9. Sakura
NINE
SAKURA
Icatch myself staring at the door for the third time in five minutes and force my attention back to the treatment room I’m supposed to be preparing. Fresh linens. Clean crystals. The salt lamp that supposedly purifies the air but mostly just glows in a vaguely reassuring way.
My hands won’t stop fidgeting.
What is he doing right now? Is he okay? Did the watcher from last night come back? What if—
“Stop.” I tell myself firmly. Out loud. Like a person who definitely has her life under control. “He’s fine. He’s busy. He has a job that doesn’t revolve around delivering caffeine to anxious witches.”
The crystals on my shelf rattle in what might be agreement. Or judgment. Hard to tell with crystals.
Outside, the sky is doing that thing where clouds gather with pointed intensity. Not raining yet, but threatening. A visual representation of my emotional state.
Great. Even the weather is moping about the absent bear.
I try to focus on work. Arrange crystals in patterns. Reorganize the salt in the salt room. Check the schedule for clients I don’t have because word of the thunderstorm witch has spread and bookings remain sparse.
By nine-thirty, I give up pretending.
My phone buzzes.
Torin: “Second siphon. Registry. One hour. Bring your elemental sensitivity.”
Relief floods through me—he’s okay, he’s fine, he’s not dead in a ditch because of Preservers or overnight poetry sessions.
Me: “Did you seriously text this instead of just showing up with coffee?”
Torin: “Coffee’s already at the Registry. Hurry.”
Of course it is.
The Familiar Registry rises from the mist like a Victorian fever dream—three stories of robin’s-egg blue paint and climbing roses, held together by spite and accumulated magic.
Torin is waiting outside.
He looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes, tension in his shoulders. The mist gathers close around him with anxious silver undertones—even the atmospheric magic seems worried about him.
But when he sees me, something eases in his face—softens—in a way that makes my breath catch.
“You’re here,” he says.
“You asked me to come.”
“I did.” He adjusts his stride to match mine without comment—still. Always. “Anouk thinks the siphon is buried near the property line. The magical concentration here would make it more powerful.”
“That’s why my episodes were always worse here.” The realization crystallizes. “The siphon was amplifying my sensitivity to the distortion.”
“Exactly.” He glances at me. “How are you feeling? The episodes have been calmer since we found the first one.”
“Better.” I hesitate. “I actually slept last night. Not just stared at the ceiling and spiraled.”
“Good.”
“How about you?”
His silence is answer enough.
“Torin.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
About the almost-kiss. About the way you leaned toward me. About whether I ruined everything by reciting bad poetry.
But he doesn’t say any of that. Just: “The investigation.”
Liar. But I don’t call him on it. We both have things we’re not ready to say aloud.
Anouk waits near the property line, elegant even in practical clothes. She’s surrounded by the tools of magical destruction—crystals in precise patterns, herbs burning in small bowls, a circle of salt glittering with embedded power.
“You’re both here. Good.” No time for pleasantries. “I’ve identified the siphon’s location. Approximately three feet below the surface, beneath that rose bush.”
The rose bush in question has dark red blooms and thorns like daggers. It looks like the kind of plant that has opinions about being disturbed. The kind that might fight back if you bring a shovel.
“The roses are original to the Registry,” Anouk continues, noting my expression. “They’ve been absorbing ambient magic for two centuries. They may object to excavation.”
“Object how?”
“Violently. With thorns. And possibly opinions.” She waves a dismissive hand. “A minor concern compared to the siphon itself.”
“I’ve prepared a counter-spell to neutralize the device.” Anouk hands me a crystal—clear quartz, charged with her magic, warm against my palm. “You’ll anchor the spell. Your elemental sensitivity will help me calibrate the destruction sequence. Torin provides resistance backup.”
“Backup for what?”
“Complications.” Her voice is carefully neutral. “The first siphon was passive. Draining, but not defensive. This one may have additional safeguards. The Preservers learn from their mistakes.”
“Safeguards meaning traps.”
“Potentially. Wards designed to harm anyone attempting destruction. Magical feedback loops. Nasty surprises we won’t know about until we trigger them. I don’t anticipate problems, but we should be prepared for them.”
Torin moves behind me. Not touching, but close enough that I feel his warmth. The solid reassurance of his presence.
