Page 2 of Alpha Charmed

“I call it ‘Sunrise Ambition.’”

“It tastes like a cry for help in liquid form.”

“That’s the ambition part.” She beams. Thistle yawns, displaying impressive fangs.

I take another sip because I’m not a coward, and manners were drilled into me alongside potion theory by my grandmother, who firmly believed that politeness was a weapon sharper than any blade. Also, caffeine is caffeine, even when it comes wrapped in chaos and tastes like a flavor crime.

“Your dedication to innovation is noted.” I set the cup on my workstation where it can quietly be forgotten. “Perhaps we might apply it to areas where improvisation is less likely to result in emergency antidotes.”

Bryony’s smile doesn’t waver. Nothing sways Bryony’s smile. I’ve seen her maintain it through a minor fire, three exploding potions, and the time Thistle knocked over an entire shelf of rare ingredients. It’s both admirable and slightly alarming, the way she radiates cheerfulness in the face of all evidence that cheerfulness is unwarranted.

“I’ll manage the shop while you’re at the funeral. I’ve already restocked the calming drafts.” She pauses, concern flickering across her face. “The regular ones. From the stockroom.”

Good. She didn’t see today’s failures.

“Thank you, Bryony. Your competence is appreciated.”

She nods and retreats, Thistle’s tail swishing behind them. I watch her go, then turn to the chamomile, which has bloomed even more aggressively in the last few minutes.

“Stop that,” I tell it.

It doesn’t stop.

Time to bury an elder.

The funeral is held in the Elder Grove, a circle of ancient oaks on the eastern edge of The Hollow. Mist curls around the trunks, denser than usual today—the old lore says it means strong magic nearby. Or perhaps it’s just grieving too. Mistvale’s mist has always had a way of responding to the town’s moods.

The crowd gathers in a loose crescent around the ceremonial stone, their dark clothing a stark contrast against the silvery haze. I count approximately seventy-three attendees—a respectable turnout for an elder. Mathilda was well-liked, if not universally loved. She had opinions. Firm ones. And she shared them freely, whether you wanted to hear them or not.

I stand at the ceremonial stone and face the gathered crowd. My robes are formal, traditional, the deep burgundy that marks coven leadership. Every crease is perfect. Every fold precisely arranged.

Elder Cordelia Ashworth catches my eye from the front row. She’s dressed in dove gray, her silver hair arranged in soft waves that frame a face designed to inspire trust. Her smile is warm, maternal, precisely calibrated to convey sympathy and support.

I don’t trust that smile. I’ve never been able to articulate why.

The ceremony is traditional. Words spoken in the old language. Offerings of herbs and flowers placed on the stone. The community’s magic rising in a collective murmur of farewell. I deliver the eulogy with perfect composure—voice steady, phrases measured, every word chosen to honor without revealing.

Mathilda Thornwood served the coven for sixty-three years. She maintained our archives. Preserved our history. Asked questions no one else thought to ask.

Her death was attributed to natural causes—magical exhaustion, the healers said. Common enough in elderly witches.

I don’t believe it for a second.

I scan the crowd as I speak. Note who weeps and who performs weeping. Note who watches me with interest rather than grief. Note Cordelia’s hand pressed to her heart, her eyes glistening with tears that could be real or could be theater.

Note the wolf alpha standing at the edge of the gathering.

Caius Sternwolf is hard to miss. Even at a distance, he commands attention without trying. Tall, lean, silver threading through dark hair that went gray early. He wears black, simple and well-fitted, and he watches the proceedings with the focused stillness of a predator.

He’s watching me.

Our eyes meet across the gathered mourners. A jolt runs through me—sharp, unwelcome, the same reaction I’ve been suppressing for eight years. His gaze is steady.

I look away first. I always look away first.

It means nothing. He’s head of the Protection Network. It’s his job to observe. His job to assess threats. His job to attend functions where the coven leader speaks.

It has nothing to do with the way my magic stutters every time he’s nearby. Nothing to do with the way he left owl treats at my door after Corwin died, unsigned, unacknowledged, as if kindness could be anonymous.