Chapter 10 Norah
CHAPTER TEN
Norah
Wren leans closer, her pumpkin-shaped headband bobbing. “He’s looking at you.”
I don’t have to ask who. The moment she says it, I can feel it like a prickle at the back of my neck, an awareness that hums just under my skin.
The hall is glowing. Literally. Amber string lights loop from beam to beam, catching on the black flowers.
The air smells like cinnamon, cider, and candle wax. Every table is draped in black lace, pumpkins spilling with flowers sitting in the middle.
It’s loud, happy, packed. Someone managed to convince the high school band to play spooky jazz covers in the corner, and honestly, they’re killing it.
I glance toward the far end of the room where Dorian James stands near the punch table. He’s in a dark gray suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.
His sleeves are rolled up, hair’s slightly tousled, and he’s got that effortless polish that makes everyone else look underdressed.
He looks good. Of course he does.
And he’s keeping a solid ten-foot radius between us, which I appreciate. After everything, I don’t need him orbiting too close. Not when my body still hums with the kind of awareness I can’t entirely blame on caffeine or stress.
“Wren,” I mutter, taking a sip of eggnog. “Stop narrating my life.”
“I’m not narrating,” she says, grinning. “I’m observing. And that man has been staring since you walked in.”
“He’s not staring.”
“He’s literally facing this way. He hasn’t moved in five minutes.”
I groan, turning slightly so my back is toward him. “Maybe he’s staring at the bar.”
“Maybe,” she says, smirking. “Or maybe he’s staring at the woman who made this entire place look like a haunted dream sequence. Everyone’s talking about it, by the way. You crushed it.”
She’s right about that part. Every time I turn, someone else is gushing about the transformation. The mayor stopped by earlier to thank me personally, Jude’s crew got a standing ovation, and even Brighton’s wife cornered me to ask for my business card.
I wish Jude and Ryker were here to see it. It feels wrong without them—the hall might look perfect, but the balance feels off.
“They ditched,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed. “After all that work.”
Wren’s nose scrunches. “I know. I thought they’d be here to celebrate. They’re never a part of the town celebrations after… you know. I don’t know what I was hoping for, to be honest. They were a part of all of this, so I thought they would make this party the exception.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I say. “And Ryker needed rest. Still, it sucks. This was their project, too.”
“They’ll hear all about it tomorrow,” she says. “Half the town’s here.”
She’s not exaggerating. The whole of Fox Hollow seems to have squeezed inside.
Mick’s behind the bar, wearing a Dracula cape and mixing drinks like his life depends on it. Mrs. Coldwell from the bakery is dressed as a witch, cackling at every joke.
Even the sheriff showed up with fake fangs and a cowboy hat. The music thumps, people dance, and the town feels alive.
“So,” Wren says, voice sly, “Christmas. You already scheming?”
I grin. “Always. I was thinking frost-tipped arrangements—white peonies, evergreens, eucalyptus. Maybe some silver ivy if I can get it in time.”
She hums. “Classy.”
“And profitable,” I add. “Mayor Brighton mentioned another down payment next week. If that comes through, I’m talking to Jude about finally installing the cold room at the shop. No more storing flowers in my kitchen fridge.”
“Big-girl move,” Wren says approvingly.
“About time,” I say. “I’m running out of shelf space between the lilies and my leftover takeout.”
She laughs, the sound bright and contagious. Then her eyes narrow with that mischievous spark I’ve learned to dread. “Can I ask you something?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.”
I sigh. “Fine. Ask.”
“Is there something going on between you and the Pack Built guys?”
I choke on my drink. “What? No!”
She lifts a brow. “You just turned the color of your roses.”
“I did not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s nothing going on,” I insist, fanning my face. “We’re friends. Colleagues. That’s all.”
Wren leans in. “Then why are you blushing?”
I stare into my glass, feeling my pulse flutter. “Because you’re ridiculous.”
She just waits, smirking, clearly not buying it.
I groan. “Okay, fine. You remember how I told you about those dreams?”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare—”
“Sometimes,” I admit, lowering my voice, “the guys are… featured.”
She gasps, hand flying to her chest. “Holy shit, Norah!”
