8. Torin
EIGHT
TORIN
My cabin is quiet.
Too quiet. The kind of quiet that leaves room for thinking, and right now, thinking is dangerous.
I’m supposed to be reviewing siphon reports. The documents are spread across my desk. I haven’t looked at a single one.
I’m staring at a blank page in my journal and thinking about the way she touched my arm.
Brief. Unconscious. Her fingers grazing my wrist when she reached for the coffee I brought her this morning. A nothing gesture. A meaningless moment that lasted maybe half a second.
I’ve replayed it forty-seven times.
The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
It’s a good cabin. A solid life.
It feels emptier than it used to.
I pick up my pen. Set it down. Pick it up again.
Three crumpled pages litter the floor already. Failed attempts. Half-formed thoughts that sounded profound in my head and looked ridiculous on paper.
I crumple this one harder.
Just write, my bear grumbles. Now.
Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to find words for what we’re feeling. His vocabulary is simple. Mine, unfortunately, has to be more than that.
The pen touches paper. Words flow before I can stop them.
I stare at the lines. Crumple the page. Smooth it out again.
It’s overwrought. Earnest to the point of embarrassment. The kind of writing that would make Elio laugh until he couldn’t breathe and Rhodes question my mental stability.
I grab my jacket and head for The Den. Time for another meeting.
Bruno leans both forearms on the bar and looks me up and down. “You look like the poetry isn’t going well.”
“I’m not doing that right now.”
“They’re in the back.” Bruno straightens, long-suffering. “That lion documents his own bathroom breaks. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a filing system for his feelings.”
“He might. I’ve never asked.”
“Smart. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.”
The Den is busy for this time of evening—wolves at the dart board, a cluster of panthers in the corner booth, three bear cubs playing some kind of card game that seems to involve occasional growling. The fireplace crackles with warmth, the air thick with the smell of hops and woodsmoke.
I navigate through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces. Word travels fast in Mistvale. By now, everyone probably knows about the siphon discovery. About Sakura’s role in finding it.
About the way I’ve been showing up at her studio every morning with coffee and barely concealed longing.
The Stone Circle is already occupied when I push through the back door.
Aslan catches my eye. Grins.
That grin worries me.
“Finally.” Caius waves me toward my usual seat. “We’ve been waiting.”
“I was delayed.”
“Torin. The weather witch. Status?”
“Sakura’s stable. Her magic has been calmer since the siphon discovery.”
“Because she knows she’s not the problem.” Aslan leans back in his stone chair. “Leire says she’s been sleeping better too. Less anxiety spiraling. More actual rest.”
“The ladies discuss sleep patterns at wine night?” Rhodes sounds skeptical.
“The ladies discuss everything at wine night.” Aslan’s grin widens. “It’s equal parts terrifying and informative. I’ve learned more about female friendship dynamics in the past month than in my entire previous existence. Apparently there are rankings involved. And voting.”
“Voting on what?”
“Romantic potential. Attractiveness. Who’s most likely to make a reckless heroic gesture.” He pauses meaningfully. “You’re currently winning that last category.”
“I don’t need to know this.”
“You need to know this. Knowledge is power. Even embarrassing knowledge.”
“Horrifying.” Rhodes shakes his head. “Can we discuss actual investigation matters? Some of us have work to complete.”
Elio produces a slim folder from somewhere—his sources are never quite clear. “My network has been tracking the siphon materials. I’ve been reviewing requisition records.”
“Every request for these materials in the past five years was approved by Councilor Valesh.” Anouk’s voice comes from the doorway. I hadn’t heard her arrive—the coven leader moves like her familiar owl did, silent and observant.
“Too helpful.” The pattern clicks into place. “She’s always the first to offer assistance. Always present when incidents are reported.”
“Always asking questions about Sakura’s sensitivity.” Anouk settles into a chair. “She practically interrogated me about the witch’s abilities after the first siphon discovery. Claimed she was concerned for ‘community safety.’”
“We need more evidence.” Rhodes is already writing. “Circumstantial links aren’t enough for—”
“Evidence takes time.” Aslan’s gaze sharpens. “Time we might not have. The Warding Line is weakening faster than we anticipated.”
“Rushing leads to mistakes—”
“And waiting leads to dead witches.”
“Gentlemen.” Caius’s voice carries alpha command. “We continue the investigation. Carefully. Thoroughly. Elio, keep tracking material sources. Anouk, dig deeper into Valesh’s history. Torin—” His gaze finds me. “Keep monitoring Sakura.”
