Chapter 6
Pippa
"Best Solstice in a decade, Keeper! You've got half of Drakehaven eating out of my oven!"
I brushed snow from my sleeve, laughing as the cheerful baker waved his wooden spoon like a conductor's baton.
Perfect festival energy buzzed around us—laughter bubbling from clusters of visitors, enchanted sugar glittering like tiny stars, pastries and spiced cider and pine boughs all mixing together in the crisp air.
Music drifted from the main stage where fae musicians wove melodies that made the air itself dance.
"Flattery and pastries—keep that up, and I'll make sure you get a prime booth every year," I called back, that fizzy pride blooming bright in my chest. This is actually working. Day two was running even smoother than the first. Crowds thicker than I'd dared hope.
"Haven't seen crowds this thick in years," the baker continued, eyes twinkling as he handed a sugar-dusted pastry to a young dragon shifter. "Whatever you're doing different, Keeper, it's working."
Maybe I was actually doing this right.
That's when I spotted him. Dark figure cutting through the crowd like he had somewhere important to be and everyone else was just in his way.
Too serious for a festival, definitely too buttoned-up for the cheerful chaos around him.
But damn if he didn't look good doing it—all sharp angles and contained energy, like a storm barely held in check.
My grin faltered. "Uh-oh," I murmured.
Callen. Of course it was Callen, looking like he'd stepped out of some stern academic painting and wandered into our winter wonderland by mistake.
His dark hair was already slightly tousled despite the early hour—probably from running his hands through it while brooding over whatever research had him prowling around the festival grounds.
Winter light caught the strong line of his jaw. What's Mr. Control doing out here in the sunshine?
I waved the baker off and headed toward Callen, curiosity sparking through me. He was scanning the crowd with those steel-gray eyes, clearly looking for someone. When his gaze landed on me, something shifted in his expression. Relief? Determination?
"Well, well," I called out, unable to resist poking at his composure. "Look what the winter wind blew in. Don't tell me you're actually here to enjoy the festival."
He straightened. Which was impressive considering he'd already been standing perfectly upright. "Pippa. I was looking for you."
Oh. Unexpected flutter in my stomach. "Were you now? How delightfully mysterious." I tilted my head, studying his face. "Let me guess—someone complained about the noise level? Too much joy for your scholarly sensibilities?"
"I need access to the restricted ritual records in the Library," he said, completely ignoring my teasing. "For my Solstice research."
"You came all the way out here, into the middle of a festival, for dusty scrolls?" I stepped closer, enjoying the way his shoulders tensed. "You know what? I might be able to help you. The Library likes me well enough to bend a few rules."
"And what would you want in return?" Carefully neutral, but something underneath. Wariness. Maybe anticipation.
I grinned. The kind that had gotten me into trouble my entire life. "A field trip."
"A what?"
"Experiential research for Solstice rituals," I said, gesturing toward the far end of the courtyard where the enchanted skating rink sparkled in the morning sun. "I bet you've never actually participated in any of the traditions you're so desperate to study."
His gaze followed mine to the rink, where couples and families glided across the ice, laughter bright as silver bells. "Ice skating is hardly a ritual."
"Says the man who's never tried it." I crossed my arms, studying his face. "I bet you won't even set foot on the ice."
That got a reaction. His eyes snapped back to mine, and for just a moment, I saw a flicker of something. Offense. Challenge.
"That's ridiculous."
"Prove it." I shrugged, trying to look casual even as my heart picked up speed. "One turn around the rink. Just you, the ice, and whatever happens. If you can manage that without chickening out, I'll get you access to whatever moldy scrolls your heart desires."
Quiet for a long moment. I could practically see the internal debate playing out behind those sharp gray eyes. Duty versus pride, probably. Or maybe just the war between wanting to maintain his dignity and wanting those research materials.
"Fine," he said finally, the word clipped and precise. "But when I fulfill this ridiculous bargain, you help me with my research. No more games."
Oh, this is going to be fun.
"Deal," I said, extending my hand. He stared at my offered palm for a heartbeat too long, and I felt something flutter in my chest—anticipation, maybe, or the electric sense that this simple touch might change everything.
When he took it, his palm was warm and slightly rough, sending an unexpected zing up my arm.
"Come on, Professor. Let's see what you're made of. "
The skating rink was one of my favorite additions to this year's festival. Ice perfectly smooth and gleaming, surrounded by evergreen garlands that sparkled with tiny lights. Couples spun together while children wobbled and laughed, their joy infectious.
After a quick stop at the skate rental booth—where the teenage attendant barely contained his amusement at Callen's grim expression—we found a bench at the rink's edge.
I laced up my skates with practiced ease, my wings giving a little flutter of anticipation. Skating was one of those perfect combinations of grace and barely controlled chaos that spoke to every pixie instinct I had.
