Slade’s eyes soften—just enough to make my stomach swoop. “For you, normal is gone.”
And as my shelves tremble with quiet magic and the curse winds tighter around my ribs, I realize… He’s right. Normal is gone. And something in the air is shifting—toward danger, toward truth, toward him.
And toward whatever the hell Veda Bellamy awakened last night.
***
Slade lingers in the shop long after the last customer leaves, leaning against my counter like the room was built around him. I’m very aware of how I look under his gaze, my black velvet skirt brushing my knees, my curls clipped back on one side and tumbling down my back, and the damned amethyst pendant warming against my skin—again.
Tooaware.
His voice slips under my guard. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he says, narrowing those gorgeous verdant eyes in mydirection.
“I amworking.”
“You’re done,” he says simply. “And you haven’t eaten.”
I open my mouth—but the truth is, my stomach betrays me first, rumbling like I swallowed thunder. He smiles—slow, knowing. “We’ll go to the market. You choose what you want. I’ll cook.”
That shouldnotsound sexy. It absolutely does. I try to put steel in my spine. “Why do you want to cook for me?”
His answer is maddeningly simple. “Because I want to feed you.”
Oh gods. My magic flickers along my ribs, reacting before my mind catches up.
And maybe it’s the curse. Maybe it’s the bond. Or, maybe it’s simply the fact that my entire world has been breaking open for days.
But I close the shop early. And Slade looks at me like I just handed him something precious as we walk out the front door.
The winter air hits us first—crisp, pine-tinged, full of chiming bells from the Christmas stalls lining the square. Lanterns flicker along the walkways, casting a honey-gold glow over wreaths and rows of seasonal vendors. But everything around us shifts subtly as we walk.
Lights flare brighter. Shadows curl away from him. People part without thinking.
Slade isn’t doing it on purpose. Power just…movesfor him. I shouldn’t find that attractive either. But Ido. Gods, I do.
He takes a basket from a stall, offering it to me without ceremony. “Start picking.”
I try. But every time I reach for something, he plucks a better version from the display.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“And you have terrible tomato instincts,” he counters.
I grab a bundle of basil. He replaces it with one fuller, fresher. “Stop interfering,” I hiss.
“I’m helping.”
“You’rebossy,” I argue, biting back laughter.
“You like it.”
I nearly fling a package of pasta at him. Instead, I grab the homemade fresh noodles—soft, flour-dusted, smelling faintly of rosemary. He approves with a low, pleased sound.
We walk the aisles like this—bickering, bantering, brushing hands more times than either of us acknowledges—until the basket is filled with rich reds, deep greens, warm spices. It feels strangely intimate, and dangerously normal.