“If anything goes wrong,” he says quietly, “get behind me.”
“You’re not a shield.”
“Bears have natural magical resistance. You don’t.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Get behind me.”
I want to argue. Want to insist I can handle myself, that I don’t need protection, that I’ve been surviving my own disasters for years without anyone volunteering to absorb magical explosions on my behalf.
Instead, I nod.
Anouk begins the incantation.
The spell is beautiful.
Anouk’s voice weaves through syllables older than the town itself. The air thickens. The roses shiver. The ground begins to glow, and the crystal in my hand pulses warm against my palm.
For a long moment, everything works perfectly.
Then the siphon fights back.
The first warning is pressure against my senses—the same wrongness from the warehouse, but sharper. Angrier.
“Anouk—”
“I feel it.” Her voice strains. “The backlash wards are activating—”
The explosion comes without warning.
Pure magical force erupts from the ground like a geyser of concentrated wrongness. The rose bush disintegrates—petals and thorns scattered like shrapnel. The salt circle shatters. Anouk is thrown backward.
And I’m falling—
Arms wrap around me. Massive. Immovable. Torin spins me against his chest, putting his back to the explosion, and then—
Impact.
The magical backlash hits him like a physical blow.
I feel it through his body—the shudder, the grunt of pain, the way his muscles lock against the assault.
Power crashes over us in waves, dark and twisted and wrong, and he just...
takes it. Plants his feet and holds me while the magic tries to tear us apart.
I feel the wrongness trying to reach me—the siphon’s dying rage, lashing out at anything nearby. But Torin absorbs it. All of it. His natural resistance turned into a living shield.
Magic like that should be tearing through him. He doesn’t move.
Seconds stretch into eternity. The world narrows to the sound of his breathing, the hammer of his heart against my ear, the terrible heat of the magic washing over us.
Then silence.
His arms loosen. He stumbles.
Falls.
“Torin!” I’m on my knees beside him. “Torin, talk to me—”
His eyes are open. Unfocused. Blood trickles from his nose, dark against his skin. His breathing is wrong—too shallow, too fast.
“I’m fine.” His voice is strained. Wrong.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Superficially.” He tries to sit up. Fails. His arms shake with the effort. “Just need a minute.”
“You absorbed a magical explosion with your body.”
“Seemed like the right move.” His hand finds mine. Squeezes weakly. “I’m okay. Just... need rest.”
“Anouk!” I scream toward the Registry. “He’s hurt!”
The next hour is a blur.
Somehow, we get Torin to Thornveil Apothecary. He’s conscious but barely, leaning on me in a way that would be intimate under other circumstances but feels terrifying now.
Anouk’s treatment room is clinical—white walls, steel surfaces, shelves lined with healing supplies. She works with efficient precision, peeling back his shirt to reveal the damage.
The magical burns spread across his back like a map of violence. Dark lines where the power tried to cut through his resistance. Blistered patches where it almost succeeded.
“His bear protected him.” Anouk doesn’t look up from her work. “Natural resistance absorbed most of the impact. But he’ll need time to recover.”
“Will he be okay?”
“He should be. The burns are severe but treatable.” She doesn’t promise. Can’t promise. “But he pushed past his limits protecting you.”
Protecting me.
The door bursts open.
Leire appears first, pale and worried. “We heard. Aslan told me. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. He’s—” I gesture helplessly at Torin. “He almost died.”
“He almost died protecting you. There’s a difference.” She pulls back. “In his mind, that’s a win.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s bears.” Leire’s voice softens. “That’s love, actually. Even if neither of you is ready to call it that.”
Zeph appears behind her. “Aslan sent word. I came as fast as I could.” She looks at Torin, then at me, with unusual seriousness. “You look like you’re about to shatter into a thousand anxiety-shaped pieces.”
I am about to shatter. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind shaky exhaustion.
“The trap knew our patterns.” Anouk finishes bandaging. “Whoever placed it anticipated our response. Knew we’d locate the siphon. Knew we’d try to destroy it.”
“Valesh.” Leire’s voice hardens, her earlier warmth shifting to fierce intelligence. “She’s been asking questions about Sakura’s abilities. About how you found the first siphon. I thought she was just being nosy. Council members are always nosy. But this is different.”
“She’s on the welcoming committee.” Anouk’s expression is grim. “Has access to new resident files. Knows everyone’s routines. Every schedule. Every pattern.”