“I know.” I take a long sip of eggnog, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. “I didn’t invite them. They just… show up.”
She’s grinning so wide it’s a miracle her face doesn’t crack. “Do you want them to show up?”
“Wren.”
“I’m just asking questions!”
“I’m on suppressants,” I mutter. “It’s not supposed to be this bad. Invisira’s clearly not working.”
“Then switch.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. I’ll go to the clinic this week and ask about Sensurex. Thea mentioned it once, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Oh, do it,” Wren says, waving her hand like she’s conducting a choir. “That’s what I was on before I—”
“Got pregnant?” I say, laughing.
She smirks. “Exactly. Though, in my defense, I missed two doses and had three very determined Alphas in my house.”
“That’s not a defense.”
“Worked out for me,” she says, grinning. “Maybe you’re due for some chaos of your own.”
“Hard pass,” I say, though the image makes my cheeks warm again. “I’m barely holding it together as it is.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
The music swells again. Someone’s started a dance circle near the stage. Laughter rings through the air, a few witches spin around a pirate and a werewolf, and it feels almost too bright, too alive.
I sip my drink slowly, watching, soaking it in. I even let myself enjoy the warmth, the lights, the sense that maybe things are okay for now.
Hours blur by in that haze of sound and motion. I talk to the mayor, to Mrs. Coldwell, to Mick (who insists I try his new pumpkin whiskey concoction, which I instantly regret).
The crowd thins a little after midnight, but the stragglers are still dancing when my body finally reminds me it’s been a long week. I’m exhausted. My feet ache, my head’s fuzzy from the noise and scent and everything else.
Wren catches me pulling on my coat near the door. “You heading out?”
“Yeah. My bed’s calling.”
“You want me to drive you?”
“I’ll walk,” I say. “It’s not far.”
She hugs me, her belly pressing soft against mine. “Call me when you get home so I know you didn’t get abducted by forest spirits.”
“I’ll text you, pumpkin.”
“Ha-ha.”
I slip outside. The night air is cold, crisp enough to sting. The street glows with leftover lantern light, orange and gold flickering across the snow-dusted pavement.
I’m halfway down the block when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Norah.”
I turn. Dorian stands a few paces back, coat collar turned up, hands in his pockets. His breath fogs in the cold.
“I can walk myself,” I say automatically.
He nods. “I figured. But I was heading the same way.”
“Dorian—”
“Relax,” he says, voice low, that damn half-smirk ghosting his lips. “How about I’m walking, you’re walking, and we don’t have to talk?”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
He falls into step beside me anyway. The space between us feels charged, like the air’s holding its breath.
His scent drifts on the wind—bergamot and cedar—and I hate that my body reacts before I can stop it.
We walk in silence for a few minutes. The crunch of snow fills the gaps. The wind carries faint laughter from the hall behind us.
Finally, he says quietly, “My mother wanted me to tell you she’s sorry.”
I blink. “What?”
“For that day,” he says. “For how she treated you. She regrets it. I… wanted to tell you sooner, but it was complicated.”
“Complicated,” I echo, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I wanted to apologize too,” he says. “In person. But you made it clear you didn’t want to hear from me.”
“I still don’t.”
He nods once, his breath curling white in the air. “Fair enough.”
“Then keep your distance now,” I say, stopping at the corner near my street.
He looks at me for a long moment, eyes shadowed, unreadable. Then that damn smirk returns, softer this time.
“How about I keep walking,” he says, “and you happen to be going the same way?”
I roll my eyes, but I keep walking.
He matches my pace without another word. The silence between us hums—not comfortable, but not jagged either. Just… there.
By the time we reach my gate, the chill has sunk deep enough that I can see the pulse of my breath. The moon’s silver light spills over the snow-dusted fence, and every sound feels muffled, like the world’s holding its breath.
I stop, turning toward him.
“This is where I live,” I say unnecessarily.
“I remember.”
Of course he does.
I grip the fence post, trying to steady myself, the iron cold beneath my palm. “Goodnight, Dorian.”
He studies me, eyes glinting under the porch light. “Goodnight, Norah.”
Then his gaze drifts down my body.
