Chapter 15 Dean
Dean
The festival grounds are a patchwork of autumn colors and carefully constrained chaos. Vendors arrange displays while magical wards hum beneath my feet—steady, constant, predictable. Unlike the rest of my life lately.
Yesterday, I saw Jules wrap Missy in an enthusiastic hug. She smiled—wide, easy, familiar. It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But something in my chest pulled tight and hasn’t let go since.
I pop a mint into my mouth as Eleanor and Gerald approach. Gerald licks his lips—a nervous tic he has whenever he must share information someone doesn’t want to hear. Judging by the way his gaze darts to me, I’m the unlucky recipient this time.
“About the evening entertainment schedule,” Eleanor begins, her voice kind but firm. If there’s anyone who isn’t afraid to lock horns with me on the council, it’s Eleanor Blackwood. “We’ve had an exciting development.”
Gerald nods and licks those lips again. If the world was full of people like him, I’d invest heavily in Chapstick.
“Jules Bouchard has offered to perform,” he blurts. “With Margaret Sinclair, of course. Quite a coup for the festival.”
He pumps his fist and grins. As if this is a wonderful idea. As if it doesn’t risk entirely too much. I gnaw down hard on the mint. “Absolutely not.”
“Dean.” Eleanor’s tone carries decades of handling difficult warlocks. “They’re world-class musicians.”
“Who happen to be non-magical humans,” I bite out. “Or did we forget about maintaining magical security during events? Margaret’s effect on magic is unpredictable enough when she plays alone. Add another performer and—”
“Mr. Bouchard was quite insistent.” Gerald interrupts, then withers slightly under my glare.
“We are the council that governs this island.” My voice carries the edge of steel I’ve spent years perfecting. “We don’t bow to the insistence of visiting musicians.”
There’s a beat of silence filled with the chatter of vendors setting up their booths, the clatter of decorations being hung, and the hum of last-minute festival preparations.
Eleanor clears her throat and her voice goes soft. “Are you certain that your judgment isn’t clouded on this matter?”
The question hits like a physical blow. Behind me, Zoe’s laughter carries from the Whimsical Whisk’s booth where she’s arranging a stand for cupcakes she’s labeled ‘Autumn Uprising.’ The sound grates against my nerves.
Eleanor is right, of course. My judgment is thoroughly, devastatingly clouded.
Because I went and fell for someone. Something I’d vowed never to do.
And not just anyone—a normal human. A normal human who jumped into another man’s arms yesterday without hesitation.
Who smiled as she introduced him to her sister, the same sister that I’m pretty certain she still hasn’t told about us.
I’ve spent a decade building walls, maintaining control, protecting the town from exactly these kinds of complications.
Yet here I am, watching all my carefully laid safeguards break because a cellist with autumn-bright eyes and too many questions made me believe, just for a moment, that letting someone in wouldn’t end in disaster.
But of course it would. Of course it has.
Jules Bouchard with his charming smiles and shiny reputation is proof of that—a walking reminder that Missy belongs to a world of spotlight and standing ovations, not hidden magic and small-town secrets.
“We’ll need extra security measures,” I manage, my voice low and gritty.
“We always do so for festivals,” Eleanor says.
I nod sharply and turn away, seeking escape. Thankfully, the booth inspections won’t complete themselves. Plus, it gives me something to focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest.
Zoe’s wild grin meets me at the Whimsical Whisk’s setup. Her purple-streaked hair is twisted into a messy bun, leaving her giant hoop earrings free to sway with every movement. She’s perched on the edge of the display table while Ethan arranges their famous pumpkin scones.
“Dean! Just the man we need.” She swings her legs. “You like to read, don’t you?”
“Read?” It’s a surprising enough question that it almost pulls me out of my dark mood. Almost.
Her grin widens, if that’s possible and Ethan just huffs a laugh behind her.
“I had this book I loved as a kid,” she continues. “This boy drank a fizzy soda, and he almost got diced by the ceiling fan.”
