Chapter 4 #2
Cassie jumped. Liam stood in the doorway, hair still damp from the shower, wearing a T-shirt that said "World's Best Dad" stretched across his chest.
“Did Derek actually wear that?” she asked, staring at the shirt.
“It was in the box.” He looked down at it. “Should I be concerned?”
“We have one daughter—Sophia, who’s in college.” She snorted. “He forgot to show up to every event, concert, recital, or game she was ever in. Every. Single. One. But sure. World’s Best Dad.”
“Ah. So the shirt’s a lie.”
“The shirt is aspirational. At best.”
"That's deeply sad."
"That's Derek." Cassie gestured at the pile of books.
"I found some unbinding spells, but they're all.
.. complicated. Most require both parties to willingly release the bond, which we can do, but the caster has to maintain perfect focus and balance for the entire ritual. Which, given my track record..."
"You'd set something else on fire."
"I'd set something else on fire," she agreed. "Margaret says I need at least a few weeks of practice before I'm ready to try."
Liam settled into the armchair across from her. The walls flickered pink. Cassie determinedly did not look at them.
"Tell me about her," Cassie said. "Your ex-wife. The one who had magic."
His expression shuttered slightly. "What do you want to know?"
"How did it start? You said she used magic on you, but... how did you even realize?"
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at something past her shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was careful. Measured.
"Her name is Fiona. We met in Edinburgh, married young.
She was brilliant. Funny. The kind of person who made everything feel possible.
" He paused. "The magic was subtle at first. Little things.
I'd be angry about something, and then suddenly I wasn't—I'd feel calm, agreeable, like my anger had been a temporary glitch.
She'd suggest something I didn't want to do, and by the end of the conversation, I'd be convinced it was my idea. "
"Love spells?"
"More like... compliance spells. Mood adjustments.
She called it 'smoothing the rough edges' of our relationship.
" His jaw tightened. "I didn't even notice for years.
I just thought I was becoming more mature, more reasonable.
It wasn't until a friend pointed out that I'd changed—that I didn't argue anymore, didn't push back on anything—that I started paying attention. "
"How long were you married?"
"Twelve years." The words came out flat. "Twelve years of not knowing which feelings were mine and which ones she'd planted there. When I finally confronted her, she didn't understand why I was upset. She thought she was helping. Making us happier. More compatible."
Cassie felt something twist in her chest. "That's not help. That's control."
"Aye. Took me a while to see it that way, but that's what it was." He looked at her then, really looked at her. "That's why I'm wary. Not because you're magical—because I've learned what happens when someone with magic decides they know what's best for you."
"I'm not her."
"I know." Something in his expression softened. "You're chaotic and impulsive and you set things on fire when you're stressed. But you're not manipulative. You don't hide what you're feeling—your emotions leak all over the bloody house."
The walls had cycled through about four different colors during this conversation, currently settling on a soft rose-gold that was definitely not helping Cassie's case for emotional control.
"The walls are very chatty," she muttered.
"Aye. Subtle as a brick." He leaned forward slightly. "But that's the thing—you can't hide. Everything you feel is right there. It's actually refreshing after years of never knowing what was real."
"Even when what I'm feeling is inconvenient?"
"Especially then."
The walls went properly pink now. Like, undeniably, unmistakably, "Cassie Morgan is having Feelings about the Scottish man in her guest room" pink.
"I hate this house," she announced to the ceiling.
"The house is just being honest."
"The house needs to learn about discretion."
A cabinet in the kitchen groaned sympathetically.
Liam stood, crossing to the window. Cassie tried not to notice how the lamplight caught in his hair, or how the ridiculous "World's Best Dad" shirt somehow made him look more attractive instead of less.
"I should—" she started.
"Cassie."
She looked up.
He was staring at the walls, which had progressed from pink to a warm burgundy. Then he looked at her, and there was something careful in his expression. Something cautious but not cold.
"The binding," he said slowly. "The connection between us. It's making everything... louder. But it's not creating things that aren't there."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the walls aren't lying."
Her breath caught.
Before she could respond—before she could even process what he'd just admitted—the walls flickered violently. Pink to red to gold to a blazing white-hot crimson.
The temperature in the room spiked. Not a hot flash this time—just magic responding to the sudden surge of emotion between them.
