Chapter 6. Ambrose
I glared out at the tree line, eyes narrowed.
Isadora’s wards pulsed faintly against the midday light—strong for now, but even the strongest weave would fray under that kind of relentless pressure. The creature out there wasn’t going to stop. Not until it got in.
A flicker of color moved beyond the hedge.
There wasn’t time to do more than tense before it darted forward, barely more than a blur.
The wards snapped like a whip as it struck, sparks flaring along the invisible barrier.
Instinctively, shadows poured from me, spearing through the newest weakness in the weave and lashing around the small, gnarled form.
I didn’t want to hurt the hob. Only drive it back.
But despite my restraint, Isadora’s voice sounded in my mind, the urge to protect her and her home almost overwhelming.
And without much thought at all, my shadows tightened, then flung the hob into the foliage it’d come from.
It crashed through the brush and landed hard in a small clearing beyond the property line.
In an instant it was back on its feet, the much too big, once vibrant knitted sweater—now tattered from weeks living in the forest—clinging to its knobbly frame.
Pointed teeth flashed as it let out a long hiss before vanishing into the trees.
I exhaled slowly, fixing the location of the breach in my mind so I could tell Isadora where the wards needed reinforcing.
Part of me felt sorry for the little hob.
This property had once been its home, but the witch who’d lived here before Isadora had abandoned house and hob alike a few months ago.
Which was somewhat unusual.
From what I knew of hobs, they were quiet little creatures, happy to remain in the background, head down, going about their work.
Once they chose a house, they bound themselves to it, working tirelessly to keep it standing, safe, and whole.
In return, the occupant offered the hob their hospitality: food left out, a fire to warm by, and company.
These ancient creatures saw many occupants come and go over the course of their lives and were usually tolerant—even when they weren’t particularly fond of whoever currently shared their space. So long as they were fed and the hearth remained lit, they went about their work, company optional.
Their bond was with the house after all.
If a hob truly wanted someone gone, it would simply drive them out. Theft was the usual method—the ironic and often misunderstood origin of the old lore about offering a piece of clothing to get rid of a hob.
A hob would take what it pleased and cause just enough mischief to make the house unlivable, then wait patiently for the next occupant to arrive.
A part of me desperately wanted to take this hob’s side—the little creature had bonded with the house first.
But then I’d simply close my eyes and hear the soft melodic voice of my Isadora.
The past week had been a blissful blur. From the moment Isadora opened her front door to me, something in my chest had tipped and never quite righted itself.
I’d fallen for her with a speed that should have given me pause but didn’t.
She was an older, delicate witch, perhaps with another twenty years on my twenty-seven, yet she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.
Elegant. Regal, even. Her voice had wrapped around me as she’d first welcomed me inside, and as she explained her plight, it had felt only natural to listen.
She’d seemed so small, so defenseless. As she spoke, I felt the swell of protectiveness rise in my chest and had silently pledged that I’d help her in every way I could.
Because Isadora was... Isadora. Perfect in every conceivable way.
And the hob’s hostility toward her felt excessive, almost senseless.
Isadora didn’t deserve this stress. All she’d done was settle into an abandoned house and try in good faith to form a bond with the hob within.
At first, it had gone well. The hob accepted her food and slept by the fire. It kept the house in order and even took on domestic tasks I hadn’t known hobs to bother with—cooking, tidying, even the laundry.
And then, abruptly, it changed.
The hob turned on Isadora.
She believed it was jealousy—resentment toward the new things she brought into the house.
The hob had been used to drying herbs and twigs from its former occupant’s foraging, not designer clothes and expensive trinkets.
According to Isadora, it had begun trying to drive her out.
It accepted neither her food nor her hearth.
It started stealing her designer belongings, such as the incredibly expensive Vivian Wyrdwood knitted sweater that the little hob had all but destroyed after weeks of forest living.
It was all my Isadora could do to cast the hob out, raise her wards, and find a reputable security company to help her get the situation under control.
I’d arrived just in the nick of time.
Isadora had been exhausted, stretched thin between tending the house and reinforcing her protections. She’d looked so small then, standing in the doorway, batting her lashes as she asked for my help.
And I’d given it freely in every way.
I woke early each morning to make her breakfast—which I still managed to burn more often than not, though I was learning—then tidied the house, walked the perimeter to note where the wards needed patching, and took care of whatever else needed doing.
And I did it gladly.
