By the time Rowan made it to work that afternoon, she was running on three hours of fractured sleep and more caffeine than was probably legal.
The world had acquired a faint, too-bright sheen. Colors were a little sharper. Sounds cut a bit deeper. The bells over the Ever After Books door jangled like someone banging pots together.
“Whoa,” Harper said as Rowan stumbled in. “You look like death warmed over. And then left on the counter.”
“Flattering,” Rowan croaked.
“Babe, your under-eye circles have under-eye circles,” Zia added from behind the counter. She was restocking the bookmarks display, her tattooed fingers moving with careless efficiency. “And I say this as someone who has voluntarily done graveyard shifts.”
“I’m fine,” Rowan lied, shrugging off her coat.
Harper squinted at her. “Nightmare?”
“Yeah,” Rowan said. “Plural.”
Harper’s face tightened. “You should’ve woken me up.”
“You were drooling on my shoulder,” Rowan said. “You looked very peaceful. I didn’t want to deprive you of your weird dream about nachos.”
“It was a good dream,” Harper conceded. “Still. Next time, use me as a human emotional support hamster.”
“I will take that under advisement,” Rowan said.
The day did its best to shove its way into something like normal. People bought books. Mrs. Carrow fussed about the upcoming Halloween display, debating the merits of fake cobweb versus paper bats. A little girl in a pink tutu asked Rowan very seriously if dragons could be girls, because all the dragons in her other books were boys and that seemed unfair.
“Dragons can absolutely be girls,” Rowan said. “They can be *whatever they want.*”
The girl’s eyes lit up. “Can they wear tutus?”
“They can wear *three* tutus,” Rowan said gravely.
The girl left with a stack of dragon books and a determined gleam in her eye. Her mom mouthed *thank you* over her head.
By late afternoon, the shop had settled into a quiet lull. Harper and Zia left for their dinner break, promising to bring back something that wasn’t just sugar and caffeine. Mrs. Carrow retired to the back room to call her son and remind him that yes, she was still eating vegetables.
Rowan found herself shelving in the mythology section.
The irony was not lost on her.
The spine of a book about Celtic fairy lore slid under her fingers. The cover illustration showed a delicate, willowy creature with butterfly wings and flowers in her hair, sitting on a toadstool and looking winsome.
Rowan snorted. “Lies,” she muttered.
“You don’t like our PR,” a voice said behind her.
She went cold.
Slowly, she turned.
A man stood at the end of the aisle, half-shadowed by the shelf. He was tall—taller than most men she knew, though not so freakishly towering that he looked like a parody. His shoulders filled the space without crowding it, the lines of his body clean and unhurried.
He wore dark clothes that looked…right on him. A charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, well-worn black jeans, scuffed boots. No jewelry. No obvious finery. But something in the way the fabric sat, the way the buttons gleamed faintly, said expensive without screaming it.
His hair was a shade somewhere between brown and copper, shot through with warmer strands that caught the light like burnished metal. It was a little too long to be conservative, falling over his forehead in a way that looked unintentional and probably wasn’t. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw.
He could have passed for human. Easily. He had the kind of face people looked at twice for no reason they could articulate—handsome, yes, but not in the plastic, magazine way. His nose wasn’t perfectly straight. His mouth was a fraction too wide. His cheekbones could have cut glass.
Beautiful in the way of dangerous things.
His eyes, though.
They were silver.
Not gray. Not hazel. Not some human color she could pretend to understand. Liquid metal, pale and bright and unsettling. Up close, she saw darker rings swirling in the irises, like a storm moving behind a mirror.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She knew those eyes.
They’d watched her in dreams, in reflections, in the corner of her vision, for most of her life.
“Hello, Rowan,” he said.
Her hand tightened on the book until the cover bent.
“Can I help you find something?” she asked, because her brain had fallen back on customer service autopilot and refused to move.
