The next week blurred.
Work. Sleep. Research. Gran.
And Caelan, a silver thread woven through it all.
Rowan threw herself into information gathering the way she’d once thrown herself into studying for finals. Except the stakes were higher than a grade, and there were no textbooks titled *So You’re Being Claimed by a Fae Court: A Beginner’s Guide.*
Harper pillaged the folklore and occult sections of Ever After Books. Zia called in favors from her Tía and a couple of witchy cousins. Mrs. Carrow, who had seen more than she let on, scrounged up a box of old pamphlets from a defunct “paranormal support group” she’d attended in her youth.
“These were mostly an excuse for lonely people to talk about their haunted cats,” she admitted. “But there are a few pages on fae etiquette that might not get you killed.”
Rowan slept badly.
Every night, she expected Caelan to appear in her dreams, all shadow and silver eyes. Every night, she half-hoped he would.
He didn’t.
The one time he’d said he’d stay away for a bit, he actually did.
Infuriatingly considerate man.
During the day, she felt him sometimes at the edges of things. A prickle between her shoulders when she locked up the store. A whisper in the leaves of the maple outside Gran’s window.
But he didn’t show himself.
“You miss him,” Harper said bluntly one afternoon, catching Rowan staring out the café window at nothing in particular.
Rowan startled. “I do not.”
“You do,” Harper said. “In a ‘mad at him for making me care’ way. Which is the worst kind.”
Rowan scowled into her coffee. “You’re projecting,” she muttered.
“I would never,” Harper said. “Also, Zia does the same thing when her aunt goes silent for too long. Pacing. Weird sighing. Staring at doors like a cat.”
“I do not sigh,” Rowan said.
“You *sigh,*” Harper said. “Like a Victorian heroine whose husband went off to war. Except in your case, the war is a Court full of glittery assholes and your husband is a man you have not kissed.”
Rowan flushed. “I am not married to him,” she hissed.
“Yet,” Harper sing-songed.
Rowan threw a napkin at her.
***
Gran slept more.
She woke sometimes for bursts of clarity, sharp and bright, then faded mid-sentence, eyes glazing as if someone had turned down a dial.
Rowan learned to time her visits to the sharp bits.
They talked about nothing. And everything. Gran told stories about Rowan’s mother—how she’d once dyed her hair blue and tried to blame it on “the faeries,” how she’d kissed a girl behind the church and then marched into the kitchen to announce she was “hedging her bets.”
They also talked about…after.
“What do you want?” Rowan asked one evening, when the maple outside was more bare branch than leaf. “When…you know.”
Gran’s lips twitched. “To haunt irresponsible men and people who don’t return their library books,” she said.
Rowan snorted, then bit her lip. “Seriously.”
Gran sighed. “Scatter me back home,” she said. “On the hill behind the house. Where the apple trees used to be.”
“I can’t get the land back,” Rowan said brokenly. “They sold it to those awful people with the trampoline and the screaming.”
“I don’t need the deed,” Gran said. “Just the dirt. I was there before they were. I’ll be there after they go bankrupt because someone sues over a trampoline injury.”
Rowan laughed through tears.
“And you,” Gran said, voice going soft. “You…live. However you decide that looks. With or without fox boy.”
“I’m not—” Rowan started, then stopped. “Fox boy?”
“He smells like fox,” Gran said.
“He smells like smoke and leaves,” Rowan muttered.
“Same family,” Gran said.
Rowan pressed her forehead to Gran’s hand. “I don’t know how to walk into their world,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to…be there.”
Gran’s fingers combed weakly through her curls. “You walk the way you walk here,” she said. “Chin up. Eyes open. Mouth sharp. You ask too many questions. You make them uncomfortable.”
“I’m good at that,” Rowan said.
“I know,” Gran said fondly. “It’s why I like you.”
***
On the tenth day after the bookstore confrontation, Caelan finally appeared again.
Not in her dreams.
In the park.
Rowan had tried not to go to their usual places too often. It felt like inviting him. But grief and habit had pulled her to the small park near Hollybrook—a patch of green wedged between two apartment buildings, with a cracked basketball court, a swing set, and three maple trees that had seen better decades.
She sat on a bench with a paper cup of coffee, watching a toddler in a dinosaur hoodie try to conquer the slide.
The wind smelled like cold and wet leaves.
