Tristan's hands clenched. He wouldn't repeat that failure. Wouldn't let Maren face the same fate because people were too frightened to see past their own paranoia.
Even if she never felt anything beyond gratitude for his protection.
The fire burned low. Tristan added more wood and settled in for a long night, his knife within easy reach, his senses attuned to every creak and whisper that might signal danger.
Maren slept while her shadows kept watch alongside him, like dark guardians who'd decided he was worth protecting too.
20
MAREN
Maren woke to the smell of tea and woodsmoke.
She'd slept harder than expected, exhaustion overriding fear once her body finally gave up trying to stay alert. Gray light filtered through the shutters, and the storm had gentled to steady snowfall instead of supernatural fury.
Tristan stood at the small stove, his back to her as he poured hot water over tea leaves. He'd changed shirts, the torn one discarded near the hearth. His movements were careful, controlled, favoring his left side where the doppelgänger had struck.
Maren climbed down from the loft quietly, her shadows stirring awake and spreading over the floor in lazy patterns. They seemed calmer this morning, less agitated than they'd been after the attack.
"You're up," Tristan said without turning. "Tea's almost ready."
"How long have you been awake?"
"Didn't sleep."
"Tristan."
"Someone needed to keep watch." He handed her a steaming mug, their fingers brushing briefly. "Storm's still going but it's lost the supernatural edge. Whatever was testing our wards gave up around dawn."
Maren wrapped her hands around the mug, seeking warmth. "You can't stay awake forever."
"I know,” was all he offered as he moved to the window, checking the perimeter with the same methodical attention he brought to everything. "We should wait until the storm clears completely before heading to the lake. Visibility's still poor."
She joined him at the window, watching snow fall thick and heavy. The world beyond the safe house had disappeared into white, making it feel like they were the only two people left in existence.
"I'm afraid," she said quietly. "Not of the doppelgänger. Of what happens after."
"After we destroy the locket?"
"After people know what my bloodline created. What I could become if I learned how to access those forbidden abilities." She sipped her tea, bitter and strong. "The Pitch Sisters weren't just shadow witches. They were executioners during the trials. Used fear magic to control, to punish, to kill. That's why the bloodline was purged."
"You're not them."
"I carry their blood. Their magic." Her shadows curled tighter around her ankles. "That's why I live distant. Why I never let anyone close. Because if I lost control, if I became what they were?—"
"You won't."
"How can you say that with such certainty? You haven’t known me long enough to think that." She wanted to say more but more than anything, she wanted to understand this pull to him.
Tristan turned to face her fully. "I know you spent two years in Hollow Oak without incident. I know you maintained wards, kept to yourself, helped when asked. I know your magic responds defensively, not offensively. And I know that someone with the capacity for what you're describing wouldn't be so terrified of becoming it."
"Fear isn't proof of goodness, just shows I’m resisting submission to what comes natural to me."
"What youthinkmay come natural. And by choosing isolation over power is better than what most would have done." He set down his mug. "You could've used your bloodline's reputation to intimidate people. Could've leveraged fear into respect. Instead you made yourself small, invisible, unthreatening. That says more about who you are than what your ancestors did three hundred years ago."
Maren wanted to believe him. To trust that blood didn't dictate destiny, that she could be more than the sum of her heritage. But she also needed to know why he so desperately needed to protect her.
"Why did you really leave the military?"