“Many things,” he said. His voice was exactly as it had been in the dream—low, rich, with that faint lilt that made her name sound dangerous. “But for now, a conversation will do.”
Her skin prickled.
She glanced toward the front of the store. She couldn’t see the counter from here, but she could hear Mrs. Carrow humming faintly, the distant rustle of pages.
Her instinct screamed *run.*
She made herself breathe.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” she said, turning back to the shelf. She slid the bent book into place with care. “We cover a lot of topics.”
He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch, not yet. Close enough that she could feel the air react—thinning, thickening, she couldn’t tell. Something in her bones vibrated, a low hum that tasted of apples and iron and stormcloud.
“Let’s start with fairy tales,” he said. “Since you’re holding one.”
She didn’t look at him. “This is folklore,” she said. “Different category.”
“Is it?” he murmured. “Stories about us. About bargains and weddings and teeth under pillows. Seems similar.”
“‘Us,’” she repeated, tasting the word.
“Yes,” he said.
She slid another book onto the shelf. Her fingers shook. “You’re blocking the exit.”
“I’m standing in a public aisle,” he corrected. “You can walk past me if you like.”
Could she?
Her feet felt rooted.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
She froze.
Every rational part of her brain screamed *no.* Eye contact with fae was a bad idea under the best of circumstances. They could read things in you. Take things. Twist things.
He wasn’t just any fae.
He was the one from her dreams.
*Caelan,* her mind whispered.
“Why?” she asked, not turning.
“Because I’ve been looking at you for a very long time,” he said softly. “It seems only fair.”
The words hit her in ways she didn’t have names for. Heat crawled up the back of her neck.
She turned.
Slowly.
His gaze met hers, full-on, no more shadows blurring the edges.
Up close, his face resolved into clarity, all the details the dream had refused to give her snapping into focus. His nose had a slight bump on the bridge, like it had been broken once and healed not quite straight. A faint scar cut through his left eyebrow, a thin white line. His lips were full, the lower one a bit more plush, currently pressed into a neutral line.
He looked…younger than she’d expected. Not young. Immortal faces messed with age perception. But there was something in the lines around his eyes, the set of his mouth, that put him…maybe late twenties, early thirties in human terms. Old enough to have seen things. Young enough to still have some softness left, buried deep.
The silver of his eyes was not cold, exactly. Just…intense. Focused. Like the moon looking back.
He watched her watch him, something unreadable moving behind his gaze.
“Better?” he asked.
Her throat was dry. “Worse,” she said.
He smiled faintly. It wasn’t a friendly expression. Not unfriendly, either. Just…wry. Complicated.
“I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘better,’” he said.
“What do you want?” she asked, because dancing around it was beyond her right now.
His gaze flicked briefly to the spine of the folklore book she’d just shelved. “You already know,” he said. “You were told. Three months before your twenty-sixth. A debt comes due.”
Her stomach lurched.
“You heard that,” she said flatly.
“Of course,” he said. “Your grandmother made her bargain in our wood. Her words are woven into our roots.”
“She was…desperate,” Rowan said. “She didn’t understand.”
“She understood enough,” he said. “Enough to know that magic is never free.”
His tone held no judgment. That almost made it worse.
“You said…you’d come first,” she said.
His mouth twitched. “Did I?”
“In the dream,” she said. “Last night. Forest, cracked sky, monsters trying to claw their way through? Ringing any bells?”
Something flickered over his face. “I hadn’t realized it was last night for you,” he said. “Time moves…differently where I was.”
“Stop dodging,” she snapped.
He inclined his head, conceding the point.
“Yes,” he said. “I did say that. I intend to keep my word.”
“That assumes I’m going anywhere with you,” she said.
He watched her. “You’d rather be dragged,” he said quietly. “Kicking and screaming. Chained. A spectacle.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’d rather not go at all.”
“Sometimes,” he said, “our choices are between bad and worse.”
“And you’re the…what? Slightly-less-bad option?” she asked.
