Chapter 11
Savla
Iwoke up later than usual the next morning—which was already suspicious.
The rain had scrubbed the city clean overnight, and sunlight was sneaking through the workshop window like it had something to prove.
Ribbon was snoring from his dog bed against the wall, the smell of damp metal still hanging in the air.
I told myself I wasn’t waiting for the sound of the roof door creaking open again.
Even though it was the most obvious lie in the universe.
I hissed at my internal voice, wishing it could just stay silent for once, but knowing that it never would.
I’d just started sanding the edge of a new sculpture when the sound of gentle footsteps reached my ear.
I pretended that it wasn’t pleasure that was filling me.
Relief. An odd sense of satisfaction overflowing my chest.
Then the door opened—soft but deliberate this time. And Hanna peeked in.
She was dry today and her hair was loose. Long, lustrous strands with a hint of red undertone that made me itch to touch it. There was a faint smile playing on her lips.
“Morning,” she said, like this was completely normal.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re back.”
As if you weren’t just rejoicing about that.
“Unfinished business.”
“With what?”
She pointed to me. “You still owe me the ending to the broomstick story. I told you I was going to start it and you were going to finish. Of the both of us, you’re the artist, after all.”
I exhaled through my nose. “You made that up.”
She stepped closer, unbothered. “So? You made up that frog statue. It seems totally fair.”
Ribbon croaked approvingly. Traitor. Again.
Hanna grinned and went straight to his cushion, crouching to scratch his chin. “See? Ribbon agrees.”
My toad slouched in his position, closing his eyes and letting his tongue hang out in glee. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d fry his legs for dinner.
“You’re aware you don’t actually work here, right?” I asked, picking up a rag to wipe down the table.
“Sure,” she said, with a nod. “That’s why I brought breakfast.”
That stopped me. She held up a little box, the smell of something warm and sweet escaping through the cracks.
“Sweetrolls,” she said proudly. “From the market. I may have bought too many, and it’s terrible etiquette to eat alone.”
“Or,” I said slowly, “you could admit that you came here on purpose.”
Why the hell are you demanding the truth from her when you can barely admit it to yourself?
I hissed at my internal voice again, but she just tilted her head, a tiny smile spreading across her face. “Maybe I like the view,” she whispered, not looking away.
I told myself she meant the skyline, not me. But the bastard inside of me who loved being around her preened, wondering exactly which part she enjoyed viewing.
Before I could muster a retort that would sufficiently stop further flirtatious banter with her, a heavy knock echoed from the rooftop door below—followed by Krusk’s unmistakable loud voice.
“Sav! You up there hiding again?”
I muttered something under my breath that Ribbon wisely pretended not to understand, too busy being charmed by Hanna. Seconds later, the door opened and both my brothers walked in—Krusk, enormous and grinning, and Enka with his daughter perched on his shoulders, waving a stuffed toad in the air.
“Well, well,” Krusk said, crossing his arms. “I knew you were sneaking off to the roof, but I didn’t realize it was for company.”
Hanna’s eyes widened. “I was just—”
Enka grinned. “He’s terrible at sharing tools, but apparently he’s pretty good at sharing breakfast.”
Gabbi giggled, pointing her toad plushie at me. “Uncle Savla’s blushing!”
“I’m not,” I retorted sharply—though my ears betrayed me by going hot.
Krusk clapped me on the shoulder, nearly sending me flying into my workbench. I was certain that one of these days, one of us was going to impale ourselves on a sharp object just because of enthusiastic back-slaps. “My little brother’s growing up. Next thing we know, he’ll be smiling in public.”
“Keep talking,” I muttered, “and I’ll clamp your mouth shut.” I held up the clamp I had in mind, but he grinned at me, reaching over to ruffle my hair good-naturedly. As if none of this was his fault.
He’d spent the last few years trying to talk me down from my firm stance on fated mates and why they were a terrible idea, and now he had the gall to come in here and try to matchmake.
Hanna was laughing now—really laughing—and somehow that made it worse. Or better. I wasn’t quite sure yet.
Krusk winked at her on his way out. “If he gives you trouble, tell Pen. She loves making him behave.”
“Noted,” she giggled, eyes dancing.
When they finally left, the workshop was quiet again—except for Ribbon and the faint sound of Hanna stifling another laugh.
