Chapter 1 #3
Mistberry Cove. It’s beautiful in a quiet, haunting way.
The town hugs a natural harbor, buildings layered up the hillside like they grew there organically instead of being built.
Windows glow gold and amber. A white church steeple pierces the fog, just barely visible as the mist rolls in thicker from the water.
Boats rock gently at the docks, their masts swaying, ropes creaking in the wind.
The main street runs along the waterfront, narrow and intimate and charming in that small-town way that feels almost fictional. Beyond that, the main road climbs sharply up the hill, where more buildings dot the rise.
The sun is dipping behind the mountains now, the light shifting fast. Relief washes through me. Thank God I made the last ferry.
A shadow falls over me, blocking the fading sunlight.
I look up.
Joe is standing close to my bench, hands braced on the railing, attention fixed on the town ahead. He looks different like this. Quieter. More thoughtful. Less like a man in motion and more like someone taking something in, appreciating it.
The mist is rolling in heavier now, curling around the pilings of the dock, wrapping the town in gauzy layers.
“This mist,” I say. “Does it always get so thick in this town?”
He glances over at me, and something shifts in his expression. “Most afternoons and nights. Especially in winter. That’s where the town gets its name. Mistberry.”
“I figured.” I pull my other earbud out completely, giving him my full attention.
His mouth curves into a captivating smile. He turns and leans against the railing, crossing his arms over his chest, and there’s a change in his energy. Like he’s settling in, deciding I’m worth his time. “You want to hear a story?”
“Always.”
That smile deepens, and for a heartbeat, it transforms his whole face.
His jawline is strong, thick brows casting shadows over his steel-gray eyes.
But it’s his mouth that nearly unravels me, those perfect lips that look like they were made to whisper promises against bare skin.
Lips that could ruin a woman… or worship her.
Everything about him is too much and too perfect.
“There’s an old Norse tale about mist,” he explains. “About how it’s not just water and air, but the breath of the Norns. You know the Norns?”
My heart skips. “The weavers of fate.”
His eyes light up, just a fraction, but I catch it.
“Yeah. Exactly. Most people don’t know that.
” He shifts slightly, his focus entirely on me now.
“In the story, the Norns would breathe mist over certain places when they were working on the threads of someone’s fate.
The mist was meant to hide the work, keep it secret until the moment was right.
Anyone who entered the mist was walking into a place where fate was being decided. ”
I lean forward, captivated. “I’ve never heard that version.”
“Most people haven’t.” He’s watching me now with an intensity, and butterflies are bursting through my stomach.
“My grandfather used to tell it. He was from Norway originally. Loved all the old stories. Used to say that mist wasn’t something to fear, it was something to respect because you never knew if the Norns were working on your thread. ”
“That’s beautiful,” I say softly. Then, because I can’t help myself, I ask, “Do you know a lot of Norse mythology?”
“More than I probably should.” His smile turns self-deprecating. “It’s a bit of an obsession.”
“I’m fascinated by it too. The idea that fate isn’t fixed, that the Norns are constantly weaving and reweaving. That every choice matters, even the small ones.”
“Most people think it’s all about Vikings and violence,” he states, and there’s something almost relieved in his tone. Like he’s used to being disappointed by people’s shallow understanding.
“That’s because they don’t actually read the sagas. They just watch the TV shows.” I grin. “They’re missing the best parts. All that poetry and family drama. The fact that the gods are constantly tricking each other and getting into ridiculous situations.”
“Exactly.” He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that I feel in my chest. “Loki dressing up as a bride. Thor losing his hammer and having to cross-dress to get it back. It’s absurd and brilliant.”
“Nothing is ever simple or clear-cut.”
“That’s what I love about it,” he admits, and his voice drops slightly, becomes more intimate. “The way they treat fate and choice as existing together. Like you can’t have one without the other. Your fate is written, but you still have to walk the path. And how you walk it matters.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, just staring at each other, and the air between us feels charged. Thick with something I can’t quite name but definitely feel.
The ferry is slowing now, preparing to dock. People are gathering their belongings, moving toward the exits.
He pushes off from the railing, breaking the moment. “I should grab my gear.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
But neither of us moves immediately.
I’m on my feet now, trying not to lose my balance as the ferry rocks gently, and my heart is climbing into my throat because if I don’t ask now, I’ll regret it forever. The air is heavily salty with some of the engine smoke still lingering.
He’s already turning away, heading back toward the rear of the ferry, when I call out, “Can I ask you something?”
He glances back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Sure. Shoot.”
My mouth is dry. My pulse is racing. But I force the words out. “Is your name Joe?”
For a split second, his expression goes completely blank. Unreadable. Then a slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face, wicked and knowing and entirely too attractive, and I almost come undone right there on the deck.
Oh my God. It is him.
“Not a name I use often,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that I know so well from my audiobooks.
Then he winks and disappears around the corner.
I’m left standing there, gripping my suitcase handle, trying to remember how to breathe.
Holy shit.
Joe Hamilton is real, and he just winked at me.
I’m fangirling so hard I might actually pass out.
The ferry bumps gently against the dock, and the crew starts calling out instructions for disembarking. People shuffle toward the side exit, and I join the crowd in a daze, my brain still trying to process what just happened.
I need to see him again. Get his number. Find out where he lives.
I scan the crowd as we file off the ferry, looking for that dark coat, those broad shoulders, that devastating profile.
And I find him.
He’s standing near the rear dock, talking to a woman. She’s pretty—long, dark hair, stylish coat, confident posture. She’s laughing at something he said, touching his arm in that casual, familiar way that suggests they know each other well.
Of course a man like that is taken.
Not that I was looking for an Alpha. I’m not. I’m here for work, for my investigation, for my mission. But I am fangirling. That’s all. Just excited to meet someone whose work I admire.
Nothing more.
I tell myself this as I walk away, dragging my suitcase behind me, trying to ignore the weird disappointment settling in my chest.
When I’m off the ferry, I glance back, and my stomach drops.
Because Leon is there. Standing near the ferry exit, staring at me with a judgy expression.
I cringe, quickly hurrying away from the port and into town, the mist closing in around me like the Norns are already at work.