“You’re brooding,” a voice said, taking the spot at the other end of the bench.
She didn’t jump.
She’d felt him before he spoke. A subtle shift in the air, like a chord changing key.
“Occupational hazard,” she said.
He wore mortal clothes again—a dark sweater, jeans, a battered leather jacket that made him look almost normal. Almost. His hair was loose today, wind teasing the longer strands around his face. The silver of his eyes was tamped down to something resembling a stormy gray. To anyone without her sight, he’d be just…a man.
To her, the glamour sat thin.
“You stayed away,” she said. “Like you said you would.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Surprising,” she said.
He tilted his head. “You expected me to…hover?”
“I expected you to be like every other fae story,” she said. “Full of grand declarations and empty follow-through.”
“Ouch,” he said mildly.
The toddler on the slide shrieked with laughter as he slid down on his stomach backwards.
Caelan watched him for a moment, something unreadable on his face.
“Humans are…loud,” he said.
“Like you aren’t,” she muttered.
He smiled faintly. “In different ways.”
They sat in silence for a few breaths, the park sounds filling the spaces—distant traffic, a dog barking, the squeak of swing chains.
“How is she?” he asked quietly.
He didn’t have to say who.
Rowan’s shoulders slumped. “Tired,” she said. “Fading. Some days she’s…all there. Some days she calls me by my mother’s name and asks if I’ve done my homework.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She snorted. “Don’t apologize,” she said. “You people don’t apologize.”
“I am…learning,” he said.
She sipped her coffee. It had gone lukewarm.
“Have you decided?” he asked.
She stared at the dinosaur hoodie. At the boy’s mother, watching with wary eyes, ready to sprint if he fell.
“No,” she said. “Yes. Maybe.”
He huffed. “Specific.”
She clenched the coffee cup. “Every time I think about saying yes, I think about…losing this,” she said. She gestured around. “Tiny parks. Bad coffee. Gran’s stupid wallpaper. Harper yelling at game show contestants. All the…small things.”
He watched her face. “You could…have some of those there,” he said. “Not all. Not the same. But…some.”
“Do you have coffee?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Our way.”
“Does it come from beans?”
“Sometimes,” he said.
“That’s not an answer,” she said.
He smiled. “We have things that taste like what you find comforting,” he said. “We have books. We have quiet corners. We have…people.”
“People who would like to slit my throat,” she said.
“Some,” he said. “Others who would like to use you. A few who might like you for you, if given the chance.”
“You’re very honest for someone trying to sell me a timeshare in hell,” she said.
His mouth twitched. “I told you,” he said. “I’m a terrible fae.”
She glanced at him. “Lucien said I should ask you what *you* want,” she said. “From this.”
He blinked. “Lucien said that?”
“Yes,” she said. “In between mocking you and flirting with the concept of chaos.”
“That sounds like him,” Caelan said.
“So?” she pressed.
He was quiet for a long moment.
“I want…” He trailed off.
She waited.
“Truth,” he said finally. “In a place that lives on lies.”
She frowned. “You think I’m…truthful?”
“You are…” He searched for words. “…unvarnished,” he said. “You don’t…perform the way we do. You lie, yes, but not…reflexively. You care about things that don’t benefit you. You get angry on behalf of people it would be simpler to ignore.”
“That’s not truth,” she said. “That’s just being…soft.”
“It is…honest,” he said. “And very…valuable. Dangerous, in a Court like mine.”
“You want me to be…your honesty pet?” she asked.
He winced. “That is…not how I would phrase it,” he said. “I want you…to see us. As we are. Not as we pretend. And to tell me where I’m being a fool.”
She snorted. “That’s a full-time job.”
“I can pay in…magic,” he said dryly. “And occasional dramatic rescues.”
She looked away, fighting a smile.
“And what else?” she asked. “Beyond…truth. And…whatever we are.”
He was silent.
Then, very quietly, “I want my Court to survive,” he said. “I want the next King—whether it is me or my half-cousin with the antlers—to inherit something more than ashes and grudges. I think you…might be the knife that cuts us free. Or the fire that burns us down. Either way, I would like to be…there. To…nudge.”
“You like nudging,” she said.
“It is my favorite,” he said.
She stared at the cracked asphalt of the basketball court.
“What if I go,” she said, “and I like it? What if I…don’t want to come back?”
His jaw tightened. “Then,” he said carefully, “we find a way to…honor that without tearing both worlds apart.”
