He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Hazel stepped inside and stopped.
The space could generously be called a studio apartment and more accurately described as a glorified shed. One room containing a kitchenette with a two-burner stove and a mini-fridge that hummed ominously, a tiny bathroom she could see through a half-open door, and a bed that took up most of the available floor space.
One bed.
One tiny bed, shoved against the wall under a window sealed shut with what might have been paint or might have been the collective despair of every previous occupant. A faded quilt covered it, probably hand-stitched by someone’s grandmother fifty years ago.
“This is fine,” she said faintly.
“Completely fine,” Marcus agreed, his voice strangled.
Hazel set down her bag—lighter now, missing half its contents, missing her ward schematics and reference notes, missing everything she’d built up in two weeks—and forced herself to assess the practical. The cabin had running water, if the rust-stained sink was any indication. Electricity, based on the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. A door that locked, even if the lock looked like it could be defeated by a determined squirrel.
They both continued staring at the bed like it might spontaneously multiply if they concentrated hard enough.
“I’ll take the floor,” Marcus said.
“There is no floor space.” Hazel gestured helplessly at the room. The bed dominated everything. Even if he somehow squeezed into the narrow strip between the bed and thekitchenette, maybe eighteen inches wide, she’d have to step over him every time she needed the bathroom.
“I could sleep in the car…”
“It’s October in Maine. You’ll freeze.”
“I’m a demon. I run hot.”
“Marcus.” She turned to face him fully. “We’re both adults. We can share a bed for nine nights without it being weird.”
His laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Nine nights of this torture? Hazel, I can barely handle ten minutes in the same room without…” He cut himself off, mouth snapping shut.
“Without what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Azrael chose that moment to saunter out of her arms, leap onto the bed, and claim the exact center with feline authority. He circled twice, kneaded the quilt with his claws until he’d created a perfect nest, and settled in like a furry chaperone determined to prevent any inappropriate behavior.
“Well,” Hazel said weakly. “Looks like we’re sharing.”
“This is going to be the longest nine days of my life.”
Marcus spentthe next three hours reinforcing wards while Hazel unpacked what little they’d saved. Her bag held two grimoires she’d managed to grab, a handful of herb pouches, and the clothes she’d been wearing when they ran. Everything else from the cabin was gone.
She’d been holding the same jar of moonbell extract for ten minutes, staring at nothing. The jar had been a gift from her grandmother, the last batch they’d made together before she passed. Now it was one of the only things Hazel had left of her.
“Hey.” Marcus appeared in the doorway. He’d finished with the wards; she could feel the strengthened barriers humming around the cabin. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Hazel.”
“I know.” She set down the jar carefully, afraid she might shatter it if she gripped too hard. “I know. It’s just stuff. It can be replaced.”
“Not all of it.”
She let herself lean against the counter and just breathe for a moment. Weeks of ward research, gone. The schematics she’d painstakingly developed with Marcus, the notes on combined casting techniques, the supply lists and client schedules she’d been maintaining from hiding. All of it, ash. At least her grandmother’s grimoires were safe at the shop. She held onto that thought like a rope thrown to a drowning woman.
Marcus didn’t try to fix it. He just moved to stand beside her and waited.
