Chapter Fifteen
“You’re tired. Let’s get you to bed.”
I let him tug me gently toward the stairs.
Hours ago, we’d been curled together on the sofa, half-asleep beneath my aunt’s afghan. Now everything felt different—shifted, rearranged—like the house itself had inhaled and hadn’t exhaled yet.
It already felt distant. Like something that had happened to someone else.
He walked me upstairs in silence, our footsteps soft against the old wood. The house creaked and settled around us, familiar and strange all at once. At my bedroom door, he released my hand and started to turn away.
“Wait.”
My voice came out thinner than I meant it to, scraped raw by everything I hadn’t said.
He paused, half-turned back, one brow lifting. “Yeah?”
“Don’t go.”
One heartbeat. Two.
“You want me to stay?” he asked quietly. His gaze flicked to the bedroom behind me.
I nodded, stepping closer. My fingers curled in the hem of his shirt. “I want you to stay. With me. Tonight.”
His breath caught slightly.
For a moment I thought he might argue. Be careful. Be noble. Make the sensible choice for both of us.
Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
I slid my hands up his chest—and had a fleeting, startling thought that I must have missed something over the years. When had Owen McAllister gone from lanky, quiet boy to solid, warm, undeniably real man? Muscle shifted beneath my palms, heat radiating through cotton and skin.
Longing flickered in his dove-gray eyes.
His fingers closed gently around my wrists—not stopping me, exactly. Holding me there as if he were bracing himself against something fragile and precious all at once.
The memory of our kiss in the basement rushed back—the way it had made the rest of the world fall away for a minute. Right now, I wanted that again. Wanted something that wasn’t fear or grief or unanswered questions.
“Owen,” I whispered.
“Yeah?” His voice was rougher than usual, low and frayed at the edges.
“I’d like it if you kissed me again.”
A soft, breathless laugh escaped him. “I was thinking the same thing.”
His thumbs brushed along the insides of my wrists, sending a shiver skating up my arms. “But if I do,” he said quietly, voice dropping into something warmer, “I don’t know that I’ll stop with kisses.”
My pulse stumbled. “You want more than kisses?”
“I want you, Piper.” His voice was earnest, unguarded. “More time. More closeness. More of whatever this is becoming.”
My thoughts scattered. Heat bloomed fast and bright, making me sway a little.
“Oh,” I managed.
“Is that clear enough?” His mouth curved faintly.
I nodded. “Crystal.”
He leaned in—then stopped short, resting his forehead against mine, breath warm along my cheek.
“But not tonight,” he said gently. “Not like this. You’ve had too much taken from you already.”
My throat tightened. “Owen—”
“I want you,” he said softly. “But I’ll wait—until this isn’t about holding on because everything feels like it’s falling apart.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “Until it’s a choice.”
Something sharp and aching bloomed behind my ribs.
He pressed a brief, tender kiss to my forehead instead—intimate in a way that somehow hurt more than stopping would have.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he added. “If you need me. And if you don’t—I’ll still be here in the morning.”
I swallowed and nodded once. “Okay.”
He stepped back, giving me space without making me feel abandoned by it. And for the first time in days, tomorrow didn’t feel like something to dread.
Birdsong pulled me from sleep, followed by the faint clink of dishes and the unmistakable scent of coffee drifting up the stairs.
Someone had made coffee.
I rolled over, the echo of the night before still pressed into my skin—Owen’s hands warm and steady, the way he’d held me like he wanted everything and yet had stopped.
Not because he didn’t want me. Because he did.
Because he’d said he would wait until I was ready, until I wasn’t reeling from truths that had cracked my world open.
My chest tightened.
I blinked up at the slats of sunlight cutting through the vertical blinds, then shoved back the blankets and swung my feet to the floor.
That was when reality settled in.
Alice was gone. The town sat on a thinning place between worlds. The veil was fraying—and last night something had reached through and looked straight at me.
And somehow, impossibly, I was now responsible for holding it all together.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, breath coming out shaky despite my best efforts. The room felt too bright. Too ordinary for a life that no longer fit inside neat edges.
At some point—soon—I was absolutely going to have a full breakdown about all of this.
Probably not before coffee.
I was about to slide off the bed when Owen filled the doorway, a steaming mug in his hand. His hair was damp and mussed like he’d taken a quick shower, his shirt slightly wrinkled—evidence it hadn’t been on for long.
He paused when he saw me, gaze sweeping over my oversized sleep shirt and bare legs before a slow smile curved his mouth.
“Hey, there.” He crossed the room and offered me the mug. “Thought you might need this.”