A corner of his mouth lifted, humorless. “Something like that.”
She studied him. The way he held himself. Relaxed, but not. How his eyes flicked occasionally to the ends of the aisle, tracking anyone who might wander by.
“You’re making this conversation very obvious,” she said.
“How so?” he asked mildly.
“You’re…radiating,” she said.
His brows ticked up. “Radiating.”
“Yes,” she said. “Like…tension. Electricity. Dramatic protagonist energy. If Mrs. Carrow walks back here, she’s going to assume we’re about to make out or rob the store.”
His mouth twitched. “Probably the former,” he said. “You don’t strike me as the criminal type.”
“You don’t know me,” she shot back.
“I know more than you’d like,” he said.
Anger flared. “You’ve been watching me,” she said. “Spying. Since I was a kid.”
“Yes,” he said. No apology in it. Just fact.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because I was ordered to,” he said. “At first.”
“And then?” she asked.
His gaze dipped briefly. “And then,” he said slowly, “because no one else would keep you alive.”
The words knocked her back a step.
“You expect me to believe that?” she said. “That you’ve been…guarding me? You?”
He tilted his head. “Who did you think made the car swerve that day you stepped into the street without looking?”
Her stomach dropped.
“You remember,” he said, watching her. “You were fourteen. Angry. You weren’t paying attention.”
She did remember.
The squeal of tires. The too-close scream of metal and rubber and her own breath. The way the wind had slapped her hair against her face.
“I tripped,” she said. “I just…fell backward. Out of the way.”
“You don’t trip,” he said. “You’re too…controlled. Even then. You were pulled.”
“By what?” she asked weakly.
“By me,” he said.
He said it so simply.
“You expect me to just…take your word for that?” she asked.
“You know I’m not lying,” he said.
She did.
Somewhere under the fear, under the anger, she felt it—a low, thrumming resonance in the air around him. Fae couldn’t lie outright. They could dance around truths, stretch them, bury them. But when they spoke simple, bald facts, there was a weight to it.
He had that weight.
“What about the time with the…” She stopped herself.
His eyes narrowed. “With the lake,” he said. “When you were seventeen.”
Her heart pounded. “We were swimming. I just…got tired.”
“You nearly drowned,” he said, voice flat. “Because something in the water wanted to pull you under and keep you. I cut its hands off.”
She stared at him. The image came unbidden—cold water, a tug on her ankle, the world going gray around the edges. The sudden slackening of pressure. Breaking the surface, coughing and sobbing, her friends laughing it off, thinking she’d cramped.
“You were there,” she whispered.
“I’ve been there,” he said. “More often than you know.”
The air between them crackled.
“Why?” she asked again, but this time the question was quieter. Less accusation, more hollow curiosity. “You said you were ordered to. Who orders a prince to play bodyguard to a human?”
His mouth twisted. “My father,” he said. “The Autumn King. He made the original bargain with your grandmother. The prophecy worried him. So did the idea of breaking it. He wanted…a contingency.”
“A contingency,” she repeated.
“A hand on the scales,” he said. “An…influence. Someone to keep an eye on the changeling. To…nudge, if necessary.”
“And you didn’t think maybe that was a little…creepy?” she asked.
“Of course it’s creepy,” he said. “I’m fae, not oblivious.”
“Lot of overlap,” she muttered.
He actually huffed, a brief sound of almost-amusement. “You’re not wrong.”
She stared at him. “So you’ve been…what? Herding threats away from me? Tweaking probability? Just…standing in corners glowering?”
“Some of that,” he said. “And…watching.”
His gaze slid over her face. Not in a leering way. Not even in the obvious *checking you out* way. More…intense. Taking inventory. Memorizing. It made her skin feel too tight.
“Do you enjoy it?” she asked suddenly.
He blinked. “Enjoy what?”
“Watching,” she said. “Spying. Lurking. What does it give you, exactly?”
