Chapter 15 Self-Acceptance
Self-Acceptance
Hazel
The chocolate ganache had to be perfect. Not good, not excellent. Perfect. I piped another truffle shell with the kind of focus I usually reserved for wedding cakes, forcing it into a precise dome. Barnaby needed joy, and joy came in many forms. Right now it came in seventy-two individual truffles.
Dark chocolate olive oil truffles, specially adjusted for Barnaby’s love for all Mediterranean things. Because I’d recently learned that, on his days off, the Easter Bunny lived in Sicily. The blood oranges he favored had been particularly hard to find, but it’d be worth it if this worked.
Grix and Brok were doing their own parts, just like we’d established. But without my chocolates, we could still lose. Barnaby’s joy could still falter.
And there was only one day left until the Challenge. One day until Barnaby had to fight for his Title.
The bell over the door chimed, and I looked up from my piping bag, expecting a customer.
A man stood in my doorway. Tall, lean, impeccably dressed in a way that screamed expensive without trying too hard.
Dark hair, sharp features, movements that were too graceful to be entirely human.
He wore a charcoal suit that looked like it belonged in a Victorian drama, and he was smiling at me as if we shared a secret.
I recognized him immediately.
The smile was the same. The eyes were the same. The way he moved through space like he owned it—identical. The body was different. The voice would probably be different. But I knew who I was looking at.
“Vixen.” The name came out flat. I set down my piping bag before I did something stupid like squeeze ganache all over my work counter. “Or should I say Reynard?”
“Darling,” he greeted me with a nod, already gliding closer to my work. He examined my chocolate work with genuine interest. “These are exquisite. The Osterhase is lucky to have you.”
The casual compliment made my chest feel tight because Vixen had complimented me the same way.
Had helped me find that red dress. Had made me feel powerful, beautiful, and unique.
And it had all been manipulation. Strategic positioning.
He had just been getting close to Barnaby’s support system in his quest to claim the Title.
“You tricked me,” I shot back, refusing to fall for the same flattery. “You gave me a fake name, pretended to be my friend, and the whole time you were just—what? Gathering intelligence? Undermining Barnaby’s team?”
Reynard didn’t seem offended by my accusations.
“Darling, I didn’t give you a fake name,” he offered.
“Vixen is what I am. Reynard is also what I am. I’m both, depending on the day and my mood.
I don’t feel like explaining myself to people who wouldn’t understand anyway, but I think maybe… you might.”
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying. The feminine presentation, the male one… Both real? Both true? A vixen and a reynard… A female and a male fox. Of course.
“Oh.” The realization hit me hard enough that I had to grab the edge of my work counter. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize… Everyone else said you were… Er… Male.”
“If by everyone else, you mean Barnaby and his orc trainer…” Reynard gave me a look that was equal parts amused and exasperated. “I’m sure they mean well, but they aren’t known for being profound thinkers. And I’ve reached a point in my life where I refuse any kind of label.”
I didn’t flinch, but I came very close. After all, hadn’t I always been labeled? Nana loved me, but had never quite managed to not see me as ‘the disappointment’. For my old schoolmates, I’d just been ‘the fat girl’. I was more to Brok, to Barnaby. Why would Reynard be any different?
I felt terrible. I’d completely misgendered Reynard. Vixen. Dear lord, I needed to make this clear. “What do I call you, then?” I asked, because if labels didn’t work, I needed something that did.
“I go by they/them. But you can call me Reynard when I am like this. Vixen, any other day. And mostly… you can still call me a friend, if you’d like.
” Reynard’s expression softened into something that looked genuinely warm.
“That part wasn’t manipulation. I genuinely like you.
You have spine, which is rare and delightful.
And I really enjoyed our little shopping session. ”
“It was nice, yes,” I couldn’t help but answer. “Thank you for helping me choose my dress.”
Reynard paused, then their smile turned slightly sad. “It was my pleasure. But I didn’t come here for this conversation, lovely as it is.”
Reynard wove a complex gesture with their hands, and a package manifested out of thin air. They set it on my work counter between us like an offering.
