Chapter 50
FIFTY
T hora studied her reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror of her temporary apartment. Two weeks in Enchanted Falls had changed something in her eyes. A softness had crept in where only determination used to live.
She splashed cold water on her face and stepped into the main room. The space remained as barren as the day she’d arrived, except for Bryn’s well-meaning attempts at decoration. A potted succulent drooped on the windowsill. A bright teal throw blanket lay folded over the arm of the couch, untouched since Bryn had placed it there.
Her laptop screen glowed on the kitchen counter. She tapped the mouse pad, revealing a rental listing she’d been studying—two bedrooms, yard space, six-month minimum lease. Her finger hovered over the “Contact Landlord” button before she clicked away.
What was she thinking? She never stayed anywhere long enough to need curtains, let alone a six-month lease.
A knock at the door sent her sabertooth shifting beneath her skin, instantly recognizing the scent before she’d even moved across the room. Artair. Her inner cat practically purred with satisfaction, which annoyed her human side to no end.
When she pulled the door open, he stood there with two coffee cups and a paper bag that smelled distinctly of honey and pastry.
“Breakfast,” he said simply. “May I come in?”
Thora accepted the coffee and stepped back to let him enter. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and heat bloomed across her skin from that tiny point of contact.
“Black with a splash of cream,” she noted after taking a sip. “You remembered.”
“I pay attention.” His eyes swept the room, taking in her sparse belongings, before settling back on her face. The weight of his gaze made her stomach flutter in ways that had nothing to do with hunger.
“The Shadow Bazaar,” she said, redirecting to safer territory. “You said you had intel.”
Artair set down his coffee and pulled maps from a leather messenger bag. As he spread them across her small table, Thora found herself noticing details—the precise movement of his hands, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrated, the way his presence somehow filled her tiny apartment.
“The Bazaar moves locations, but maintains similar architectural elements,” he explained, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet space. “Underground tunnels, multiple escape routes, central trading floor. Tonight it’s in the abandoned quarry north of town.”
Thora leaned over the maps, ignoring the warmth radiating from him as they stood side by side. “Entry points?”
“Main entrance here, emergency exits here and here.” His finger traced the paths, brushing against hers as they both pointed to the same junction.
The contact sent a jolt of awareness up her arm. She didn’t pull away.
“We’ll need a cover,” she said, studying the layout with forced concentration.
“I thought we’d pose as a couple.” His tone remained professional, but something in his eyes made her breath catch. “A wealthy collector and his companion looking for rare acquisitions.”
Before she could respond, another knock sounded. Thora opened the door to find Bryn holding a garment bag, her face bright with excitement.
“Sorry to interrupt your strategy session,” Bryn announced, sweeping in with infectious enthusiasm, “but I come bearing disguises! Artair texted that you’re hitting the Shadow Bazaar tonight, and you absolutely cannot go looking like a bounty hunter.”
“I can disguise myself,” Thora protested.
Bryn unzipped the bag, revealing a deep burgundy evening gown. “Not like this, you can’t.”
Artair cleared his throat. “I should go prepare myself. Meet you here at seven?”
Thora nodded, suddenly self-conscious with both Maxen siblings in her tiny space.
“Perfect.” He collected the maps, leaving the pastries behind. “Enjoy breakfast. Honey rolls from Honeycrisp Bakery.”
After he left, Bryn plopped onto the couch. “So. You and my brother.”
“There is no me and your brother .” Thora bit into a honey roll to avoid further comment, then nearly moaned at the flavor. Butter, honey, and cinnamon exploded across her taste buds.
“He special-ordered those, you know,” Bryn said with a knowing smile. “The baker doesn’t make honey rolls except on Sundays, but Artair insisted.”
A strange warmth spread through Thora’s chest that had nothing to do with the food. “He’s just being nice.”
“Artair doesn’t ‘just’ do anything,” Bryn said, studying Thora’s face. “Trust me. When was the last time anyone special-ordered pastries for you?”
“Never,” Thora admitted, surprising herself with her candor. Something about Bryn’s open face invited confidence. “I’ve never had this before. Any of it.”
“Any of what?”
“People who remember how I take my coffee. Who bring me breakfast.” She gestured at the apartment. “Who try to make things homey.”
“No one?”
Thora shook her head, looking away. “I grew up in an orphanage in Silver Ridge. No family, no roots, no history. They found me as a baby, no note, no pictures, nothing. Just a blanket with ‘Thora’ embroidered on it.” She traced a pattern on the table. “I never stayed anywhere long after I aged out. Never saw the point.”
Bryn reached across, squeezing her hand. “And now?”
“Now, I’m...” Thora searched for words. “Confused. Your brother makes me feel things I don’t understand. It scares me.”
“Good scared or bad scared?”
The question made her pause. “Both, I think. My sabertooth wants to stay close to him. My human side remembers that getting attached means getting hurt.”
“What if it doesn’t, this time?” Bryn’s eyes, so similar to Artair’s, held no judgment. “What if staying leads to something wonderful?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with wonderful,” Thora admitted, the truth surprising her as it emerged.
“Maybe start by wearing this dress tonight.” Bryn smiled, lifting the garment. “And see where it leads.”