Chapter 23
Eric
Festival mornings always carried a certain kind of energy, with heated cider warming cold hands, kids dodging volunteers with armfuls of pumpkins, Dad shouting orders loud enough to wake the dead.
Normally, the bustle grounded me. Today, every sound felt sharp.
Harmony walked in step beside me, but her fingers were cold in mine, her gaze flickering toward every corner of the square, like she expected something or someone to step out of a hidden corner.
Something was wrong. I’d felt it since the moment she’d gone pale near the pumpkin scales.
Now, standing with her hand in mine, I felt it in my bones.
I squeezed gently. “You okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes didn’t meet mine. “Just tired.”
Lie.
It was the same tone she’d used at seventeen when she said she was “fine,” but cried in her car afterward. I knew her voice too well to miss it.
“Sunshine,” I murmured, stepping in front of her so she had to look at me. “Talk to me.”
Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. “I can’t. Not here.”
Not here. Not now. Not with half the damn town listening.
I swallowed the urge to push harder. If there was one thing I had learned from the past, it was Harmony did better with patience than pressure.
“Then I’ll wait,” I said softly. “But you’re not doing this alone.”
Before she could answer, Dad waved me over from the cider booth, shouting something about a crooked frame. I ran a hand through my hair, hating the idea of stepping away.
“I’ll be three minutes,” I told her. “Stay where I can see you.”
She nodded, but her shoulders were too tight, her fingers twisting her sleeve.
I hesitated. “Harmony.”
She looked up. Something was definitely off, but she also locked down on me.
“Don’t wander.”
A faint smile tugged at her mouth, small and tired. “I won’t.”
I kissed her forehead quickly before heading across the square.
Dad was knee-deep in zip ties and stubborn tent poles. “Kid, help me with this. This pole’s fighting for its life.”
“Maybe because you built it crooked.” I grabbed the frame.
“My eyesight’s perfect,” he muttered.
“You’re wearing two different socks.”
He swore under his breath.
I laughed, shaking my head, but my eyes were already drifting back toward Harmony. She stood near the maple taffy stand, arms crossed, scanning the festival like she was searching for a ghost.
Dad followed my gaze. “She’s rattled.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “She won’t tell me why.”
Dad tightened a bolt. “Then be there until she does. That girl’s been carrying a war on her back since she was a kid. She never stood a chance with Marcel, not after what happened to Rosalie.”
My chest tightened at the name. Harmony rarely said her mother’s name out loud, Rosalie Bellerose, but everyone old enough to remember the investigation whispered it the same way.
Rosalie was the one woman in the Bellerose family who tried to break away from Marcel’s world.
She’d asked questions no one wanted her asking, and she died for it.
Somewhere between the official reports and the small-town gossip, one thing was clear: Harmony lost the only soft place she’d ever had.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
“I know.” Dad’s voice softened. “Maybe that scares her too. Rosalie was the last person she trusted. Losing her… it dug deep.”
A shout erupted from the pumpkin table. Normal festival chaos. But Harmony stood still in it all, like she didn’t belong in the picture.
I finished the booth in record time. “I’m going back to her.”
“Good,” Dad muttered, “before Sandy gets ideas.”
Too late. Sandy was already hovering near Harmony with that mothering look she didn’t know how to turn off.
But before I could reach Harmony, someone else did.
Nico.
Damn it.
He walked toward her with that lazy, controlled stride that always pissed me off. Hands in his pockets. Expression unreadable. Harmony stiffened and I tried to close the distance as fast as I could.
“Harm—” he started.
“It’s Harmony,” I cut in, stepping between them. “Use her name.”
Nico lifted an eyebrow. “Easy, Thorne. Just checking she’s all right.”
“She doesn’t need you checking anything,” I barked possessively.
Harmony touched my arm lightly. “It’s fine.”
No. It wasn’t.
Nico’s gaze flicked to her. “You should stay close today.”
“I’m not your concern,” she reminded him, but her voice shook.
I heard it clear as day, which meant Nico did too.
He leaned in slightly. “Some ghosts don’t stay buried.”
Harmony’s face went the kind of white that was reserved for trauma. The kind that whispered her mother’s name.
“If you’ve got something to say,” I said, “say it to me.”
Nico studied me. Something flickered in his eyes, I couldn’t tell if it was warning or sympathy.
“Keep her close,” he repeated, as if I wasn’t going to do that anyway.
A beat passed.
Then he added, “Closer than you think.” He disappeared into the crowd before I could ask him what the hell that meant.
Harmony exhaled shakily.
I reached her instantly. “Hey.” I lifted her chin gently. “Look at me.”
Her eyes were frightened but trusting.
“What did he mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
I brushed my thumb across her cheek. “I’m worried.”
She softened just a fraction. “Can we leave?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”
In the truck, she stared out the window, small and fragile in her jacket.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“For what?” I asked, staring out on the road.
“For ruining your morning.”
“Sunshine, you could burn down the whole festival and I’d still choose you.”
She laughed and it warmed every part of me. We drove past other orchards, the frost bright against the grass. A few thistles poked through near the fence—sharp, stubborn little things.
“Thistles,” I muttered.
Harmony blinked over at me.
“Your mom,” I said quietly. “Rosalie. She used to braid them into your hair. Said they were tough and beautiful and hard to kill.”
Her breath caught. “I didn’t think anyone remembered that.”
“I remember everything about you,” I said honestly.
Her fingers brushed the pendant at her throat, the one that belonged to her mom. When we pulled into Maple Valley, I reached the cabin steps first and froze.
Footprints. They were fresh and not mine. Not Harmony’s either, or Dad’s, for that matter. My instincts kicked in instantly.
“Harmony,” I said, steady and quiet, “stay right here.”
She saw the prints and stiffened. “Eric. . .”
“Stay.” I didn’t mean to come across so firm, but my instinct was to protect because something was off.
I circled the cabin carefully and found a scuff mark near the window. Then something caught the light. A crushed thistle and, beneath it, a folded photo.
I picked it up and my breath caught. It was Harmony at the festival. It was taken from a distance. Cold burned through my lungs as I returned to her. Her eyes widened.
“What did you find?” she whispered.
I opened my palm. Her breath hitched.
“A message,” I said softly. “For you.”
She stared at the crushed thistle, Rosalie’s symbol, which was flattened like someone wanted her to know they could break it.
Her voice trembled. “Eric…”
I touched her cheek. “Whoever this is, they crossed a line.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t want to drag you into it.”
I stepped close, voice low. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her forehead pressed into my chest, breath shaking.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know.” I wrapped my arms around her. “But you’re not alone anymore.”
Her fingers curled into my jacket.
“Come inside,” I murmured.
As I led her inside, I looked once more at the fading footprints.
Someone had been too close. They were too bold and too familiar with Harmony’s past. And I was done waiting for them to make the next move.
This wasn’t about scaring her into leaving town.
It was about reminding her someone still thought they owned her story.