Books trembled on their shelves. The lamp flickered. And somewhere in the kitchen, Jacques the toaster began singing what sounded like a French love song.
"Merde," Cassie whispered.
"That's one word for it."
The doorbell rang.
Because of course it did.
Margaret let herself in without waiting for an answer, which was either very trusting or very concerning.
"The walls are visible from the street," she announced, setting down a bag that clinked with glass bottles. "You're doing the color-changing thing again. Someone's going to notice."
"Someone already did," Liam muttered. "About six neighbors took photos when the garden went feral."
"Yes, well, that's a problem for tomorrow." Margaret surveyed the living room—the trembling books, the flickering lights, the walls that were still cycling through shades of emotional chaos. "You two have been talking."
"Is that forbidden?" Cassie asked.
"No. But it's making the binding stronger. The more connected you feel emotionally, the harder it's going to be to separate the magic." She pulled herbs from her bag with practiced efficiency. "We need to stabilize this before something else catches fire."
"I'm tired of things catching fire."
"Then stop having feelings at such high volume."
"That's not how feelings work!"
"It is when you're a witch whose magic is tied to your emotions. You want control? You need to learn to feel without feeding every sensation into the magical field around you." Margaret pointed at Liam. "You. Sit there."
He sat.
"Cassie. Sit across from him."
She did, warily.
"Now hold hands."
"That seems counterproductive," Liam said.
"It's grounding. The binding is already there—you can't make it worse by acknowledging it.
What you can do is learn to manage the flow instead of letting it surge every time you have a conversation.
" Margaret lit a bundle of sage, wafting the smoke between them.
"Close your eyes. Breathe together. Feel the connection, but don't feed it. Just... observe."
Cassie took Liam's hands. The now-familiar spark jumped between them, but gentler this time. Present but not overwhelming.
She closed her eyes.
Breathed in. He breathed in.
Breathed out. He breathed out.
The magic between them hummed—a steady, warm current that flowed from her to him and back again. Not pulling. Not demanding. Just... there.
"That's it," Margaret said softly. "That's what it's supposed to feel like. A connection, not a compulsion."
Cassie could feel him on the other side of that connection.
Not his thoughts—nothing intrusive—but the shape of his emotions.
The wariness that was slowly giving way to something else.
The loneliness he carried like old weight.
The tentative curiosity about whether this could be something other than another magical disaster.
And underneath it all—careful, cautious, but undeniably there—a warmth that mirrored her own.
"Open your eyes," Margaret said.
Cassie did.
Liam was already looking at her. His eyes were storm-gray in the lamplight, and she could feel his heartbeat through their joined hands—or maybe that was her own heartbeat, or maybe it was both, synchronized through the binding.
"This is..." she started.
"Complicated," he finished.
"That's putting it mildly."
The walls had settled to a soft, steady rose. Not the chaotic pink of earlier—this was quieter. More certain.
Margaret stood, satisfied. "Better. The binding is still there, but you're managing it instead of being managed by it.
" She looked between them with an expression Cassie couldn't quite read.
"Fair warning—the more emotionally invested you become in each other, the harder it's going to be to break this cleanly. "
"Is that a problem?" Cassie asked.
"That depends. Are you planning to keep him?"
The question hung in the air.
Liam's thumb brushed across her knuckles—a small movement, possibly unconscious, but it sent sparks down her spine.
"We should probably figure out how to break the binding first," she said quietly. "Before we make any other decisions."
"Aye. Probably wise."
But neither of them let go.
Margaret gathered her things, shaking her head with what might have been amusement. "I'll be back tomorrow. Try not to burn anything down tonight."
"No promises," Luna said from the doorway. "They're terrible at self-control."
"You're not helping," Cassie told her cat.
"I'm helping reality. Again, lonely place."
After Margaret left, Cassie and Liam stayed where they were, hands still joined, the binding humming steadily between them.
"I should let go," she said.
"You should."
"In a minute."
"Aye. In a minute."
The walls pulsed softly. Rose-gold now. Warm and steady and absolutely refusing to be subtle about anything.
And somewhere in the kitchen, Jacques began humming a new tune—something slow and sweet and unmistakably romantic.
Cassie was definitely going to have words with that toaster.
Tomorrow.