“You might find this hard to believe, but Isengrim is interested in you.” They tapped the package with one elegant finger.
“He’s been looking for a mate for centuries.
Someone strong enough to stand beside him, someone who doesn’t flinch.
It seems unbelievable that he’d find that person among humans, but well…
Exceptions can be made for the right individual. ”
I looked at the package, a strange restlessness settling in my gut. Isengrim. No, Ignatius Gray. The man I’d been on a date with at the gala right before Brok had shoved him away from me. “He sent me… a gift? Like a courting present?”
“Wolves are old-fashioned like that,” Reynard said gently. “Open it. At least see what he’s offering before you refuse.”
I stared down at the wrapping again. It was tied with an expensive bow patterned with brown dogs. They looked just like the puppy that had chewed on my shoes on the date. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
In the end, I decided to listen to Reynard.
I untied the bow and unwrapped the expensive paper, half because I was curious, half to get this over with.
Inside was the most beautiful coat I’d ever seen.
The color was perfect. Golden with hints of silver, exactly the shade that would complement my skin tone.
“Chrysomallos wool,” Reynard explained, watching me examine it. “The Golden Ram sheds its coat once every few hundred years. Isengrim commissioned the coat from an old warlock friend of his.”
The coat was stunning. Literally magical. Too much in every possible way. Heroes of myth would have probably wept for this kind of material. It wasn’t meant for me.
“I can’t accept this.” I folded the coat carefully and started to put it back in its wrapping. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t.”
“Because of the orc?” Reynard’s voice was knowing, completely without judgment. “I thought that might be the case. Keep it anyway, darling. Who knows how it might come in handy? I don’t think Isengrim would want it back, not when it was made for you.”
I looked at Reynard, and at that moment, I knew I needed to get everything out in the open. Beyond coats, beyond secret agendas and labels, Reynard wanted something. Otherwise, they would have never come here personally. “Why are you really here, Reynard?”
“To be honest with you…” They leaned against my work counter with casual elegance. “No matter what trickery I may have used in the past—and darling, I have used quite a lot—I’m going to win this challenge fair and square. I want you to know that.”
It wasn’t a taunt, or any kind of mockery. Reynard stated it as a simple reality.
“Grix said we’re ahead in his estimations.”
“I’m sure that clever little kobold filled your heads with all sorts of numbers,” Reynard drawled. “But you should know better than anyone, Hazel… Numbers are empty. They don’t mean anything to people like us. People who’ve already been measured and weighed and found wanting.”
They were right. I’d spent my entire life being reduced to numbers. Dress size, weight, profit margins, Nana’s net worth versus my bank account. Numbers that told everyone exactly how much I was worth and how far short I fell from what I should be.
“What’s your approach, then, Reynard?” I asked, because if numbers didn’t matter, something else had to. The Joy Coefficient measured something real, something that mattered to the magic that chose Heralds of Spring. Barnaby was winning there, but Reynard seemed so sure.
Reynard’s smile widened with genuine delight. “Are you trying to wriggle my secret strategy out of me? Clever girl. Tell you what. Let’s make a trade. A treat for a reply. Fair exchange.”
I looked at my perfect chocolate truffles, each one crafted with precision and care.
Then, I glanced at Reynard. They were standing in my shop, offering honesty in exchange for chocolate.
It should have felt like betrayal, giving something meant for Barnaby to his opponent.
But Reynard was also my friend, and friends deserved honesty.
I selected one of the best truffles and handed it across the counter.
Reynard took it with reverence, examining the perfect spiral. They bit into it slowly, and their eyes closed with genuine appreciation.
“Exquisite,” they said after swallowing. “The balance of bitter and sweet, the texture of the ganache, the way the orange brightens everything without overwhelming… This is art, Hazel. Real art.”
They sounded like they meant it, and despite the complicated circumstances, pride warmed my chest. “Thank you.”
“It’s a shame, though.” Reynard set down the remaining half of the truffle. “All this effort, all this care you’re putting into keeping Barnaby’s joy high… It will all be wasted.”
I recoiled, already afraid of what I was about to hear. “What do you mean?”