“She brought me cookies when I first arrived.” The memory surfaces. “Spent an hour asking about my magic. My history. I thought she was being welcoming.”
“She was being strategic.” Leire’s jaw tightens. “Twenty years of strategic. Twenty years of being in exactly the right place to know exactly what we’re doing.”
“She’s been watching us.” My voice is barely a whisper. “All of us.”
“For two decades.” Anouk moves to wash her hands. “Every investigation, every protective measure—she’s known. She’s been one step ahead because she’s been in the room when we made our plans.”
“She knew he’d protect me.” My throat tightens. “She designed the trap to hurt him specifically.”
“The Preservers want to prevent witch-shifter pairings.” Anouk’s voice is clinical. “Torin has been... obvious about his attachment. They would consider him a primary target.”
“Obvious is an understatement.” Zeph’s voice is gentler than usual. “The man brings you coffee every morning and looks at you like you personally hung every star in the sky.”
The room spins. I reach for the counter.
“Easy.” Leire catches my arm. “Sit. Breathe. Process one crisis at a time.”
“He’s hurt because of me—”
“He’s hurt because someone wanted to hurt him. That’s not your fault.” Leire steers me toward a chair near Torin’s bed. “And we’re going to make them pay for it.”
“When he wakes up,” Zeph adds, “he’s going to be insufferably smug about the heroic sacrifice. Brace yourself. Bears love being right about things.”
“He’s not going to be smug—”
“He absolutely is. I’ve known Torin for five years. He’s going to be writing poems about this for weeks.” She affects a dramatic voice. “‘I threw myself in front of magic / She looked at me like I was tragic / But I survived to tell the tale.’”
Despite everything, I choke out a laugh. “That doesn’t even rhyme properly.”
“Neither do his actual poems. It’s very on brand.” Zeph’s brief grin flickers through her concern.
“Stay with him tonight.” Anouk’s voice gentles. “He’ll need monitoring. And you want to be here. Stop fighting both of those things.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“You absolutely should.” Leire squeezes my shoulder. “Trust me. I did it with Aslan.”
They leave in waves—Zeph with promises of breakfast in the morning, Leire with a fierce hug and whispered encouragement, Anouk rattling off a list of things to watch for that I will absolutely have memorized by morning.
Then it’s just me.
And Torin.
And the slow sound of his breathing.
The hours pass in a haze.
I watch him sleep. Watch the rise and fall of his chest. Watch the tension smooth from his face as exhaustion wins over pain.
He’s beautiful. I haven’t let myself think that before—haven’t acknowledged the warmth that spreads through me when he’s near, the way my magic settles in his presence.
But here, in the quiet dark, I can admit it. He’s kind. And unwavering in a way that makes me feel like I might not shatter after all.
The apothecary is quiet around us—the soft hum of preservation spells, the distant creak of the building easing toward stillness. Through the window, I see Mistvale spread below, lights twinkling in the mist like scattered stars.
But I don’t want to leave Mistvale.
I don’t want to leave him.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” I speak to his sleeping form. “You should have let me handle it. Let me take the hit. Let me be the one who—”
His eyes open.
“You’re awake.”
“You’re arguing with an unconscious person.” His voice is rough. Weak. But warm with humor. “That seems counterproductive.”
“I was making a point.”
“What point?”
“That you’re an idiot.” I lean forward.
“I’m aware of my flaws.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I prefer ‘determined.’” His lips curve weakly. “How long have you been here?”
“A few hours.”
“You should rest.”
“So should you. You’re the one who absorbed a magical explosion.”
“Fair point.” His hand drops, the effort exhausting. “Will you stay?”
The question is raw. Vulnerable. Not the bear who always has a plan—just a man, hurt and tired, asking for what he wants.
“Yes.” I take his hand. “I’ll stay.”
His fingers curl around mine. Warm despite everything. Certain.
“Good.” His eyes drift closed. “I sleep better when you’re close.”
“You’ve never slept when I was close.”
“Mmm. Haven’t had the chance. This counts.”
He’s asleep before I can respond.
And I sit in the dark, holding his hand, watching over the man who threw himself in front of magic for me.
It’s terrifying.
It’s wonderful.
It feels like falling.
I don’t try to stop.