“I think your brothers like me,” she said.
“Unfortunately,” I muttered.
She smiled, tearing a sweet roll in half and offering me a piece. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”
And that—may the Gods help me—didn’t sound half as bad as it should have.
By the end of the week, I’d come to accept a few new facts that I’d previously been in denial of.
Hanna was going to keep showing up, Ribbon was now firmly her toad, and my workshop—my quiet, sacred, personal space—was rapidly becoming a witch’s playground.
She showed up that afternoon carrying a basket full of potion supplies—jars, a tray of freshly growing herbs that she set up alongside some of my carvings on the windowsill, and a tiny copper cauldron that looked entirely too fancy for the roof.
“What are you doing?” I asked, already suspicious.
“Borrowing your sunlight,” she said sweetly, setting everything else down on my workbench. “The light up here’s perfect for brewing. I need consistency for testing color reactions.”
“You’re using my roof for your potions?”
“Exactly,” she answered with a nod, as if I was a youngling who’d gotten my first question right.
“And what happens when something explodes?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.
She gave me a look that was somehow both innocent and mischievous. “Then you’ll have a new sculpture subject.”
I stared at her for a long moment, then sighed and muttered, “Fine. Just stay away from the forge.”
She grinned then—a quick, bright thing that hit me somewhere under my ribs—and started unpacking her ingredients.
It was… chaos. Organized witch chaos, I was certain, but chaos all the same.
There were sprigs of dried herbs, chunks of colored minerals, and what looked suspiciously like a jar of frogspawn. Ribbon croaked loudly at that, offended, eyeing her and then the jar with his complaint.
“Sorry about that,” Hanna said, biting her lip and tucking it neatly away before gently patting his head in apology. He gave a contented croak and settled next to her.
I turned back to my carving, pretending not to notice how easily she’d started to hum along to the sound of my tools. It should’ve been annoying. I always found anyone in my space when I was creating annoying. But for some reason, it wasn’t.
After an hour, the air filled with the scent of lavender and smoke. She was pouring liquid between vials, her brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed slightly as she muttered something under her breath. Then, without warning, the cauldron hissed.
“Hanna—”
“I know, I know, I’ve got it—”
The liquid foamed, climbing over the rim like it was trying to escape. She panicked, grabbed for a jar, slipped on a stray chisel that had fallen off my table—and nearly went face-first into the workbench.
I caught her by the waist just in time. Jarring shock raced through me at the feel of her soft flesh under my palm.
Let her go.
For a heartbeat, everything froze. Her palms landed flat against my chest and I could feel her breath against my collarbone. The smell of rosemary and burnt sugar clung to her hair.
Her touch is going to scald me to the bone.
And we just… stared at each other. The voice screaming at me in my head to release her was no match for whatever instinct had taken over my arm and was pulling her closer.
I looked into her beautiful brown eyes, entranced by the emotions swirling there.
A little embarrassment, some relief and an underlying emotion that looked a lot like excitement. My mouth went dry at that.
“Uh,” she said finally, voice small. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said, trying to sound steady—which was difficult, considering my heart was trying to beat its way out of my ribs.
She glanced away, biting her lower lip. “You’ve got quick reflexes.”
“And you’ve got bad balance,” I quipped.
Instead of offending her the way I’d meant it to, my statement made her laugh—the kind of laugh that warmed the whole room. She straightened slowly, brushing her hair back.
“Maybe I should brew sitting down next time,” she giggled.
“Or downstairs,” I muttered.
But she wasn’t put off by anything I was saying. It was as if she was insult-proof. I wasn’t sure why that had my eyes narrowing and questions swirling in my head, but it did.
She smirked. “And miss the company?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. She smiled like she knew that.
Ribbon croaked from his corner, clearly unimpressed with our lack of potion control. The foam had already subsided, leaving a faint shimmer across the floor.
Hanna sighed. “At least it didn’t explode.”
“Small mercies,” I said, still trying to ignore the fact that my hands were tingling where they’d touched her.
She glanced at me sideways, a tiny smile playing at her lips. “You don’t smile much, do you?”
“Not usually.”
“Maybe you should,” she said softly. “You’re quite handsome when you do.”
Then she turned back to her work, humming again—like the moment hadn’t happened. But I couldn’t focus for the rest of the day.