I suddenly remember what I’m wearing.
The corseted black bodice feels tighter under his stare. The tulle skirt, layered with lace and tiny pressed flowers, moves with the wind. My shawl has slipped down to my elbows, baring the line of my throat and shoulders.
I tied dried heather and witch hazel into my curls earlier—Wren called me a “woodland witch,” and I guess that’s exactly what I look like now, standing in the snow at midnight.
His mouth tilts. “You look…” His voice dips lower. “Sexy.”
My stomach does a slow, traitorous flip. I force a laugh that sounds steadier than I feel. “That’s one word for it.”
He smiles faintly, and the sight should not still have that kind of power.
“And you?” I ask, desperate to reroute the heat curling in my gut. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”
“The Phantom of the Opera,” he says simply.
I blink. “Where’s your mask, then?”
“I didn’t bring it.”
Of course he didn’t.
Before I can roll my eyes, he reaches up and brushes his thumb across my cheek. “You had snow,” he murmurs.
My breath catches. The touch is light, almost nothing, but it sets off a cascade of sparks that make my knees threaten betrayal.
Then he pulls his hand back and curses softly. “Fuck.”
The word is strained, rough around the edges.
He clears his throat, trying for neutral. “You did really well with everything. The flowers. The hall. It looked incredible tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice comes out quiet, thinner than I mean it to.
Silence falls, fragile as frost. The snow starts up again—small flurries swirling between us, catching the porch light.
“How’s your mother?” I ask softly.
His expression shifts, guarded again. “Better. I hired her a nurse.”
I nod. “That’s good.”
He hesitates, then says quietly, “It’s what she needed. What I should’ve done sooner.”
I nod again, fingers tightening around the post. “You’ve always been good at fixing things once they’re broken.”
The words hang there. He looks at me—really looks—and I realize what I’ve just said. I’m talking about all the times we would get back together, thinking things had changed.
I was such a fool. It was always the same.
“Norah—”
I cut him off. “Why?”
I don’t know why I asked. Maybe it’s the cold, maybe it’s the way the world feels suspended between heartbeats, maybe it’s that I’ve been carrying the question for too damn long.
He frowns. “Why what?”
“Why did you leave like that?” I say, and it comes out sharp. “The last night we spent together, you just…left. No message. No goodbye. Nothing. That was shitty, Dorian.”
He closes his eyes for half a second, like the memory hurts. “I know.”
“That’s it?”
He exhales, his breath fogging the air between us. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. That night.”
I laugh once, humorless. “Oh, so it was a mistake?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Not a mistake. But I—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “It scared me. We had tried so many times to make this work, and it never did. And all those feelings I’d tried to bury were clawing back up.”
“So you left,” I say flatly.
He gives me a sad, lopsided smile. “I’m a coward, sweetheart.”
The word hits hard. He’s the only one who’s ever called me that, and I hate how easily my body responds to it.
Snow gathers in his hair. He looks tired. Human. Too human.
“I felt like such a fool,” I whisper. “You just left.”
“I know.” He takes a step closer. “And I’m sorry.”
“You’re always sorry,” I say, but it comes out softer than I mean.
He’s tall. Too close now. The porch light throws shadows under his cheekbones.
“You need to go,” I say.
“I know.”
But he doesn’t move. His hand lifts almost without thought, and his thumb traces a slow, barely-there line along the side of my neck.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
My pulse jumps under his touch. I know this feeling. The soft ache at the base of my spine, the warmth unfurling low and treacherous.
My body remembers him too well—the weight of him, the taste, the way he said my name like a promise.
He shouldn’t still have this effect on me. Not after all this time. Not after the way it ended.
But when his eyes meet mine, dark and full of something I can’t name, I know this is a bad idea.
And I also know there’s no stopping it.
There never has been.
His thumb strokes my skin once more. The snow falls harder now, soft flakes landing on our hair, melting down the sides of our faces. My breath trembles.
“Dorian…” I whisper, though I don’t know if it’s a warning or a plea.
He steps closer, so close I can feel the heat radiating through his coat. His breath grazes my cheek.
For one suspended second, the world goes utterly still.
And then he kisses me.