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“You loved me when I couldn’t cross a room without starting a small emergency. You saw me before I knew how to see myself.”

“I also watched you take out a cereal display with your elbow.”

“I was being vulnerable.”

“You were falling backward.”

“Physically vulnerable.”

She laughed and rested her head against my shoulder.

“The curse didn’t make me better,” I continued. “Surviving it did. So did you.”

Carolina’s expression softened. “You’re still going to stumble occasionally.”

“Everyone does.”

“Yes, but most people don’t have an entire town waiting to see whether gravity has filed an appeal.”

“If it has, I’m denying the motion.”

We dressed slowly and reluctantly.

When we opened the chamber door, Jacqueline was waiting in the corridor. Her gaze moved over our rumpled clothes, swollen lips, and obvious satisfaction.

“I trust the ritual was successful,” she said dryly.

“Extremely successful,” Carolina replied.

Jacqueline’s mouth twitched.

Almost a smile.

“The coven is preparing a feast to celebrate new beginnings.” She looked at me. Her eyes remained sharp, but they were no longer unkind. “You are welcome to attend, Mr. Richards. You may come as my daughter’s chosen mate and as a member of this community.”

The words settled somewhere deep inside me.

Welcome.

Acceptance.

Belonging.

“Thank you,” I said.

I meant it.

Jacqueline nodded once and walked down the corridor, her white robes trailing behind her.

Carolina slipped her hand into mine. “Ready?”

I looked at the fierce, beautiful witch who had chosen me, fought for me, and loved me regardless of whether I stumbled or stood tall.

“Ready.”

Together, we followed Jacqueline toward the dining room.

The following Sunday, our first private dinner with Jacqueline began with seven forks and a threat.