Something flickered in his eyes. “At first,” he said slowly, “it gave me reassurance. That you weren’t a monster in the making. That you were…ordinary.”
She flinched.
“I’m not ordinary,” she said.
“No,” he said. “You never were. That became…clear.”
He took a breath. “You asked what it gives me now,” he said. “The truth?”
“Try me,” she said.
“It gives me…” He stopped. His jaw tightened, as if forcing the words through gritted teeth. “It gives me…context.”
“Context,” she repeated incredulously.
“I have spent centuries in a Court where everything is…performance,” he said. “Where people are pieces on a board. Where…genuine reactions are currency. Watching you live a life that is not arranged around power plays and blood feuds and whose cousin slept with whose husband is…educational.”
She stared at him. Then, slowly, she raised a hand and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You have been using me as some kind of…ethnographic study,” she said. “You fae-Netflix yourself to sleep watching me do my laundry.”
“I don’t sleep,” he said. “Not like you. And you’re much more interesting than laundry.”
“You’re a creep,” she said flatly.
“Yes,” he agreed, to her surprise. “I am. I know this. I also know that I have saved your life at least seven times, and possibly more, depending on how you count indirect interference with destiny. So perhaps we can table the morality discussion until we handle the immediate problem.”
Her head spun. “The immediate problem being?”
“Your birthday.” He glanced at the clock on the wall as if it meant anything to him. “In…seventy-nine days, if I’ve done the mortal math correctly.”
She swallowed. “You’ve been counting?”
“Of course,” he said.
“I…haven’t,” she lied poorly.
He didn’t bother calling her on it.
“When that day comes,” he said, “the original bargain comes due. The debt ripens. The Autumn Court has the right to collect its…property.”
Her stomach twisted. “I am not property.”
His expression hardened. “I know that,” he said. “I have been saying that for years. Many in my Court disagree.”
“Your Court can choke,” she said.
His mouth twitched. “I would enjoy telling them you said that.”
“Please do,” she said. “Tell them to add me to their shit list.”
“How delightful,” he said dryly. “Unfortunately, their opinion still matters. And right now, much of that opinion is…unfavorable.”
“Because of the prophecy,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Explain it,” she said. “No more cryptic half-sentences. I want details. Exact words. Footnotes.”
He hesitated.
“You don’t get to keep me in the dark anymore,” she said softly. “Not if you’re standing in my workplace in a *shirt* and asking me to trust you.”
His gaze flicked down his body, as if he’d forgotten he was wearing mortal clothes. “Do you object to the shirt?” he asked. “I thought it would be less alarming than armor.”
“It is,” she said. “Which is why I’m suspicious of it.”
His lips quirked. “You are…refreshing,” he said. Then his face sobered. “Very well. The prophecy.”
He took a step back, giving them a fraction more distance. She wasn’t sure if it helped.
“Twenty-seven years ago,” he said, “one of our seers swallowed apple seeds and wormwood and went into a trance for nine days. When she came out—half-mad, half-sighted—she said this:
‘When the blood of both worlds runs in one vein, Autumn shall rise to glory or fall to ash. One child stolen, one child left. One crown in thorns, one crown in flame. The choice shall be made by hand and heart, By oath unbroken and promise betrayed.’”
The words settled around them like dust. Like ash.
Rowan swallowed. “That’s…dramatic.”
“We like our prophecies poetic,” he said dryly. “It gives everyone more to argue about.”
“And they think…that’s me,” she said. “The blood of both worlds.”
“And the other girl,” he said. “The one taken to our Court. Human-born, fae-raised.”
“Aisling,” she murmured, tasting the stolen name.
His brows rose. “You know it.”
“Gran mentioned her once,” Rowan said. “In a…story. Half-asleep.”
He made a thoughtful noise. “Of course she did.”
“So there are…two of us,” Rowan said. “One here. One there. Two possible…whatever the hell I am.”