I took it gratefully, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. “You are a saint,” I said solemnly. “A magical, wildly overqualified barista saint.”
One sip and I sighed. Exactly right. Of course it was. He retreated back to the door a safe distance.
“Sleep okay?” he asked, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe like he hadn’t turned my world upside down and then made deliberate choices about not turning it further.
I peeked up at him over the rim of the cup. “Shockingly, yes. You?”
His mouth quirked. “Same.”
We hovered there in the aftermath—carefully skirting last night’s restraint, the truth bombs, the portals, and the minor detail that an unknown thing had tried to put its hands on the grimoire like it owned the right.
I cleared my throat. “I think I’d like to visit my parents today.”
His expression softened instantly. “We can do that. After we go to the tree, though.”
Right. The crossing. The dying hickory. The thing we were supposed to seal properly before it widened.
So far, my Guardian performance was… subpar.
“Of course,” I said quickly. “After the tree.”
“You forgot,” he said, not even attempting to sound stern.
“No,” I lied.
“Mm-hmm.”
Instead of arguing, I rose from the bed, stepped closer, balancing my coffee one-handed and rising onto my toes to kiss his cheek. “Thanks,” I said quietly. “For the coffee.”
“You’re welcome.” His fingers brushed my hip, warm and deliberate, lingering long enough to remind me how aware of him I still was. “You know,” he added lightly, “if you’re planning to shower…”
I arched a brow. “Yes?”
“I’m committed to water conservation.”
A laugh escaped me. “Tempting.”
I was still considering poor but appealing decisions when the doorbell rang.
I glanced at the clock. Mid-morning. “Who on earth…?”
“I’ve got it.” Owen’s gaze flicked over me—bare legs, sleep-tangled hair, and precisely zero intention of modesty at the moment. “You might want pants before greeting the general public.”
“Rude,” I muttered, but he wasn’t wrong.
He headed downstairs. I set my mug on the nightstand, tugged on the first pair of jeans I found, and swapped the sleep shirt for a clean T-shirt. No time for underwear.
Commando it was.
I added it to the rapidly growing list of things I was absolutely not explaining to whoever had decided today was a good day to show up.
Raised voices floated up the stairs—male, irritated. Owen answering, his tone tight and controlled.
Great.
Barefoot, I jogged down, heart thudding.
At the front door stood a wall of a man, broad-shouldered and imposing, filling the threshold like he owned it.
He wore a dark, structured coat that wasn’t modern—heavy wool or leather, cut clean and severe, with subtle sigils stitched into the seams that caught the light only when he moved.
It looked less like a uniform and more like something issued by an older, colder authority.
His forearms were thick as tree trunks, tension carved into every line of him.
Blond hair tipped faintly blue—because apparently even supernatural law enforcement had aesthetic choices—and eyes the color of Arctic ice swept the entryway with clipped professional judgment before landing on me.
He looked like he could punch through a brick wall.
Or a shadow-thing.
Or both.
Fantastic.
“I’m Piper Wakefield,” I said, lifting my chin.
His gaze dragged from my bare toes up to my bedhead hair. Judgment flickered—quick, subtle, unmistakable. Of all days not to be wearing runway armor.
He reached into his pocket, flipped open a slim black wallet. Silver badge. ID.
“Agent Voss,” he said. “Portal Enforcement.”
I leaned in to read it. He snapped it shut before I got a good look.
“I understand there’s trouble with the crossing at the hickory tree,” he went on. “The Council sent me to investigate why it’s still open.”
“Wow,” I said. “Word travels fast. How did you—”
“Where’s Alice?” he cut in.
Owen shifted instantly, fractionally stepping in front of me. Protective. Infuriating. Comforting.
“Alice is dead,” I said flatly.
The word still hurt—but at least it didn’t steal my breath anymore.
Some of the fury bled out of Voss’s face. “Dead.”
“That’s what I said.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“How? And who’s the new Guardian?”
I folded my arms. “Okay, bucko. I’d love to play interrogations with the Man of Mystery, but I don’t know who you are beyond the shiny badge, and I’ve never heard of Portal Enforcement. Maybe enlighten me?”
His jaw tightened. Owen’s hands flexed at his sides, the air around him humming faintly.
“Answer the questions,” Voss said, clipped.
“Careful with your tone,” Owen snapped, eyes flashing. Power rippled—controlled, but real.
I laid a hand on his arm, grounding him, then stepped around him.
“I’m the Guardian,” I said. “What of it?”
The swear slipped out sharp and satisfying.
“Your crossing is failing.”