Ethan shoots up. “That’s what you remember from that book?”
She rolls her eyes. “Best scene, boss.” She turns back to me. “Anyway, it inspired my Autumn Uprising cupcakes, and I thought—” At this she bats her lashes. As if charm ever works on me. Or as if she’s one to bother charming men at all.
Ethan groans. “Please tell me you’re not suggesting—”
“Bubbles!” She claps her hands together. “Nothing fancy, just some floating up from bubble machines. But, you know, with a twist.”
“A twist,” I intone. There’s not much I like less in life than a twist.
“When they pop, they’re scented. You know, pumpkin spice, maple, maybe a hint of wood smoke…” She places her hands together in a praying motion. “The kids would love it and I’d tell everyone we used essential oils! Pinky swear and hope to die.”
Ethan stands to his full height. “The last time you got inspiration from children’s literature, you had us handing out lickable wallpaper samples.”
“Which were genius.” She slams her hand down hard enough that it dislodges a scone.
“Not my fault people have no appreciation for innovative dessert delivery systems. But,”—she returns her gaze to me and her eyes widen like a cat begging for a saucer of milk—“who doesn’t love bubbles, am I right?
And it would barely use any magic at all. ”
I grit my teeth and hold in a sigh. Ethan meets my gaze and shrugs. The council will, of course, approve mild magic like this—easily explained and designed to deliver the signature wow factor we aim to impress on visitors.
“You’ll use standard bubble machines?” I ask.
“Cross my heart and hope my soufflé never rises,” she says with such sincerity I can’t decide if she’s kidding.
“Fine.”
“Huzzah!” She jumps up and shakes her hips back and forth in a victory dance.
Ethan laughs as he pulls raisin-studded muffins from their case.
He’s such a perfectionist—he’s using the samples to ensure the table looks perfect for the event.
He’ll pack them up in a few minutes and donate them because that’s who Ethan Hart is.
The kind of man who remembers everyone on the island’s orders, who keeps extra loaves warming for the night shift workers, who built his life around making others happy.
The kind of man Alex fell in love with instantly, without complication.
Something bitter coils in my chest. Ethan’s biggest daily crisis is whether the sourdough has the right tang or if the croissants are flaky enough.
He gets to use his magic for warmth and comfort and sustenance.
Despite being a shifter, he’s deeply accepted in the community.
The townspeople don’t eye him with that mix of respect and wariness they reserve for me.
The weight of my power sits heavy beneath my skin, a constant reminder that my life can never be that uncomplicated.
That I can never just be a man who plays guitar and loves freely and doesn’t have to worry about whether he’ll have to deny a young, powerful witch her life’s dream to study outside the island.
A familiar laugh cuts through my spiral. Missy approaches with Alex and Jules, her entire face lit up at something he’s said. Her hair catches golden threads of sunlight and her hands paint stories in the air as she talks. Jules leans in close, perfectly timed chuckles punctuating her words.
“And this,” Alex says, “is the booth for the Whimsical Whisk. Ethan and Zoe are the geniuses behind it.”
Missy meets my gaze, but just as quickly flicks her eyes away. She beams as she makes introductions, her voice carrying the practiced ease of someone who’s spent a lifetime charming audiences. As if the last few weeks haven’t happened. As if we never shared magic, music, and midnight confessions.
“Dean’s our resident killjoy,” Zoe announces cheerfully. “But he’s what makes the magic happen on the island, so we forgive him.”
She winks at me and I struggle not to gape. Zoe’s always cutting things too close. I’ll have to speak with her about that comment later.
Jules’ perfect laugh matches his perfectly coiffed hair. “Ah yes, Missy’s already told me about you and your… dedication to the rules.”
He extends a hand which I accept. His grip is also infuriatingly perfect—firm enough to convey confidence, brief enough to seem casual, the kind of handshake that opens doors in concert halls and board rooms alike.
I withdraw my hand and resist the urge to wipe my palm against my jacket.