“Yes,” he said. “And our Court is…divided. Some think you are the ‘flame’ part of the prophecy—destruction, change, the end of old patterns. They would rather kill you now than risk that. Others think you are the path to ‘glory’—new alliances, new magic, a bridge to your world. They would use you. Chain you. Breed you, even.” His mouth twisted. “They like that option.”
She felt sick.
“And the other girl?” she asked. “What do they think she is?”
He hesitated. “Valuable,” he said. “As a symbol. As a…toy. Some think *she’s* the flame. The human who will light a fire under our comfortable cruelty. Or the glory, if she can be molded correctly.”
“Has anyone,” Rowan said, voice too thin and sharp, “considered asking *us* which one we’d like to be?”
He looked at her. “Very few beings in power ever ask such questions,” he said. “It frightens them.”
Her chest burned.
“What do *you* think?” she asked. “About the prophecy. About…me.”
He studied her.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that prophecies are less about predicting the future and more about…creating it. About giving people a story to act out. They hear ‘glory or ash’ and immediately start shoving each other toward whichever pile they prefer.”
“That’s not an answer,” she said.
He exhaled. “I think you’re…a person,” he said. “Not a weapon. Not a symbol. Not a bomb. A woman who likes tea too much and alphabetizes her books and cares so much about her grandmother that it bleeds out of her every time she says her name.”
The simplicity of it rattled her.
“You know how I take my tea,” she said stupidly.
“I know many things I shouldn’t,” he said.
Heat crept up her neck. Anger followed. “That doesn’t answer the question,” she said. “Nice attempt at flattery, though.”
“It wasn’t flattery,” he said. “It was fact.”
“Do you think I’m going to destroy your Court?” she asked. “Is that why you’ve been hovering? Because you want to be close enough to stab me if I…go off?”
His silver eyes hardened. “If I had wanted you dead,” he said quietly, “you’d be ashes under an apple tree already.”
Her breath hitched.
He stepped closer. Just a fraction. Enough that she could smell something faint and unfamiliar on him—smoke and cold air and something crisp, like crushed leaves.
“I have watched you for twenty-five years,” he said. The words thrummed. “I have seen you help strangers carry boxes up stairs. I have seen you wrap your arms around a crying child in this very store and let them snot all over your shirt. I have seen you sit by your grandmother’s bed and hold her hand for hours so she wouldn’t be alone. I have heard you talk people out of fights with nothing but your stubbornness and an offer of coffee.”
He held her gaze. There was no softness in his, but there was…conviction.
“I do not think you are a bomb,” he said. “I think you are…a fulcrum. A place where pressure can be applied. Which way you tilt…” His mouth curved faintly. “…remains to be seen.”
“Comforting,” she said.
“You asked for honesty,” he said.
She wanted to pace. Yell. Laugh. Cry. Fling herself out the door and never stop running.
Instead, she leaned back against the shelf, letting the solid wood press into her spine. The books smelled like paper and dust. Familiar. Anchoring.
“What’s your offer?” she asked.
He blinked. “My…?”
“You said—last night—that you’d come and offer me a…bargain,” she said. “A way out. Or a different trap. I don’t know. Either way, there’s always an offer.”
He inclined his head. “You know us well.”
“I read,” she said. “A lot.”
He took a breath. “Very well.” He stepped back enough to be polite, enough that his presence didn’t crowd the aisle. “Here is my offer, Rowan Vance.”
The air seemed to thicken, the way it did when a storm rolled in. She felt the hair on her arms lift.
“I will acknowledge the old bargain,” he said. “Your grandmother’s debt. The claim my Court has on your life. I will not pretend it does not exist. That would be…foolish. Dangerous. For both of us.”
“Understatement of the year,” she muttered.
“In seventy-nine days,” he continued, “the Autumn Court will come to collect. If you do nothing, if you stay here and pretend this is not happening, they will send a Hunt to drag you back in chains. You will be paraded like a trophy. You will be used as leverage. As breeding stock. As a banner. You will have no say in how you are…employed.”
