Chapter 2
DANTE
Ten years was a long time to stay away from a place that haunted your dreams.
Dante Deleuve watched the Veil shimmer as he crossed into Hollow Oak's territory, that familiar tingle of ancient magic sliding over his skin like recognition. The enchantment had always known him. Even after a decade, it welcomed him back without question.
He wasn't sure he deserved the greeting.
The mountain road twisted through snow-laden pines, their branches bowed under winter's weight.
His truck handled the conditions fine, but Dante drove slower than necessary.
Putting off the inevitable. The Council summons sat folded in his jacket pocket, crisp paper that felt heavier than it should.
Sabotage. Cross-owned establishment. Investigate. Report directly to Elder Varric Thornwell.
The message had arrived three days ago, hand-delivered by a wolf courier who'd refused to meet his eyes. That alone had told Dante this wasn't standard Council business. When he'd called Varric for clarification, the old wolf had been cryptic.
"You know them, Deleuve. They trust you. Or they did once." Varric's voice had carried weight through the phone line. "Emmett Hollowell sits on the Council now. He can't investigate his own people without raising questions. Neither can Maeve. This needs discretion."
"Why me?"
"Because you left clean. No debts. No territory disputes." A pause. "And because Callum Cross vouched for you."
That had stung more than Dante wanted to admit. Callum vouching for him after years of silence. After Dante had chosen to stay with their old pride while Callum and Maeve walked away to build something better in Hollow Oak.
He'd assumed Callum owned whatever establishment needed investigating.
His old friend had always been the ambitious one, the lion who'd walked away from their pride to build something better.
Dante had stayed behind, choosing duty over the pull of his own wants.
Choosing the pride's future over his own.
Choosing wrong, maybe.
The town emerged from the trees like something out of a snow globe.
Hollow Oak hadn't changed much. Same crescent lake, same cluster of shops huddled around the town square, same sense of magic thrumming beneath the surface.
But there were differences too. New buildings. New faces in the windows. Growth.
Life had moved on without him.
Dante parked near the square and climbed out, his boots crunching in fresh powder.
The cold bit through his jacket, sharper here than it had been on the road.
Mountain weather had teeth. He stood for a moment, breathing in the scent of pine and woodsmoke and something that was pure Hollow Oak. Magic and community and belonging.
Things he'd given up.
He pulled his collar up and scanned the storefronts, looking for something that screamed Callum Cross. His friend would've built something solid. Permanent. The kind of place that said he'd planted roots and meant to keep them.
A bakery with sugar-dusted windows. A bookshop with a sleepy black cat watching him from behind frosted glass. Some place called the Griddle and Grind that smelled like coffee and cinnamon, warmth spilling from its door every time someone entered or left.
And there, set back from the square with warm light spilling from its windows, the Silver Fang Tavern.
Cross-owned.
Had to be Callum's place.
Dante headed toward it, his lion stirring with interest. The beast had been quiet for most of the drive, content to drowse while Dante handled the thinking. Now it stretched, sniffing the air, picking up scents buried under snow and woodsmoke.
Something familiar. Something that made his pulse kick and his steps slow.
He knew that scent.
He pushed through the tavern door anyway, because he'd never been smart about the things that could hurt him.
The place hit him all at once. Polished wood, stone fireplace crackling with real flames, the kind of atmosphere that said sanctuary more than it said bar.
A handful of patrons scattered at tables, nursing drinks and low conversation.
The scent of whiskey and pine and something spiced he couldn't quite name.
And behind the bar, short black hair catching firelight and dark gold eyes lifting to meet his, stood Maeve Cross.
Not Callum.
Maeve.
She froze mid-pour, whiskey splashing over the rim of the glass she held. Her gaze locked on his, sharp and disbelieving, like she'd just seen a ghost walk through her door.
Maybe she had.
"Dante." His name came out flat, no question in it. Just acknowledgment. Just barely controlled shock.
He found his voice somewhere past the roar of his lion. "Maeve."
The tavern had gone quiet. Every shifter in the place watched them now, tension crackling through the air like a live wire. Dante registered it distantly, most of his attention caught on the woman in front of him.
She'd changed. Ten years had carved away the softness he remembered, leaving behind something leaner and harder.
She stood maybe five and a half feet tall, compact power wrapped in a body that moved like a predator even standing still.
The black hair he remembered loose now barely brushed her jaw, practical and sharp.
But her eyes were the same. Molten gold with firelight dancing in them, intelligent and fierce and absolutely done with his bullshit.
"What are you doing here?" She set the bottle down with controlled force.
"Council business." He stayed by the door, hands loose at his sides. Non-threatening. "I'm looking for a Cross-owned establishment."
"You found it." Her mouth twisted. "Congratulations."
The word hit him sideways. "You run this place?"
"For the last ten years." She grabbed a rag and wiped up the spilled whiskey, movements precise and controlled. "Callum's got other priorities. Mate. Family. Actual life. I got the tavern."
Callum had a mate. Of course he did. Everyone in Hollow Oak seemed to be finding their fated match these days from what he'd heard. The Veil loved that kind of thing, pulling souls together whether they wanted it or not.
"I didn't know," Dante said.
"Why would you?" Maeve tossed the rag aside. "You haven't been here in a decade. Haven't called. Haven't checked in. Why start now?"
Because the Council ordered me to. Because someone's sabotaging your shipments and I'm supposed to figure out who. Because I never stopped thinking about you even when I should have.
But of course, he said none of that.
He was too focused on how sharp and small and absolutely in control of her domain Maeve was.
Ten years ago, she'd been fierce. Beautiful. Untouchable in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with her claws and everything to do with the walls she built.
She'd gotten better at both.
And seeing her again, standing in her tavern with fire in her eyes and ice in her voice, did something to his lion that felt a lot like coming home.
Which was a problem.
Because Maeve Cross had made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with him.