Of course Missy’s been talking about me to him.
Probably laughing about the stern council member who takes himself too seriously.
“A pleasure,” I grit out. “Speaking of rules, I have other booths to inspect. If you’ll excuse me.”
I don’t wait for a response, just turn and walk away.
“So, Jules,” Zoe says as I retreat. “How do you feel about award-winning literature?”
Their laughter trails me. I walk until I reach the gazebo. The nexus point nearby will explain my presence if anyone asks. Not that anyone will. Dean Markham, doing his duty, keeping his distance. Everything as it should be.
“Dean.” Missy appears beside me like I’ve summoned her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just busy.”
She plants her fists on her hips, bracelets clattering with the motion. “You’re shutting me out again, so obviously something is wrong.”
I nod at Marcus and Mia who walk by with stacks of book crates in their arms. Wait for them to pass.
The truth sits bitter on my tongue, sharp as splinters.
I could tell Missy that seeing her with Jules felt like watching my reality shatter.
How her uninhibited laughter with him exposed every crack in my practiced facade.
But vulnerability has never served me well.
“I assume Mr. Bouchard’s visit will be brief? We didn’t receive any extended stay requests.”
“Dean.” Her voice has gone whisper-soft. “I know what you saw at the cafe yesterday, but—”
“You don’t owe me explanations.”
“I don’t?” Fire flashes in her eyes. “Explain to me why I don’t because I thought this”—she gestures between us—“meant we required explanations.”
“Well, maybe you can tell me what this”—I mimic her gestures—“is because you clearly haven’t shared with your sister about us and it’s left me wondering.”
“That’s not fair. Jules showed up unexpectedly. I haven’t had time—”
“Or maybe you just haven’t wanted to.”
Her lips part, then close again. “That night in the planetarium changed things for me, Dean. I thought you knew that.”
I look at her, then remember the way she hugged Jules yesterday, and something inside me buckles.
“Things change,” I say quietly. “Maybe you already have.”
The words hang between us, lingering like the last note of a song that leaves your heart aching in silence. Missy’s breath catches, and suddenly I can see the hurt beneath her anger. Hurt I’ve put there, carved from my own fears and planted in soil too fertile for such bitter seeds.
The sunlight emphasizes the gleam in her eyes, the pinch of her lips. When did I become the kind of man who wounds what he means to protect? The kind who takes something as pure and beautiful and joyous as Missy, and taints it with his own darkness.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, hollow as magicless ward lines. Behind us, festival preparations continue on with their cheerful cacophony, oblivious to the quiet devastation in our corner of the world. “That was… I shouldn’t have said that. This is about me and my insecurities, not you.”
Some scars run too deep to heal with simple apologies.
I should know—I’ve spent a decade regretting the ones I gifted my sister.
And maybe I’ve done this on purpose. Maybe I’m pushing Missy away before I can hurt her too.
After all, she has another option. Someone whose hands create music instead of magic, whose smile comes easily instead of breaking through years of careful control.
I’d be a fool to not recognize the way Jules looks at her. The way his eyes follow her movements like she’s a melody he’s trying to memorize.
He’d be a fool not to look at her like that. The only actual foolishness here is me letting my feelings get hurt. Missy was summer sunshine. But winter’s just around the corner.
She crosses her arms, but her voice softens. “Meet me at the studio tomorrow morning early? Please?”
“Of course.”
The agreement slips past my defenses before I can stop it.
Maybe because I’m weaker than I pretend.
Maybe because endings deserve proper punctuation, even painful ones.
Or maybe because some part of me still hopes I’m wrong about all of it—about Jules, about her inevitable departure, about my own capacity for happiness.
Some lies we tell ourselves echo louder in autumn air, when everything beautiful is preparing to fade.
Missy nods, then turns back toward the festival grounds where Jules waits. I watch her walk away and wonder if this is how Nell felt, watching her carefully constructed future crumble. At least Missy won’t need memory magic to forget me. Time will do that just fine on its own.