“Vague,” she said.
He sighed. “I do not have all the answers,” he said. “If I did, I would be insufferable.”
“You already are,” she said.
He smiled faintly.
The toddler tripped near the slide and started wailing. His mother rushed over, scooping him up, soothing him. He buried his face in her neck, hiccuping.
Rowan’s chest ached.
“I didn’t get to choose where I grew up,” she said. “I didn’t get to choose this…body. This…sight. Any of it. The only thing I get to choose, really, is…how I respond. Who I become.”
He watched her intently.
“And I don’t want that choice to be…fear,” she said. “I don’t want to make it because I’m terrified of you. Or because I’m…attracted to you. Or because I feel guilty about what Gran did. Or what your King did. I want to make it because…because it’s the best way I can see to honor all of those things without being…swallowed.”
Silence.
“You are…” Caelan said quietly, “extraordinary.”
“Stop,” she said, flushing.
“It’s true,” he said.
“Truth is overrated,” she muttered.
“Not to me,” he said.
She stared at her hands.
“Okay,” she said. “Here’s what I’m thinking.”
He straightened.
“I’ll come,” she said. The words came out easier than she’d expected. Like they’d been waiting on her tongue. “On Samhain. As your…guest. Under your terms. Under mine.”
His breath left him in a soft exhale. “Rowan,” he said.
“But,” she added sharply, “we do this my way.”
His eyes glinted. “Define ‘your way.’”
“I’m not just…walking through some random tree and popping out in your murder palace in a ball gown,” she said. “We prepare. We plan. We…practice.”
“Practice,” he repeated, bemused.
“You take me to a seam,” she said. “Before Samhain. A…preview. I want to see your world from…a safe distance. And I want you to see what happens to me when I get that close. If I…shift. If I…freak out. If I spontaneously combust. Whatever. We find out *before* the big night.”
His brows rose slowly. “You want a…trial run,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “And we do it on *my* turf. Somewhere I feel…anchored.”
He considered.
“That is…possible,” he said slowly. “Dangerous.”
“That’s your favorite word,” she said.
“Accurate,” he said. “The more time you spend at the seam, the more…noticed you will be. But…” He nodded. “Better I see you…crack…in a small place than have you shatter in my throne hall.”
“Reassuring,” she muttered.
He turned to face her fully. “Rowan Vance. You are saying yes,” he said, as if needing to hear it again.
She met his gaze. “I am saying I will come with you on Samhain,” she said. “Under our oaths. Under our terms. Yes.”
The word hung between them like a struck bell.
Something invisible snapped taut.
He flinched, slightly, as if someone had tugged on a thread in his chest.
“You felt that too?” she asked, hand going to her sternum.
“Yes,” he said. His voice had gone rough. “The bargain…took hold.”
“I thought we had to…do a whole ritual,” she said. “Candles. Blood. Dramatic monologue.”
He huffed. “That will be for the Court,” he said. “This was…between us. Enough for the magic to…register.”
She exhaled. “So there’s…no backing out now,” she said.
He hesitated.
“You can…bend,” he said. “You can…twist. You can change the *how.* But the *that* is…set.”
“Great,” she said. “Love that for me.”
He studied her face. “If you—”
“Don’t you dare say ‘if you regret it,’” she cut in. “I will scream.”
He smiled, helplessly. “As you wish.”
“We tell Gran tonight,” she said. “And Harper. And Zia. And then…we plan this trial run.”
He nodded. “There is a place,” he said. “Where our worlds touch…softly. The lake.”
Her stomach dipped. “The one that tried to drown me?”
“Yes,” he said. “It owes me a favor.”
“I don’t like that sentence,” she said.
“You don’t like many,” he said. “You’ll survive.”
She shot him a look. “You sound very sure.”
“I have…faith,” he said.
She blinked. “In me?”
“In your stubbornness,” he said. “It is…formidable.”
She rolled her eyes. Her heart thudded.
Above them, a crow cawed.
Caelan glanced up, then back at her. “I’ll come for you tomorrow night,” he said. “After you visit your grandmother. We’ll go to the lake.”
“Is this a date?” she asked before she could stop herself. “Because your idea of romance is deeply messed up.”
He laughed. “Noted,” he said. “I’ll bring flowers.”
She snorted. “If you show up with dead roses, I’m calling the whole thing off.”
