He returned to his case files while she finished the tonic preparation. The familiar documents, the evidence lists, the witness statements. He’d reviewed them dozens of times. But now, with fresh eyes, something nagged at him.
“Hazel.” His voice came out sharper than intended. “The night you witnessed the murder. You said Viktor was meeting with a fae informant.”
“That’s right.” She didn’t look up from her work.
“The prosecution’s filing lists the victim as ‘unknown fae, identity unconfirmed.’” Marcus frowned at the document. “But you knew him. You mentioned that in your initial statement.”
Hazel looked up. “Tobias Ashford. He ran an apothecary two towns over. We’d crossed paths at supplier markets for years. Viktor used his name in the clearing too.”
“That name doesn’t appear anywhere in the case file.” Marcus flipped through pages, dread creeping through him. “Someone removed it.”
“Removed it? Who would?—”
“Someone with access to prosecution documents.” He looked up. “Someone inside the firm, or inside the court system.”
The implications hung between them. If the Blackwoods had compromised someone on the prosecution’s side, the trial was already tilted against them.
“What does this mean?”
“It means we need to be more careful than I thought.” Marcus closed the file. “And it means your testimony is even more important. You’re the only one who can put that name back on the record.”
She absorbed this, then returned to measuring moonbell extract with steady hands. “Then I guess we’d better make sure I get there.”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “We will.”
The afternoon light shifted, shadows lengthening across the cabin floor. They worked in parallel: her on the tonic, him on re-examining every document for other discrepancies. The silence between them was different now. Less about avoiding each other and more about the weight of what they’d discovered.
They starteddinner in careful silence, maintaining distance until Hazel needed the olive oil from the cabinet behind him.
“Excuse me,” Hazel said, reaching around him for the olive oil.
Marcus pressed back against the counter, but there wasn’t enough space. Her warmth ghosted along his side, and he forgot how to breathe.
“Sorry,” she murmured, stretching further.
“Let me…” He turned to help at the exact moment she shifted closer.
They collided, her back to his chest, his hands catching her waist to steady her. Every point of contact burned through their clothes.
“Hazel.”
She turned in the circle of his arms, olive oil forgotten. This close, he could see the way her pupils dilated, feel her quick breaths against his throat.
“We can’t…” she whispered.
“I know,” he agreed, not moving. Neither stepping back nor pulling her closer, caught in the space between wisdom and want.
Her hands came up to rest against his chest, whether to push him away or pull him closer, he couldn’t tell. Maybe she didn’t know either. Her fingers curled into his shirt, and he was leaning down, she was rising on her toes, and…
CRASH.
They sprang apart as water spread across the floor. Azrael sat on the counter, tail twitching, the glass he’d knocked over rolling toward the edge. He must have slipped back in while they were distracted.
“Oops,” the familiar said, sounding not remotely apologetic.
Marcus grabbed a dish towel, grateful for something to do that didn’t involve staring at Hazel’s mouth. She busied herself with the pasta, and they finished cooking in silence.
They ate without speaking, the clink of silverware unnaturally loud. Marcus twirled his spaghetti into perfect spirals, chewing mechanically. Across from him, Hazel pushed pasta around her plate, building and destroying small mountains of marinara.
