“Can’t hurt worse than getting it.”
He was wrong.
Dahlia worked in focused silence,cleaning the wounds with antiseptic that burned like liquid fire, applying salves that smelled of herbs and magic, binding the deepest gashes with gauze and careful hands. Cal watched her through half-closed eyes, his awareness narrowing to the touch of her fingers on his skin.
“The shoulder is bad.” Her voice was steady, professional, but a muscle jumped in her jaw. “The bite went deep. And these—” She traced the claw marks across his ribs with butterfly-light fingers. “These need stitches. Real stitches, from someone with actual medical training.”
“Shifter healing.” Cal’s words came out thick and muddled. “Give it a few days. The shoulder’s the worst of it.”
“A few days?” She sat back on her heels, and for the first time, he saw the fear she’d been hiding beneath the competence. Her hands were trembling openly now. Her eyes were too bright. “You could have died, Cal. You could have?—”
Her voice broke.
Cal reached for her. His wounded arm screamed in protest, but he didn’t care—couldn’t care about anything except the devastation on her face. His hand found hers, bloodstained fingers lacing through clean ones.
“Worth it.”
“Don’t.” She pulled her hand away, standing abruptly. “Don’t you dare tell me nearly dying was worth it?—”
“They were on your land.” Cal pushed himself upright despite the pain, needing her to understand. “The boundary line Magnus is claiming—it runs through Honey & Hex. Through your bakery. Your grandmother’s legacy. They were standing on ground that belongs to you, threatening to take everything you’ve built.”
Dahlia’s breath caught. “Not according to Magnus.”
“The ward markers confirmed it. I found it. The boundary runs south of where Magnus claims—south of Main Street. Your bakery is on undisputed Ursa territory, Dahlia. It has been for generations.” He held her gaze, willing her to understand. “They don’t get to take that from you. They don’t get to stand on your land and make threats. I won’t allow it.”
It wasn’t a ruling—the Regional Council still had to weigh the evidence. But it was the first real ground they’d had to stand on.
She stared at him. The fear was still there, but now it was tangled with other things—disbelief, hope, and beneath it all, a heat that cut through the fear.
“You nearly got yourself killed,” she said slowly, “protecting my bakery.”
“I nearly got myself killed protecting you.” Cal reached for her again. This time, she didn’t pull away. “Everything else is logistics.”
She kissed him.
THIRTY-FOUR
CAL
Not the soft, tentative kiss from the storeroom. Not the desperate, adrenaline-fueled crash of Town Hall.
This was claiming.
Dahlia climbed into his lap, careful of his wounds but intent on her destination. Her hands cupped his face—holding him steady, holding him close—and her mouth moved against his with fierce, demanding purpose. She kissed him like she was trying to pour herself into him. Like her touch alone could knit his wounds closed. Like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Cal’s good arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her closer despite the protest from his injured side. She was soft and alive, her heart pounding against his where their bodies pressed. He could feel every curve of her through the thin fabric of her sweater, every hitch of her breath against his lips.
She tasted like chamomile tea and honey, and her fingers threaded through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made him groan into her mouth. The pain in his side faded to distant background noise. All that existed was her—her scent, the small sounds she made when he deepened the kiss.
“Cal.” His name on her lips was half prayer, half plea. “I was so scared. When you didn’t come back—when the sun started setting?—”
“I’m here.” He kissed her again, softer now, gentling the desperation between them. “I’m here, Dahlia. I came back.”
“Promise me.” Her forehead dropped to his, her eyes closed, her voice raw. “Promise me you won’t do that again. Won’t go alone. Won’t?—”
“I can’t promise that.” He hated the words even as he said them. “Magnus isn’t going to stop. This fight has barely started. And I can’t—I won’t—let him win.”
Her eyes opened. Hazel meeting brown, fear meeting determination.
