Chapter 21
CASSIA
She had barely opened the gate when Ark stepped past her, eyes sweeping the garden beds.
“Let me check around first,” he murmured.
Cassia blinked. “Check what?”
“For the magpie,” he replied over his shoulder. “House Agmon doesn’t conjure a Construct for no reason.”
He moved quickly up the front steps, along the porch, toward the narrow path that wrapped around the side of the house. The wind caught the hem of his coat, the pointed ends of his horns still visible in the porch light.
Cassia hesitated in the doorway, one hand still resting on the knob. Her heart gave an odd little kick. He hadn’t even stepped inside. Yet, somehow, she felt less alone.
She watched him—a creature who belonged to the shadows more than the light. She’d seen plenty of men try to look dangerous. Ark didn’t even have to try.
When he returned, she was still standing on the porch, arms folded loosely, shoulder leaning against the doorframe.
“All clear?” she asked.
“For now,” he said. His eyes lingered on the windows above.
She arched a brow. “Wouldn’t you rather eat a tart than inspect my shutters?”
That earned her a flicker of a smile. “Let’s go inside.”
Cassia couldn’t be more relieved that she’d tidied the house before leaving this morning.
Anuck greeted them at the door with a meow that was more demanding than welcoming.
He padded across the patterned rug in the foyer.
At the sight of Ark entering the house, the cat paused mid-stride, eyes narrowed.
“We have a visitor,” she told him. “Be nice.”
She barely had time to slip off her coat before Anuck curled dramatically around her ankles, tail twitching in lazy arcs, then turned his full attention to Ark. He meowed pointedly, as if to ask why she returned this late, and with company. Again.
Ark let Anuck circle him like a miniature guard patrol. The cat sniffed his socks, his legs, his coat. Then, with the grace of an emperor declining an audience, he turned and walked away, tail held high.
She gave Ark an apologetic smile. “Don’t take it personally. He does this to everyone. Including me.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of criticizing him for anything.”
Inside, the cottage’s warmth wrapped around them. She’d lit the hearth charm earlier, and it had done its work well, casting flickering gold light across the timber beams and robin’s egg walls.
The memory of his office flared up—spare, balanced, intentional. Every line clean. Every artifact in its rightful place. Energy flowed through it like wind through a reed flute—unimpeded, focused.
Her house was . . . the opposite.
It was layered. Books stacked two deep on each shelf.
Dried flowers in old tea tins lined the edges.
Herbs hung from ceiling hooks, and mismatched tea mugs crowded the kitchen cupboards.
Magic flickered in the corners—old, warm, threaded into the wood.
The remnants of her mother’s magic, earthy and quiet, sprawling through the house like climbing vines.
She caught Ark’s gaze moving across the room. Her pulse fluttered. “Do you . . . hate it?”
He turned to her, one brow raised. “Hate it? Why would I?”
“I mean”—she gestured broadly at everything—“you work in a place where magic flows in perfect circles. This is more like . . . spirals. Loops. Organized chaos, at best.”
He was quiet for a moment, eyes taking in her home. “It’s a different kind of magic, yours.”
“Does it weaken you? Being in it?”
“No.” His gaze found hers again. “But it asks something different.”
“Different how?”
“In my space, energy listens and obeys. Here . . .” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Here, it wants to talk back.”
She chuckled. “Yes, well. This has been a witch’s house for thirty years. I think it has opinions.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She led him into the kitchen. This was her domain.
Her sanctuary, where the alchemy of flour and butter could solve any problem.
Her temple, where the simmer of soup on the stove was a daily prayer.
Her office, where the sharp, clean lines of her knife on a cutting board brought more clarity than any spreadsheet ever could.
And now, Ark was in it. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his quiet energy displacing the air, making the room feel both too small and more alive than it had in years.
The mushroom soup that she’d spelled to reheat about twenty minutes before they arrived gently simmered on the stove, and the tart (the tart) was already warming in the oven, its scent of caramelized onions and goat cheese beginning to perfume the air.
“It’s only soup and tart tonight,” she said, pulling two bowls from the cupboard. “But I’ll throw in a salad and dessert.”
“Only soup, a tart, salad, and dessert?” He looked at her. “You keep setting the bar higher. I’m not complaining.”
An almost giddy laugh escaped her. She hid her smile by opening the oven door. A wave of heat and the rich aroma of herbed cream flooded the kitchen. The tart needed another eight minutes to turn properly golden.
