I snorted, then felt the heat of embarrassment flare up my cheeks. My insides still shook from the nightmare last night—a cold, crawling dread that had left me gasping awake at 3 a.m., Gunner’s arms squeezing me so tight I’d nearly passed out again. The dream itself was gone by morning, but the sick, hollow feeling hadn’t left.
Lysander must have noticed, because he set aside his laptop and gave me the kind of look reserved for animals about to chew off their own legs.
“Are you okay, Brie?” he asked, voice gentle. “You seem…haunted today.”
I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut, then opened it again. “I had a nightmare last night. Bad one. But I don’t remember a damn thing about it. Just the panic.” I tried to smile, but it came out twisted.
He nodded, crossing one leg over the other. “I had night terrors as a kid. Woke up screaming every night for a year. My mother said I was possessed by a goblin.” He paused. “She wasn’t entirely wrong, but that’s for another day.”
The words made me laugh, which I needed. “How’d you get them to stop?”
He grinned. “They don’t. I just learned to weaponize my insomnia.” He looked at me over the rim of his mug. “It’s probably just nerves, sweet thing. You’re launching the gallery, the show’s a couple of weeks out, and you’re trying to keep a relationship going with a man who could bench-press a tractor. I’d be shocked if you weren’t having night sweats.”
“Maybe,” I said, but it didn’t feel like just stress. Still, Lysander’s smile was so disarming it was easy to let him talk me down.
He closed his laptop, stood, and circled behind my chair, draping his arms over my shoulders. “You need to find something to remedy this. Can’t have you losing sleep on the regular.”
I snorted. “In my life, that’s a tall order.”
He ruffled my hair, then leaned in. “Don’t you Southerners make some kind of hot toddy or something to help you sleep?”
“Maybe. I’ll check with Aspen. She’s originally from Georgia. If anyone can figure something out, it would be her.” Of course I was thinking of the fact that she’s a witch and might be able to whip up a spelled drink for me.
We spent the next hour locked in logistics—printing checklists, double-checking guest lists, arguing over whether Aspen’s vegan canapé platter would go over better than the baby quiches. Lysander was a tornado of efficiency and dark humor; by the end of the morning, we’d crossed off more than half the to-do list. I started to feel almost normal.
At eleven sharp, Harper arrived, a little windblown and a lot frazzled, arms loaded with binders and a fresh bouquet of wildflowers from the nursery. Her own dance studio was nearly done—just a floor left to varnish and a sound system to install. She looked up at the glass office and waved, then bounded up the stairs in long-legged steps.
“Wow,” she breathed, setting down her things. “It’s so bright up here. I love it.”
“Better be,” I said. “We’re paying more for the view than the square footage.”
She set the flowers in a water cup, then plopped on the couch next to Lysander. “What are we doing?”
“Finalizing the guest list for Inez’s show. And panicking about wall labels,” I said, gesturing to the mess.
Harper made a face. “I’d rather be up here with y’all than trying to convince the plumber to show up before Monday. He canceled again.”
Lysander looked up from his laptop and said, “Brie’s sister, the ultimate contractor whisperer. Maybe the plumber’s intimidated by your muscles.”
Harper rolled her eyes, but it was clear she liked the attention. “Not likely,” she said. “He’s just an ass.”
I grinned. “Tell him the grand opening is in three weeks, and if he doesn’t have the pipes done by then, you’ll hex him.”
Harper arched a brow. “Do I look like a witch?”
“Honestly? A little,” Lysander said, and she snorted.
The mood stayed light until Lysander left to grab lunch. He offered to bring back poke bowls for everyone, but I asked for a plain bagel and cream cheese, blaming my “fragile constitution.” Once he was gone, Harper went quiet, picking at the edge of her sleeve.
I glanced over, caught her biting her lip. “What’s up, Harp?”
She looked down, then forced a smile. “It’s nothing. Just…I heard some of the pack women talking at the market. They’re…they’re saying things about me. About the studio.”
The anger snapped awake in me, sharp and sudden. “What things?”
She looked even smaller. “They said I shouldn’t be teaching little girls to dance. That I’m a bad influence. Because of…you know…what happened in Houston. How I was a stripper and all. That it’s not appropriate. That I’m ruined.”
My hands balled into fists on the desktop. “That’s bullshit. Every one of them knows what happened wasn’t your fault. Dad put you in that club, not you. You did what you had to do to keep us safe.”
