Chapter 9
NINE
DAHLIA
Dahlia stared into her wine. The truth sat on her tongue, unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
“He came in for coffee. I made it. Our hands touched when I gave him the cup, and...” She trailed off, not sure how to explain the rest. The electricity. The way her whole body had lit up. The way he’d looked at her—startled, almost frightened—before fleeing.
“And?” Junie prompted.
“And nothing. He left. Threw money on the counter and practically ran out the door.” The memory still stung, even though she didn’t want to admit it. “He hasn’t been back.”
“Three days and counting.” Cassia’s voice had softened slightly. “That’s weird, right? If he felt it too?”
“Bears aren’t impulsive.” Narla’s focus was steady. Knowing. “My husband was a bear. When they encounter something that challenges their worldview, they retreat. Process. Plan their approach.” She paused. “Three days is nothing to a bear who’s been running from himself for fifteen years.”
The room fell silent for a moment. Dahlia sometimes forgot that Narla had been married to a bear shifter—that she understood their psychology in ways the rest of them didn’t.
“So he’s what?” Junie’s brow furrowed. “Planning his approach to Dahlia?”
“I doubt he’s planning anything involving me.” Dahlia drained her wine. Avine immediately refilled it. “He’s here to deal with his grandfather’s illness and the sleuth crisis. I’m the woman who makes decent coffee.”
“And legendary pastries.” Cassia snagged a croissant from the box Dahlia had brought. “Don’t forget the pastries.”
“Speaking of sleuth crisis.” Avine’s voice shifted, taking on the practical edge that made her such a good innkeeper. “Theo mentioned the territorial dispute. The boundary claim issue that might affect downtown businesses?”
Dahlia’s stomach sank. She’d been hoping to avoid this topic. Had been hoping, unreasonably, that the whole thing would resolve itself without her having to face it.
“It might be nothing.”
“Dahlia.” Avine’s hand covered hers. Steady. Warm. “What aren’t you telling us?”
The words spilled out before she could stop them. “The bakery sits on the boundary line. Between Haven Shores proper and Ursa territory. There’s a dispute about where that line actually falls. Magnus Ironwood is claiming the original surveys put his territory much farther than modern maps show.”
“Magnus Ironwood.” Junie sat up straighter, all traces of teasing gone. “The isolationist bear from Crescent Ridge?”
“How do you know about him?”
“Leo mentioned him. Said he’s been circling the Ursa territory for years. Bad news.” Junie’s jaw tightened. “What does his claim mean for you?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe...” Dahlia couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say out loud what she’d been thinking every night since Sue’s visit. Maybe I lose everything my grandmother built.
“This is bullshit.” Cassia was on her feet, crackling with sudden energy. Literal energy—the lights flickered. Gust squawked in alarm. “One hurricane. Localized. Very targeted.” Her fingers sparked. “His dry cleaning bill alone would be devastating.”
“I have hexes.” Junie’s features had set with determination. “Several. Very creative ones.”
“Nobody is storming or hexing anyone.” Dahlia held up her hands. “It’s a legal dispute. It has to go through proper channels.”
“Proper channels are slow.” Cassia dropped back into her chair, but the static in the air didn’t dissipate. “Proper channels let people get hurt while paperwork gets filed.”
“She’s not wrong.” Avine’s voice was quiet. Careful. “Theo’s been tracking Magnus’s activities. He’s been buying border parcels for two years. Quiet acquisitions. Nothing that looked suspicious on its own, but when you add them up...”
“He’s building toward something,” Narla finished. “Patient. Methodical. Bears plan long-term. If he’s been positioning himself for two years, whatever he’s after is significant.”
Dahlia’s breath shortened. She’d been telling herself this was manageable. That Sue was being dramatic. That four generations of Moons running that bakery meant something, meant protection.
But hearing it laid out like this—the systematic acquisition, the long game, the patient predator circling—made it feel terrifyingly real.
“What can we do?” Junie grabbed Dahlia’s hand. “There has to be action we can take. Research. Potions. Anything.”
“I can check the historical records.” Avine was already reaching for her phone. “The inn has archives going back centuries. If a copy of the original boundary agreement is anywhere, they might be there.”
“I’ll ask Leo.” Junie’s jaw was set with determination. “He knows legal stuff. Business disputes. Maybe he can find an angle—”
“And I’ll weather-ward the bakery.” Cassia’s crackling had calmed into focus. Controlled. “Make it harder for anything to affect the building while we figure this out.”
Dahlia blinked at them. At her friends, mobilizing without being asked, rallying around her the way she’d rallied around Avine six months ago, around Junie after that.
It felt... strange. Being on the receiving end. Being the one who needed help instead of the one giving it.
“You don’t have to—” she started.
“Don’t.” Avine’s voice was gentle but firm. “Don’t do that thing where you convince yourself you have to handle everything alone.”
“I don’t do that.”
Four skeptical stares met hers.
“You absolutely do that.” Junie squeezed her hand. “You took care of me when I was falling apart over Leo. You took care of Avine when she was terrified of Theo. You take care of everyone, all the time, and you never let anyone take care of you.”
“Someone has to—”
“No.” Cassia’s voice crackled. “Someone doesn’t have to. That’s what you tell yourself so you don’t have to ask for anything.”
The words landed hard. Dahlia opened her mouth to deny them, but nothing came out.
Because Cassia was right. Because they were all right.
“Dahlia.” Avine’s voice was soft. The tone she used when she was about to say something that mattered. “What do you want?”
“What?”
“Not what everyone needs. Not what would make things easier for other people. What do you want?”
The question knocked the air from her lungs. When was the last time anyone had asked her that? When was the last time she’d let herself think about it?
The Paris letter surfaced in her mind. Cream-colored paper. Embossed letterhead. The dream her grandmother had wanted for her—the dream Dahlia had buried so deeply, she barely let herself acknowledge it existed.
“I don’t...know.” She swallowed.
Avine pulled her into a hug. Solid. Unconditional. The support Dahlia had been giving other people for years and had convinced herself she didn’t need.
“Then maybe it’s time to figure it out,” Avine said quietly.