Her stomach lurched. “Is this supposed to be persuasive?” she asked. “Because you’re doing a great job of making me want to jump in a volcano.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” he said evenly. “So that you can make an informed choice.”
“And the alternative?” she forced herself to ask.
He held her gaze. “Come with me now,” he said. “Willingly. Before the debt hardens into iron. Come as my…guest.”
She barked a laugh. “Prisoner with better cushions, you mean.”
“As my responsibility,” he amended. “Under my protection.”
“And that’s better because…?” she asked.
“Because I have the King’s blessing to keep you,” he said. “As mine.”
The word scraped something raw inside her.
“I am not…anyone’s,” she said, voice low.
His eyes flashed. “I don’t mean it as property,” he said. “I mean it as…charge. Duty. If you are under my protection, anyone who wants to harm you will have to go through me. And if they succeed…” His mouth twisted. “It will be my head on the block.”
She stared at him. “You’d…tie yourself to me like that? Risk everything?”
He smiled without humor. “I already have.”
“But why?” she demanded. “You don’t *know* me.”
He looked at her like she’d said something truly idiotic.
“I know enough,” he said. “I know that if we leave you here, untrained, unprepared, you will burn. And you will take too many with you. I know that if we drag you back in chains, you will fight like a cornered animal until someone puts a knife in your ribs. I know that if I stand at a distance and watch again, pretending my hands are clean, I will regret it when our halls are full of your blood.”
Her throat hurt.
“And I know,” he said softly, “that given a choice between living in a gilded cage and dying on your feet, you will try to set the cage on fire. I would…rather like to teach you how to do that without burning yourself alive.”
The words hit her like a punch.
“You’re…assuming a lot,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“You don’t deny it,” he murmured.
She swallowed. “What does ‘come with me’ actually entail?” she asked. “Spell it out. No pretty language. I want…terms.”
His mouth twitched. “You *are* a dragon,” he said.
“Stop calling me that,” she said. “It’ll go to my head.”
“Good,” he said. “You’ll need it.”
He straightened slightly, as if bracing himself.
“If you accept my bargain,” he said carefully, “you will come to the Autumn Court as my honored guest. You will have rooms of your own. You will not be bound in chains. You will not be forced to…share your bed with anyone you do not choose. Your consent will be required for any physical…contact beyond what is necessary for your safety.”
Heat flared in her face. “Did you just write a magical HR policy on the fly?” she asked.
He ignored that. “In return,” he said, “you will agree to remain within the bounds of our Court for the duration of three months—until your birthday. You will learn what you are. You will train. You will attend certain Court functions as needed, with me at your side. You will not deliberately attempt to kill anyone in the Court unless they present an immediate threat to your life or the lives of those under your…*explicit* protection.”
She blinked. “So I can kill people. Just not for fun.”
“Correct,” he said. “You have no idea how unusual that clause is.”
She believed him.
“During this time,” he went on, “I will seek a way to…void or subvert the original bargain. To release you from the debt without triggering the worst interpretation of the prophecy.”
“And if you fail?” she asked.
His jaw clenched. “Then,” he said quietly, “you will have to decide whether to run, to fight, or to burn it all down.”
She stared at him.
“That’s not much of an assurance,” she said.
“It’s honest,” he said.
“Honesty is overrated,” she muttered.
“Not in our Court,” he said. “We have illusion for that.”
She exhaled shakily. “What happens if I say no?” she asked.
His eyes darkened. “Then in seventy-nine days,” he said, voice like a stone dropping down a well, “they will come for you. And I will not be able to stop them.”
She hugged her arms around herself.
“You’re asking me to leave everything,” she said. “My job. My…Gran.” Her voice broke on the last word.
His face softened. “Your grandmother is dying,” he said gently. “With or without our interference. You know this.”
