wind that isn’t wind—cold and hot at the same time, rippling down my spine like a voice whispering finally. The chalk ignites. Flame spirals up in a ring, consuming the circle in a flash of blue-white light.
And I feel it. Something ancient…powerful. Something answering.
“Oh…no.”
Magic snaps through the room like a whip. Every candle dies. The mistletoe pile flees behind the register. And the floor hums with the unmistakable resonance of a summons.
Not a ward…. Nor a charm. And absofuckinglutelynotharmless.
It’s a summoning.
“Shit.” I scramble to the floor, sitting on shaky knees. The floor hums harder—deep, resonant, vibratingthrough the soles of my boots. Air thickens like syrup. The smell hits next. It’s smoke, cedar, winter wind, and something darker—something sinful. “Oh, come on,” I whisper. “I saidward.WARD. Like, the magical equivalent of putting a baby gate on my powers. I did not order a—”
The circle detonates. Blue-white fire shoots upward, then collapses inward, like the air is folding itself into a form. A person-shaped structure.
My heartbeat goes rabid. My hair floats like static-bloomed smoke around my head. Even the mistletoe peeks out from behind the counter like it’s watching a horror movie through its fingers.
The flames twist, pull, compress—splitting open. A figure steps through, rising from the dying fire like a man built out of shadows and bad decisions.
Oh. Oh no. Oh hell no.
My eyes rake over him. He’s tall, stupidly broad, muscles for days, carved like he wassculpted by someone who had clearly been in their feelings about “vengeful hotness.”
Boots hit the wooden floor with a heavy thud. Black hair falls in slightly messy waves around his jaw, glossy as spilled ink. His eyes—Godshelp me—are green. A bright, unnatural, dancing green that flicks over me like he’s assessing both my soul and my credit score.
His presence fills the room like gravity decided to pick a favorite.
He looks at me. Andsmirks. I’m going to die, I think. And he’s going to be smug about it.
His voice drops like velvet dipped in smoke. “Well,” he drawls, “you’re not what I expected.”