“You seem invested in that particular duty.” Elio’s voice is smooth.
“I’m thorough.”
Rhodes’s brow rose. “Thorough?”
Caius stands before the teasing can escalate. “We reconvene in three days unless circumstances change.”
The others file out—Anouk first, Rhodes still scribbling notes, Elio disappearing into shadows like he was never solid to begin with. But Aslan lingers.
And that grin is back.
“Don’t.” I know what’s coming.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re about to.”
“Am I?” He leans against the doorframe, all casual tiger and knowing eyes.
“Look. Leire worries you’re going to wait until it’s too late. The patience thing is admirable, but at some point you have to actually make a move.”
“I’m making moves.”
“Coffee and furniture repair aren’t moves. They’re courtship basics.” Aslan’s voice softens. “Leire waited too long with me. Almost lost everything because she was scared. Don’t make the same mistake.”
Before I can respond, Rhodes appears in the doorway behind him.
“Are you two done with the relationship counseling? Some of us have actual work to finish.”
“Rhodes.” Aslan turns with theatrical enthusiasm. “Perfect timing. Torin writes poetry about the weather witch. What’s your professional opinion?”
“My professional opinion is that personal entanglements compromise operational efficiency.” Rhodes doesn’t blink. “However, I did accidentally read one of his notebooks last month—thought it was case notes—and the metaphors weren’t entirely without merit.”
“You’ve seen my writing?”
“You left a journal at the Stone Circle. I read three pages before realizing it wasn’t evidence-related.” Rhodes raises his brows. “The verse about her laugh being ‘borrowed weather—brief and bright and not yet his to keep’ was grammatically questionable but emotionally resonant.”
I’m going to dig a hole and hibernate until everyone forgets I exist.
Elio and Veren materialize from the shadows simultaneously—because apparently everyone has to participate in my humiliation, and apparently they’ve been standing there the whole time.
“How many people have read my writing?”
“Only the essential personnel.” Elio’s smile is sharp. “And anyone they’ve told. Which is... most of the Network. Also portions of the coven. Also Bruno. Also—”
“I offered odds.” Veren looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Three-to-one you’d have her claimed before the next full moon. I’m not confident anymore. You’re moving at a genuinely tragic pace.”
“There’s a betting pool.”
“There’s always a betting pool. Ask Aslan how much I made off him.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Wise. The number would only depress you further.” Veren pats me on the shoulder with the gravity of a man delivering condolences. “Chin up. Bad poetry is a stage. Most of us grow out of it.”
“Get out. All of you. Now.”
They scatter, laughing, and I’m left alone in the Stone Circle with the ashes of my dignity.
The moon is high by the time I finish patrol routes.
I tell myself I’m checking the Warding Line. Verifying siphon locations. Doing my duty as a Protection Network member.
I’m lying.
My feet carry me to Moonthread Square without conscious decision. To the converted greenhouse on the eastern edge, where light still glows through the glass walls despite the late hour.
She’s still there. Working.
I push through the door before I can talk myself out of it. The bell chimes. Sakura startles, spinning toward the entrance with power crackling at her fingertips—
Then recognition. Relief. The electricity fades.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry.” I’m not sorry at all. “You’re working late.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She’s wearing soft clothes—a loose sweater that slips off one shoulder.
“I was practicing breathing exercises.” She gestures at the cushion on the floor, the candles arranged in a circle. “Trying to find the calm underneath the chaos.”
“Making progress?”
“Some nights. Not tonight.” She moves toward her desk, creating distance. “Why are you here?”
“Update on the investigation.” The lie comes easily. “Elio’s tracking materials. Anouk’s digging into Valesh’s history.”
“Any breakthroughs?”
“Some. Not enough.”
I take a step closer without intending to. “It takes time.”
“Everything takes time.” She sinks onto her couch, pulling her knees to her chest. “I’m not good at patience.”
“Neither am I.” The admission surprises us both. “Despite what everyone says about bear temperament.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You seem patient.”
“Seem being the operative word.”
“What are you impatient for?”
Answers. Her. Both, if I’m honest.
I don’t say that. Instead: “Answers. Resolution. Knowing the town is safe.”
“That’s very responsible.” She sounds almost disappointed.
“I’m a very responsible man.”
“It’s a character trait. I’ve heard.” She manages a small smile and shifts, making room on the couch. An invitation. Maybe. “Sit. You’re making the room feel small.”
I shouldn’t. I sit anyway.
The couch is too small for someone my size. Our shoulders brush. She doesn’t move away.