“I could be there,” she said. “I could…hold her hand. Make sure she’s not alone.”
“You have been there,” he said. “You will be there more, in the days to come. I am not asking you to leave tonight.”
She blinked. “You’re not?”
“I’m not a monster,” he said.
She snorted. “Debatable.”
“I am not,” he repeated, “asking you to walk out of here this instant. That would be…cruel. And unproductive. I am asking you to consider. To…prepare. To talk to your grandmother. To your friend.” His eyes flicked toward the front of the store. “To decide what you need to put in order.”
“You’re giving me…time,” she said slowly.
“A little,” he said. “The seam between our worlds will be most stable at the end of this month. All Hallows. Samhain. Whatever your people are calling it these days. If you choose to come, that is when I will take you.”
“Samhain,” she repeated hollowly. “You want me to go to…fairyland on Halloween.”
“The border will be softest,” he said. “It will make the crossing…easier.”
“Your definition of ‘easy’ is going to need work,” she said faintly.
“We have time to calibrate,” he said.
Silence stretched between them. Dust motes drifted in the shaft of light from the high window. Somewhere in the store, the heater kicked on with a clank.
“You haven’t asked what I want in return,” he said softly.
Her head snapped up. “You already said what you wanted,” she said. “For me to come. To be your…responsibility. Your problem child.”
He huffed. “You do excel at being a problem,” he said. “But that’s not what I mean.”
“Then what?” she demanded.
He stepped closer. Just a half-step. Enough that his presence wrapped around her like cold smoke and distant heat.
“If you accept my bargain,” he said, voice low, “I will have a claim on you. And you will have a claim on me.”
She swallowed. “What kind of claim?”
“Protection,” he said. “Aid. The right to call on me in danger.” His eyes flared. “Even from here. Even in dreams.”
Her skin hummed. “I can already…call you,” she said. “Apparently.”
“Not like this,” he said. “Not with weight. Not with…obligation. If we seal this, if we set terms and speak them under proper witness, then when you say my name with intent…” He took another half-step, his breath brushing her cheek. “…I will come.”
Her heart slammed.
“You make that sound…very…” She searched for words. “…dangerous,” she managed.
“It is,” he said.
“Spicy,” her brain supplied treacherously.
She told it to shut up.
“You’d tie yourself to me like that?” she asked. “Even if I…make things worse? Even if I end up being the…bomb?”
He held her gaze. “If you burn,” he said quietly, “I’ll burn with you.”
The words hit her like a slap.
“Why?” she whispered.
He smiled, a small, crooked thing that looked like it didn’t belong on his face. “Because I am…tired,” he said. “Of watching from a distance while everyone around me sets fires and calls it strategy. Because I would like, for once, to put my weight behind something I chose. And because…” He hesitated. “Because I can’t seem to stop.”
“Stop what?” she asked.
“Choosing you,” he said.
Her lungs forgot how to function.
He seemed to realize what he’d said at the same time she did. His jaw tightened. He took a tiny step back, as if giving her space would make the words less heavy.
“I am not asking you to…feel anything in return,” he said, voice brisker now. “I am not asking you to like me. I am asking you to see the options clearly.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive,” she muttered dazedly.
He blinked. “What?”
“Disliking you and seeing clearly,” she said. “They go together very well.”
To her relief, he huffed a brief, genuine laugh. “Fair enough,” he said.
She dragged a hand through her hair.
“You’re…a lot,” she said.
“So I’ve been told,” he said.
She believed it.
He studied her face. “I’ve given you…much to think about,” he said. “I won’t demand your answer now. That would be…foolish.”
“Didn’t stop you from demanding I tell you to get out of my dream last night,” she said.
“That was…different,” he said. “And for the record, that was the rudest banishment I have ever experienced.”
“Thank you,” she said faintly. “I’ve been practicing.”
His mouth twitched.
“I will come back,” he said. “To…check on your decision. To answer questions. To…explain.” His voice softened on the last word, as if he knew how starved she was for it.