“Duly warned,” he said.
They sat for a moment longer, the decision settling around them like newly fallen snow.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said softly.
“I know,” she said, thinking of Harper’s hand in hers, Zia’s wards, Gran’s fierce eyes. “That’s the only reason I’m not…running screaming in the other direction.”
He smiled. “Please don’t run screaming,” he said. “The Hunt gets ideas.”
“Noted,” she said.
He stood. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said.
“Until tomorrow,” she echoed.
He walked away down the path, blending into the humans with their strollers and dogs, his glamour smoothing his edges just enough.
No one looked at him twice.
Except her.
She watched until he turned the corner and vanished.
Her heart pounded.
She’d said yes.
There was no going back.
***
“Absolutely not,” Harper said.
Rowan had expected that. She still winced.
They were back on Rowan’s couch, takeout containers balanced on their knees. Zia sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, a spreadsheet of possible fae vulnerabilities glowing on the screen.
“I didn’t say ‘maybe,’” Harper continued. “I didn’t say ‘we’ll see.’ I said ‘no.’”
“I heard you,” Rowan said. “You’re at, like, an eleven on the volume scale.”
“You’re walking underwater with a man who admitted the lake tried to murder you once,” Harper said. “How is that…how is that anything other than a terrible idea?”
“We’re not walking *underwater,*” Rowan said. “We’re going to the shore. To look at the seam. Maybe stick a toe in.”
“You tried that once,” Harper said. “You nearly drowned.”
“That was before Caelan cut off its…hands,” Rowan said.
Zia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Those words don’t get less weird the more you say them,” she muttered.
Harper pointed her chopsticks at Rowan. “You’re making jokes,” she said. “That means you’re more scared than you’re letting on.”
“Of course I’m scared,” Rowan said. “I’d be an idiot not to be. But sitting here and refusing to engage isn’t going to make the bargain go away. I said yes, Harper. It…took. If I back out now, the magic is going to…bite. Me. You. Gran. Everyone.”
Harper deflated slightly. “I know,” she said. “I just…hate it.”
“Me too,” Rowan said softly.
Zia closed the laptop with a gentle click. “You’re right about the trial run,” she said. “If you’re going over there, we should know how your body and magic react at a seam. And I’d rather find out at our lake than in their Court, surrounded by people who would…pounce.”
“Exactly,” Rowan said.
Harper scowled. “We’re all very logical, congratulations,” she said. “Doesn’t mean I have to like you going off into the woods with Mr. Cheekbones at night.”
“You make him sound like a serial killer,” Rowan said.
“If the shoe fits,” Harper said.
Zia nudged her knee. “We’re going with her,” she said.
Harper blinked. “What?”
“To the lake,” Zia said. “We’re not letting her wander into a magical seam alone. Come on, babe.”
Harper’s brows knit. “Is that…allowed?” she asked. “Like, fae-protocol-wise? Isn’t this some kind of…romantic abduction rite? No chaperones?”
Rowan snorted. “If it is, he forgot to mention that clause,” she said. “Oops.”
“If he has a problem with it, that’s on him,” Zia said. “He came into *our* world. Our rules. Our backup.”
Rowan’s chest warmed. “You don’t…have to.”
“We do,” Harper said fiercely. “Love you, remember? Very inconvenient. Very binding.”
Rowan swallowed. “You two at a distance,” she said. “Please. If things go…weird…I don’t want you getting sucked in.”
“We’ll stay on the human shore,” Zia said. “Salt, sigils, baseball bats. The usual.”
Harper perked up a little. “Ooh,” she said. “Can I finally justify that iron crowbar I’ve been eyeing on Etsy?”
“Absolutely not,” Zia said. “We are not trusting Etsy metallurgy with her life.”
They argued about iron suppliers for five minutes. It was…comforting.
Later, after Harper had fallen asleep on Rowan’s bed with a mouthful of rice and Zia had gone home to get her “magic bag,” Rowan sat on the floor with her back against the couch, knees drawn up.
She stared at the dark window.
“You heard,” she said softly. “Of course you did.”
Nothing moved.
She pressed her lips together.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “We do this tomorrow. Please don’t…be a dick about my friends.”
A faint brush of something—like a hand over the back of her neck—made her shiver.
She didn’t know if it was his answer or her imagination.
Either way, there was no backing out now.
---