Ark stepped in beside her and rolled up his sleeves. “What can I do?”
Cassia handed him a bundle of radishes. “Thin slices, please. Like petals.”
He took them from her fingers without breaking eye contact. “Understood.”
The way he occupied the kitchen felt intentional—close, watchful, attuned to her every move.
He anticipated her without being asked, stepping back when she reached, shifting when she turned.
She stirred the soup with one hand, her other resting lightly against the counter for balance, acutely aware of how close his arm was, how her belly fluttered every time his shirtsleeve brushed hers.
The ladle stirred by itself now, freeing her hands. She reached for plates, and as she did, her fingers grazed his—light and accidental. Her pulse jumped and, for a moment, she forgot about the food entirely.
Anuck, who seemed to always have great timing for everything, leapt onto the counter with a demanding trill.
“Don’t even think about it,” Cassia warned, tapping the cold pink nose. The cat looked at her with cool disdain, then turned to Ark and meowed sharply.
“I believe that was a request for tribute,” Ark said solemnly, his gaze fixed on the cat.
“He’s not allowed on the counters, but he does it anyway.”
“You have to give him what he wants now.” Ark looked at her, deadpan. “Otherwise, he’ll blame it on me.”
She snorted. “He’s a cat. He’ll blame you regardless.”
Ark studied the cat, who was now washing a paw with theatrical indifference. “He’s already plotting something. I can tell.”
Cassia laughed. She bent and poured Anuck a small dish of cream, the cat lapping it up happily.
The soup bubbled enticingly on the stovetop.
She switched off the heat with a flick of her wrist and removed the tart from the oven in a cloud of sweet-savoury steam.
The scent curled through the kitchen like a familiar charm.
Ark set the table while she sliced the tart into neat wedges.
The salad came together quickly—oil, vinegar, and a pinch of salt—then she carried everything to the table.
The soup followed, velvety mushroom ladled into ceramic bowls she’d charmed to keep it warm.
When they finally sat, the table lit by candlelight and the shimmer of firelight from the living room, Cassia let herself exhale. It was a simple meal, but the domestic triviality felt deeply, dangerously intimate.
They ate in easy silence at first—the kind that didn’t press or stretch. The tart flaked at the edge of their forks, the goat cheese melted by just enough honeyed heat, the soup rich with savoury depth.
Cassia watched him from the corner of her eye. This wasn’t the first time he’d tasted her cooking, but something about tonight made her more aware of the way he ate—how he lingered between bites, how he didn’t rush the meal like it was a means to an end.
When she ladled another serving of soup into his bowl, he looked up and met her eyes. “Thank you,” he said.
She shrugged. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t collapse again.”
His mouth curved faintly. “If this is your version of preventative care, I hope I stay injured for weeks.”
Cassia fixed her eyes on her soup, but warmth bloomed in her chest anyway. They continued eating in comfortable silence for a while.
Ark looked up, his gaze finding hers. “I received a message earlier—at the skating rink. It’s about Starlight.”
Cassia went still.
“I had someone looking into the building this week,” he said.
“Rhodes? Caius?”
He shook his head. “My brother. Oromon. He studied architecture and moved to Valien. Restoring magical properties is his specialty. We use him often. He offered to look into Starlight’s records: ownership filings, deed history, permit applications. Anything that might give us a foothold.”
“Did he find something?”
“He found . . . an odd detail.” He paused, pursing his lips before he continued, “The building’s over a hundred years old.
It had a few minor repairs in the early decades—windows, plumbing.
But for the last fifty years? Nothing. No maintenance, no ward renewals, no structural work.
The place should be showing age, if not falling apart.
” He met her eyes. “But, as you know . . .”
“It’s in pristine condition,” Cassia finished.
Starlight’s building was modest, and she wouldn’t comment about its décor or furnishings. They did their best with dwindling donations, but they’d never had to deal with any issues, not even a leak during the heaviest rainy season.
“This morning, he sent one of his agents to do a scan on the outer walls. It’s wonderfully preserved. Structurally sound, magically intact, more stable than buildings half its age.”
Her gaze drifted to the photograph on the refrigerator. Her mother, younger than Cassia was now, held her as a baby on her hip—mischief and warmth in that familiar smile. “Fifty years since the last large-scale repair, you said?”
Ark looked at her. “Does that number mean anything?”