“You mean you’ll keep stalking me,” she said.
“Less stalking, more…skulking,” he said. “Semantics.”
“Semantics matter,” she said. “Especially with you.”
“Then I will be…precise,” he said. “I will continue to watch you. But now, I will also…speak to you. If you wish it.”
Did she?
She didn’t know.
“Yes,” her curiosity whispered, ravenous.
“No,” her fear hissed.
“You don’t have to decide that either, yet,” he said, as if hearing the war. “If you call me, I will come. If you don’t, I will…stay at the edges.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”
He smiled faintly. “The catch is that if you *don’t* call me and something comes for you…” His gaze darkened. “It might get through.”
She exhaled shakily. “Subtle,” she said. “Very subtle.”
“I am many things,” he said. “Subtle is often one of them. Not always.”
He glanced toward the front of the store. “Your friend returns,” he murmured.
Footsteps. Boots on tile.
“Ro?” Harper called. “We brought—”
She rounded the end of the aisle, takeout bag in hand, Zia behind her.
She froze.
The takeout bag swung gently from her fingers, the smell of garlic and chili curling through the air. Her gaze flicked from Rowan—pressed against the shelf, eyes a little too wide—to Caelan, standing entirely too close, silver eyes and all.
Her face changed.
Rowan had seen Harper angry. She’d seen her scared, sad, furious, petty, protective, annoyed. She had *not* often seen her go completely, utterly still.
“Hi,” Harper said, voice deceptively mild. “New customer?”
Caelan’s expression smoothed into something neutral. Harmless. His glamour—because he had to be using one, even if she could see through it—subtly brightened, making his features a shade less…sharp. To most people, he’d now look like a handsome man with odd eyes, not an ancient predator in nice boots.
“Yes,” he said. “I was just…leaving.”
Harper’s gaze flicked to Rowan. *Are you okay?* it asked without words.
Rowan forced her throat to work. “We were…talking about folklore,” she said. Her voice sounded wrong in her own ears. “He has…strong opinions about fairy PR.”
Harper’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “I bet he does,” she said.
Caelan inclined his head, the gesture polite. “We’ll continue our discussion another time, Miss Vance.”
“Miss Vance?” Harper mouthed silently, scandalized.
Rowan glared at him. “Don’t call me that,” she said.
“What would you prefer?” he asked.
“Rowan,” she said.
His lips curved slightly. “Rowan,” he echoed. Her name rolled over his tongue like he was tasting it. “Until next time.”
He stepped past Harper and Zia with unhurried grace, as if he weren’t walking through a minefield.
Harper’s gaze tracked him like a hawk watching a snake. Zia’s eyes narrowed, tattooed fingers flexing.
The chime over the door jingled. He was gone.
Silence hummed in his wake.
Then Harper turned on Rowan.
“What. The. Fuck,” she said, enunciating each word like its own sentence.
Zia set the takeout bag on the counter with a thump. “And do I need to stab him,” she added, more practical.
Rowan stared at the door, heart still racing.
Her answer tasted like smoke and iron and something darker.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that was the Autumn Prince.”
Harper’s eyes went comically wide. “Your nightmare man just walked into your bookstore,” she said. “Of course he did.”
Zia whistled low. “Girl,” she said. “Your type is…ambitious.”
Rowan laughed, half-hysterical.
And outside, under an October sky that was starting to bruise toward evening, Caelan paused on the sidewalk.
He looked up at the second-floor windows of Ever After Books, where fairy lights glowed faintly behind the glass.
He could feel Rowan’s heartbeat still echoing in the air. Fast. Fierce.
She hadn’t said yes.
She hadn’t said no.
He smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Let the game begin,” he murmured.
Above him, wind rattled the leaves in the street trees, scattering a handful of amber and crimson down around his boots.
Autumn was coming.
And with it, a bargain sharp enough to draw blood.