The morning brought no sun, only a flat, grey light that leaked through the high windows of the library, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Margot sat on the edge of the leather sofa, her feet tucked beneath her. She was wearing a pair of Dorian's old grey sweatpants—which she had to roll up three times at the waist—and a thick, black wool sweater that smelled of cedar and his clean, masculine scent. The unnatural burning in her skin had settled into a low, rhythmic thrum, like a distant engine running beneath the floorboards. She had survived the night, but her mind was still a chaotic mess of unanswered questions.
The door of the library opened, and Dorian walked in carrying a heavy wooden tray.
He had changed into a clean flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his thick, corded forearms. On the tray sat two mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of thick-cut toast with blackberry jam.
"You look better," he said, setting the tray down on the low oak table in front of her.
"I feel better," Margot admitted, reaching for a mug of coffee. The warmth of the ceramic felt good against her hands, which were still slightly pink but no longer stinging. "The stone in here... it really does help."
"It acts as a ground," Dorian explained, taking his own mug and sitting in the leather armchair opposite her. He looked tired. There were faint, dark circles beneath his silver-grey eyes, and his jaw was shadowed by a thick, dark stubble. "The mountain rock is neutral. It absorbs the silver’s energy before it can pool in the room."
Margot took a slow sip of her coffee, the strong, bitter liquid waking up her exhausted senses. "Dorian, we need to talk about the ledger."
Dorian nodded, gesturing to her canvas satchel, which he had brought in from the foyer the night before. "I assumed you’d want to start there."
Margot reached down and pulled her mother’s leather-bound journal and the county tax ledgers she had saved from her office. She set them on the table between them, her fingers tracing the worn leather of Clara’s book.
"My mother spent her whole life keeping these books," Margot said, her voice quiet. "I always thought she was just... obsessed with local history. But now I think she was tracking something else. Look at this."
She opened the journal to the page with the strange, encrypted notes.
L.B. - R.P. - 12 - S.
"I’ve been trying to decode this for months," Margot said, leaning forward. "L.B. is obviously Lowell’s Bend. But what are the others?"
Dorian leaned forward too, his massive frame shifting close to hers. The proximity was instant, the clean, warm scent of his skin wrapping around her senses like a physical touch. Margot’s heart did a slow, heavy flutter, her skin warming in a way that had nothing to do with the silver wards.
He studied the page, his brow furrowing as his silver-grey eyes scanned her mother's elegant, hurried script.
"R.P.," Dorian murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that she could feel in her chest. "That’s the Ridgeback Pack. My family."
Margot’s eyes widened. "And the number twelve?"
"The twelve boundary stones," Dorian said, his finger reaching out to point to the number. His finger was large, his skin rough and calloused, but his touch was incredibly light as he hovered over the page. "The stones that mark the perimeter of our territory. They are laced with the same silver as the house. Your mother... she wasn't just tracking history, Margot. She was tracking the strength of the wards."
"But why?" Margot asked, her breath catching as Dorian’s shoulder brushed against hers. The contact was electric, a sudden, sharp spark of heat rippling through her skin. "Why would my mother care about the wards?"
"Because she was the one who maintained them," Dorian said softly. He turned his head, his face just inches from hers.
Margot looked into his silver-grey eyes, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The slow, agonizing pull of the bond was back, stronger than before, fueled by their close proximity in the quiet room. Her body wanted to lean into him, to let his chest press against hers, to feel the heat of his skin against her mouth.
It was a dangerous, intoxicating feeling. She had spent her whole life building walls, keeping people at a distance, trying to control her world with numbers and facts. But Dorian Thorne was a force of nature, a mountain of a man who was dismantling her defenses with nothing but a look.
"My mother was an accountant," Margot whispered, her voice shaking as she tried to focus on the facts. "She didn't have magic."
"She had the Bitter Root," Dorian said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. "The covenant was a blood pact, Margot. Your family didn't just keep the books; you kept the balance. The silver in the wards... it needs a human hand to anchor it. A hand that carries the old blood. Clara was the anchor for twenty years. And now... it's you."
He reached out, his warm, rough fingers gently catching her chin, tilting her head up so she had to look at him.
The physical contact was explosive. Margot let out a soft gasp, her eyes closing as a wave of intense, liquid warmth spread through her veins, melting her stubborn resistance.
"Dorian," she whispered, her hands coming up to rest on his broad chest.
She didn't push him away this time. Her fingers curled into the soft fabric of his flannel shirt, feeling the rapid, powerful beat of his heart beneath her palms.
Dorian’s silver eyes flared with a sudden, dark hunger. He leaned closer, his breath hot against her mouth. "You feel it, Margot. Don't lie to me. Don't paint over it."
"I... I can't," she gasped, her lower lip trembling. "It’s too much."