Beside me, Callen was taking considerably longer, his movements precise but clearly unfamiliar. When he finally stood, he looked down at the blades like he was contemplating his own doom.
"Having second thoughts?" I asked sweetly.
"No." But he gripped the rink's edge like it was the only thing standing between him and certain death.
I glided onto the ice with a little spin, letting my wings catch the light. Pure joy—the smooth glide, the crisp air against my face, the way the world seemed to slow and speed up all at once.
"Show off," Callen muttered, but there was something in his voice that made me look back.
He was watching me move with an intensity that had nothing to do with academic interest. Those steel-gray eyes tracked every curve and spin, and when I caught him looking, he didn't immediately glance away.
Interesting.
"Your turn," I called, skating backward to face him. "The ice won't bite."
He stepped onto the rink like he was approaching a dangerous spell, every muscle tense with concentration. His first attempt at forward motion was... well, calling it graceful would be generous. He moved like he was trying to solve a complex mathematical equation with his feet.
I couldn't help it—I laughed. Not meanly, but bright and delighted. "You're thinking too hard! It's not a ward you're casting, it's just ice."
"Just ice," he repeated grimly, taking another careful step. "Right."
I skated closer, enjoying the way his jaw tightened with determination. There was something endearing about seeing him so thoroughly out of his element, all that commanding presence reduced to wobbling on thin blades.
"Here," I said, extending my hands. "Trust me."
He looked at my offered hands like they might be enchanted. "I don't need—"
"Callen." I met his eyes, letting my voice go soft. "Trust me."
After a moment, he took my hands. Larger than mine, warm and steady despite his obvious discomfort. The contact sent another one of those unexpected sparks through me, and from the way his breath caught, I wasn't the only one feeling it.
"Now," I said, skating backward and drawing him with me. "Stop trying to control everything. Just... let the ice carry you."
For several minutes, it actually worked.
He relaxed fractionally, his movements becoming less rigid as we glided around the rink in slow, careful circles.
I guided us past other skaters, keeping our pace gentle and steady.
The tension gradually left his shoulders, and I watched something that might have been wonder replace the grimness in his expression.
"This isn't so terrible," he admitted, his voice carrying a note of surprise.
"See?" I said, grinning as we completed another smooth turn. "You're getting the hang of it."
That's when he decided to try going faster.
"I think I can—" he started, pushing off with more force than he'd been using.
I saw the exact moment everything went wrong. His confidence outpaced his skill, his skates tangled, and suddenly we were both going down in a graceless tumble.
But somehow, even falling, Callen managed to catch me. His arms came around me as we hit the ice, his body cushioning mine from the worst of the impact. We landed in a tangle—my hands pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist, our faces inches apart.
His magic flared involuntarily, a warm pulse of power that sparked where our bodies touched. The sensation raced through me like lightning, making my breath catch and my wings flutter against the ice.
Time held suspended. My laughter died in my throat as I became acutely aware of everything—the warmth of his body beneath mine, the way his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, the intensity in those gray eyes as they searched my face.
Oh.
This close, I could see the flecks of silver in his irises, could smell the cedar and winter air scent that clung to his skin. His hands were still on my waist, and I could feel the barely leashed power in them, the way his magic hummed just beneath the surface.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice rougher than usual.
I shook my head, not trusting my voice. The cold from the ice should have been seeping through my clothes, but all I could feel was heat—his heat, the magic still crackling between us, the sudden awareness that we were lying tangled together in the middle of a public skating rink.
I found myself studying the way his dark hair had fallen across his forehead, the way his lips were slightly parted as he looked at me. There was something in his expression I'd never seen before—something raw and unguarded that made my heart do complicated things in my chest.
Mine? The thought came from nowhere, swift and startling. ...maybe mine.
The moment stretched between us, taut as a bowstring. His thumb moved against my waist—just a small motion, probably unconscious, but it sent another spark racing through me. I could feel the question hanging in the air between us, unspoken but electric.
"I..." I started, then stopped. What was I supposed to say? Sorry for falling on you, but also, could you maybe keep holding me like this for the next hour or so?
The silence grew heavy, charged with possibility, until reality crashed back in the form of a child's delighted squeal nearby.
I cleared my throat and pushed myself up on my elbows, trying to ignore the way his hands lingered for just a moment before releasing me. "Well," I said, aiming for my usual bright tone and almost hitting it. "I think that counts as staying upright. Technically."
He sat up slowly, snowflakes caught in his dark hair. "Technically?"
"You kept your end of the deal, Professor." I scrambled to my feet, offering him a hand up. When he took it, that spark was still there, warm and electric.
We shed our skates in companionable silence, but I could feel the change between us, subtle as a shift in the wind. Something had awakened on that ice, something that hummed in the space between us.
This, I thought, stealing a glance at his profile, is either going to be very good or very dangerous.
Knowing me, it would probably be both.