I hadn’t thought it possible, but Isadora seemed to be exactly what I needed to loosen my fixation on Blaise.
That first night, when she asked whether I had a mate, the words had spilled out of me before I’d quite decided to say them. It felt good to finally give voice to something I’d carried for so long—to admit what I’d felt for him.
She listened without judgment.
And somehow, gently, she helped me see it differently. Helped me understand that what I’d mistaken for love wasn’t love at all. Just habit. Proximity. Too much time spent orbiting someone who had never truly needed me.
Her words stayed with me, settling deep, as though they’d always been waiting there.
“You’re not in love with him, Ambrose,” she’d said softly. “You simply spent too much time with him. You’re a caretaker by nature, and he never valued you for it. I would appreciate you. Take care of me and my house, and when I’m feeling better... perhaps you could take care of me in other ways.”
It was an unspoken invitation that had consumed my thoughts for days.
I would take care of her. Of course I would. I would tend the house, anticipate her needs before she ever had to voice them, and stand between her and the hob, so she never had to exhaust herself again the way she had before I arrived.
The thought that she’d borne all of that alone—the strain of the wards, the hostility of the hob, the upkeep of the house—sat heavy on my chest. If I’d been there sooner, she wouldn’t have had to push herself so far.
I would be patient. I would give her the time she needed to recover, to feel safe again. And when she was finally ready, I would take care of her in the other ways she’d hinted at.
My stomach gave a loud, traitorous grumble at the thought. Gods, I was hungry. It had been weeks since I’d last fed, yet the idea of feeding from anyone other than Isadora turned my stomach.
“Ambrose!” Isadora called from somewhere deeper in the house.
Smiling, I crossed the threshold, eager to tell her how I’d protected her once again. I’d always considered myself a humble demon, but with Isadora, there was a persistent, gnawing need to prove myself—to show her just how indispensable I could be.
Since that first night, she hadn’t hinted at anything physical. On the rare occasion my hunger pangs outweighed my better judgment and I reminded her that I was on the cusp of starvation...
Well, I guessed I just wasn’t meeting her expectations. That was why she wasn’t ready to ask me for that kind of care yet.
I simply needed to try harder.
I found her in the kitchen, seated at the table, her legs crossed and bouncing with irritation so violent that I half expected one of her red heels to go skittering across the tiles.
“Is everything alright?” I asked, keeping my voice low and soothing.
Isadora lifted a lacquered finger and pointed to the clock on the wall. I followed the gesture, my stomach dropping as I registered the time. Five minutes past twelve. She’d asked for lunch to be ready at twelve on the dot.
“I’m sorry, Isadora,” I said, grabbing the food I’d prepared earlier from the fridge and sliding the dish into the oven, already scrambling for a way to distract her from my mistake. “I was dealing with the hob. It’s found a weakness in the wards, right where the fence meets the gate.”
Isadora let out a low, irritated hiss, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“This is becoming more bother than it’s worth,” she muttered, slamming her fist against the table.
Shit.
If Isadora gave up now and left, she wouldn’t need me anymore.
I reached for her instinctively, but she drew her hand away from my outstretched fingers.
“No touching, Ambrose,” she snapped.
I ignored the sharp ache her words left behind. I had to convince her to stay at least long enough for her to fall for me as hard as I had fallen for her.
“Isadora,” I pleaded, “let me try to reason with the hob. Maybe I can convince it to come back to the house.”
Isadora raised a brow, then slowly shook her head. “I can’t risk you going too far away from me and that creature having the opportunity to muddle your mind against me.”
I chuckled softly. “Nothing could ever muddle my mind against you, Isadora.”
Her laugh was brittle.
“You know,” she said, “the hob was the only reason I came to this shack in the first place.” She reached out and pinched the head of a forget-me-not, the flowers I’d picked for her earlier.
I’d spent half an hour arranging them, time I probably should have devoted to something more useful, I thought, as she pushed the vase aside.
Still, at least she’d noticed them today.
“This place isn’t much use to me if the hob won’t look after it.”
“Please, Isadora,” I begged. Please don’t leave this house. Please don’t end this job. Please don’t leave me.
Her gaze dropped to mine, and only then did I realize I’d sunk to my knees in front of her. She didn’t seem surprised. If anything, she looked pleased.
“Don’t worry, Ambrose,” she said, and my chest loosened at the melodic warmth of her voice. “As it stands, you’re the only creature here worth anything to me.”