"It's us," he murmured, his thumb running over her lip, his touch incredibly gentle despite the raw power of his body. "Our beasts... they know."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a slow, agonizingly sweet kiss that made Margot’s head spin.
The contact was a revelation. It wasn't the violent, animalistic claim she had feared; it was a deep, reverent warmth that seemed to align her very soul with his. She let out a soft moan, her mouth opening slightly as she returned the kiss, her fingers locking behind his neck to pull him closer.
Dorian let out a low, rough growl of satisfaction, his massive arms wrapping around her waist, lifting her slightly so she was pressed flush against his broad chest. The heat coming off him was dizzying, a fierce, primal flame that burned away her doubts, her fear, and her denial.
In this moment, she wasn't an accountant. She wasn't a victim of a wolf’s war.
She was his. And he was hers.
But as Dorian shifted his weight, his right hand gripping the edge of the oak table for balance, he let out a sharp, sudden hiss of pain.
He pulled back, his lips leaving hers, his brow furrowing as he looked down at his hand.
Margot blinked, her eyes wide and dark with desire, her breathing ragged as she looked at him. "Dorian? What is it?"
Dorian raised his hand.
On the back of his hand, running from his wrist down to his knuckles, was a deep, angry red scratch. It was the wound he had received from the rogue in her office the day before. The skin around the tear was swollen and black, a clear sign of infection, with a thin, yellow fluid oozing from the center.
"The rogue's claws," Dorian said, his voice tight with pain. "They were laced with wolfsbane. It’s a poison that slows our healing. Usually, my alpha blood can fight it off in a few hours, but with the silver wards active... it’s taking longer."
Margot looked at the wound, her heart doing a strange, cold flutter. The sight of his pain washed away the lingering heat of their kiss, replaced by a deep, protective instinct of her own.
"That looks terrible," she said, her fingers reaching out. "Dorian, let me see."
"It’s fine, Margot," he said, trying to pull his hand back. "It’s just a scratch. My body will handle it."
"No, it won't," she said, her voice taking on a sudden, authoritative tone that made his wolf quiet down. "It's infected. You need to clean it."
She grabbed his wrist, her fingers wrapping around his thick, scarred skin to hold his hand steady.
The moment her fingers made contact with the swollen, black skin of the wound, a sudden, strange sensation rippled through Margot’s chest.
It wasn't the hot, burning fire of the silver wards, nor was it the dizzying, liquid warmth of their mating bond. It was a cool, soothing energy, like fresh spring water flowing through her veins, pooling in the palms of her hands.
Before she could understand what was happening, her fingers began to glow.
A soft, gold-green light, the exact color of the polished jade pendant her mother had worn, flared beneath her skin. The light was gentle, casting a warm, emerald glow over their hands and the old ledger books on the table.
Dorian’s silver eyes went wide, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at her hands. "Margot... what are you doing?"
"I... I don't know," she whispered, her eyes wide with terror as she tried to pull her hand away.
But her hand wouldn't move. It felt as if her skin were glued to his, the gold-green light growing brighter, pulsing in perfect harmony with her heartbeat.
The cool energy flowed from her fingers, passing directly into the black, swollen wound on Dorian’s hand.
As they watched, the black discoloration began to fade, disappearing like mist before the sun. The swelling subsided, the angry red edges of the scratch softening. The torn skin began to knit together, the flesh popping and sliding back into place with a soft, wet sound of rapid healing.
Within seconds, the scratch was gone.
The skin on the back of Dorian’s hand was smooth, clean, and entirely unblemished, with only a faint, silver scar left behind to prove it had ever existed.
The gold-green light flickered once, then faded back into Margot’s skin, leaving her hands pale and trembling.
Margot stared at his hand, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. Her head was spinning, her legs feeling like water. She let go of his wrist, backing away from the table until her spine hit the heavy river stones of the hearth.
"What... what was that?" she whispered, her voice a tiny, horrified sob. "Dorian, what did I do?"
Dorian stood up slowly, his silver-grey eyes glowing with a brilliant, luminous light that she had never seen before. He looked down at his healed hand, flexing his fingers, then looked up at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe.
"The Bitter Root," he whispered, his voice shaking with a deep, reverent emotion. "It’s not just a name, Margot. It’s a magic. Your mother didn't just maintain the wards. She was a healer. An earth-weaver. And you... you just unlocked her power."
He took a step toward her, his hand reaching out.
But Margot backed away, her hands flying to her head, her mind screaming in absolute denial. She was an accountant. She balanced books. She dealt in facts.
But as she looked at his smooth, healed skin, she knew she could never balance her life again. Her dormant magic was awake, and the monsters in the woods were no longer just a secret she had to keep—they were a part of who she was.