Chapter 7
SEVEN
CASSIA
Three days.
Three days of working beside Aero Tau in the cramped confines of the weather station.
Three days of his clinical observations and precise measurements and the way he looked at her data—her data—with those unnerving eyes narrowed in assessment.
Three days of her magic pulling toward him every time he got within arm’s reach, of charge building between them at unexpected moments, of storms gathering overhead whenever her frustration peaked.
Which was often. Very, very often.
Cassia stood at the window of Avine’s suite in the Siren’s Rest, watching the sun sink toward the harbor in shades of amber and rose.
The inn occupied a converted Victorian at the edge of downtown, all gingerbread trim and widow’s walks, and Avine’s private quarters on the third floor offered the best view in Haven Shores.
On a normal evening, Cassia would have appreciated it.
Tonight, she was too busy contemplating murder.
“You’re making that face again,” Junie announced from somewhere behind her. “The I’m going to set something on fire face. Should I be worried about the curtains?”
“I haven’t set anything on fire in months.”
“The lighthouse doesn’t count?”
“That was lightning, not fire. Completely different element.” Cassia turned from the window and accepted the glass of wine Avine was holding out.
The suite’s sitting room was warm and softly lit, furnished in the comfortable blues and creams that Avine had chosen after taking over the inn.
Pillows everywhere. Blankets draped over chairs.
A space designed for exactly this kind of gathering—witches in crisis seeking refuge.
Tonight’s crisis was Cassia’s. As usual.
Dahlia had claimed the loveseat, her legs tucked beneath her, a half-finished croissant in her hand.
Junie sprawled across the floor cushions with the boneless grace of someone who’d never met a chair she couldn’t ignore.
Narla sat in the wingback by the cold fireplace, her dark eyes watchful, Ember—her small owl familiar—perched on the armrest beside her.
And Gust—
Gust was sulking on the mantelpiece, radiating disapproval at the proceedings. He’d wanted to stay at the cottage. Cassia had insisted on bringing him. Now he was punishing her for the indignity by ignoring everyone and occasionally sending pointed pulses of displeasure through their bond.
“So.” Avine settled onto the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. Her blonde hair was loose tonight, falling past her shoulders, and she had the particular expression she wore when preparing to extract uncomfortable truths. “Tell us about the dragon.”
“What’s to tell? He’s cold. Arrogant. Treats me like I’m a particularly interesting weather phenomenon he’s cataloging for his research.”
“That sounds frustrating,” Dahlia offered.
“Frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it.” Cassia started pacing because sitting still was beyond her capacity right now.
The wine sloshed in her glass. “He questions everything. My methods. My readings. My interpretation of the data I’ve been collecting for years.
Yesterday, he spent twenty minutes explaining atmospheric pressure gradients to me. To me.”
“The audacity,” Junie deadpanned.
“I know you’re mocking me.”
“I would never.” Junie’s grin suggested otherwise. “Continue. Tell us more about how terrible he is.”
Cassia narrowed her eyes but obliged. “He shows up at the station before me every morning. Every. Morning. I’ve tried getting there at eight. Seven-thirty. Seven. He’s already there, looking like he’s been working for hours, making me feel like I’m late even when I’m technically early.”
“Monstrous behavior,” Narla murmured. Her lips twitched.
“And he never gets flustered. Never. I say something sharp, he just looks at me with those—” Cassia gestured vaguely. “—those eyes, and his jaw does this thing, and then he says something perfectly reasonable that makes me feel like I’m the one being dramatic.”
“You are—” Dahlia started.
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” Avine asked gently.
Cassia stopped pacing. The wine in her glass had gone still, which meant her hands had steadied for once. She didn’t know how to answer the question without admitting things she wasn’t ready to admit.
“He makes me feel…” She searched for a word.
“Visible. No, that’s not right. He makes me feel seen.
Like he’s actually paying attention to what I’m doing, not just waiting for me to finish so he can correct me.
Even when he’s being insufferable, he’s—” She cut herself off. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
Junie and Dahlia exchanged a look. The kind of look that communicated entire conversations in a single glance.
“What?” Cassia demanded.
“Nothing,” they said in unison.
“He’s also incredibly attractive,” Narla observed calmly, examining her wine glass. “In that terrifying ancient predator way. I passed him near the harbor yesterday. My candle flames guttered out from across the street.”
Warmth crept up Cassia’s neck. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Four pairs of eyes fixed on her with varying degrees of skepticism.
“Liar.” Dahlia reached for the pastry box beside her and extracted a croissant, holding it out like a peace offering. “Your storms have been worse since he arrived, Cass. Three squalls in three days. That’s not anger.”
“It’s—”
“Don’t say frustration.”
“—frustration.”
“It’s attraction.” Dahlia’s voice was gentle but implacable. “I watched you do this for months before you’d admit you were interested in anyone. Remember Marcus Vermelli? You flooded the pier because he smiled at you.”
“We agreed never to speak of Marcus Vermelli.”
“We agreed to revisit the subject when relevant. It’s relevant.”
Cassia buried her face in her hands. The croissant dangled, forgotten, between her fingers.
“This is different. Marcus was human. Normal. Temporary. This is—” She lowered her hands and met Dahlia’s steady gaze.
“He’s ancient, Dahl. He’s studied surge patterns across dozens of communities.
He’s met more powerful witches than me and probably forgotten their names within a decade. I’m not—”
She stopped. Couldn’t make herself say it.
“You’re not what?” Junie sat up from her sprawl, all traces of teasing gone.
“I’m not someone who matters to people like him.” The words came out quiet. Wrong-sounding, even as she said them. “I’m a local weather witch with unstable magic who’s going to be dead in sixty years. Why would he—why would anyone like that—”
“Cassia.” Avine’s voice cut through her spiral. “Stop.”
She stopped.
“You’re not nobody.” Avine unfolded herself from the couch and crossed to where Cassia stood.
Took the croissant from her unresisting grip and replaced it with both of her hands, warm and firm.
“You’re one of the most powerful witches Haven Shores has seen in three generations.
You feel things deeply, and yes, sometimes that creates storms, but it also creates this—” She gestured at the room, at the five women gathered inside it.
“—people who love you. People who show up.”
“That was one time—”
“That was every time.” Avine squeezed her hands. “You matter. And maybe—just maybe—you matter to this dragon more than you’re willing to see.”