Chapter 9
Pippa
I slipped through the festival crowd, dodging a group of fae children who were chasing enchanted snowflakes that giggled when caught. My stomach growled loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon—which, considering Caelith was probably napping somewhere nearby, wasn't entirely impossible.
The Hearty Winter Fare booth came into view, and I nearly groaned with relief. Steam rose from massive cauldrons of stew, the scent of roasted vegetables and herbs making my mouth water. But as I got closer, relief died in my throat.
The poor vendor—a harried-looking woman with flour in her graying hair—was drowning.
A line of hungry Supes snaked past her booth and around the corner, and she was fumbling stew ladles with one hand while trying to make change with the other.
Bowls clattered. Coins scattered. Someone in line was tapping their foot with supernatural impatience.
That wasn't what made my chest clench, though.
The hearth flame.
I'd been hearing whispers all day—festival-goers commenting that the dragonfire didn't seem as strong as usual. The flame that was supposed to burn bright and steady until dawn after the Solstice. The flame that was my responsibility as Keeper.
The weight of it pressed down on me like stones. What if I was failing already? What if whatever was wrong with the Hearth was my fault? The entire festival, the hopes and wishes of everyone here—all of it depended on that flame burning true.
Breathe. Think. The Hearth was a problem I couldn't solve standing here, paralyzed by worry. But this—the overwhelmed vendor, the increasingly restless crowd—this was something I could fix. Something immediate and manageable.
One crisis at a time.
The Keeper job didn't stop at the Hearth, did it? Making sure the festival ran smoothly so everyone could focus on the magic of the season instead of empty stomachs and long waits.
I ducked under the wooden counter without asking permission.
"What can I—" the vendor started, blinking at me in surprise.
"Pippa here, Solstice Keeper," I said quickly, already reaching for a second ladle from the supply bin. "And you look like you could use some backup."
Relief flooded her face. "Bless you, dear. I'm Marta. This crowd is three times what I expected."
I was just getting a feel for the rhythm—ladle, pour, smile, next—when familiar fox-fire energy prickled along my skin. My magic recognized him before my eyes did, that electric warmth that always made my pulse stutter.
Jarek.
His sleeves were already rolled up, revealing those lean, strong forearms that had no business looking that good. His grin was already cocky, like he'd been summoned by scent or instinct and knew exactly how welcome he'd be.
"Thought you might need backup," he said, voice warm with amusement.
Our eyes met across the steaming cauldrons, and there it was—magic, attraction, memory all tangled together. The way his amber gaze heated when it found mine. The way my pulse kicked up like it had been waiting for this moment all day.
Too much. Too soon. Too complicated.
My hands went still on the ladle. For a heartbeat, I wanted to step closer instead of away. Wanted to let myself fall into whatever this was between us—the heat, the history, the way he looked at me like I was something precious he'd been waiting his whole life to find.
But that way led to disaster. I'd watched my mother break herself over and over for a man who couldn't stay, who chose his freedom over her heart every single time. I'd sworn I'd never be that vulnerable. Never let someone else's choices have that kind of power over me.
Nope. Not happening.
The decision I'd made last night came back sharp and clear—sitting in my room with spiked cider and restless thoughts that wouldn't let me sleep. Keep it simple. Keep it safe. Don't let anyone close enough to leave you shattered.
This is a fling. Holiday heat. No pressure, no expectations. No one's made any promises.
I could handle two flings. A dragon-hot Rider with a hero complex and a broody scholar with hands built for sin? Temporary indulgence. No one gets attached. No one gets hurt.
Simple. Clean. Safe.
I forced my grin wider and ladled a full portion of glowing potato-leek stew into a wooden bowl. "Let's serve some seasonal joy, shall we?"
Just like that, we were a team again. But I kept my heart carefully behind my ribs, where it belonged.
* * *
Behind the booth, we fell into sync faster than should have been possible. I ladled steaming stew into wooden bowls—each portion catching faintly gold where my magic touched it—while Jarek moved between guests, handing out crusty bread and wedges of cheese with easy charm.
"One hearty winter special," I announced to a gruff-looking dwarf, adding a theatrical flourish as I passed him his bowl. "Guaranteed to warm you from toes to beard."
He actually cracked a smile. Behind me, I heard Jarek chuckle.
The sound did something stupid to my pulse.
Between the steady rhythm of serving, we leaned in to whisper quick impressions of the customers. When a particularly fussy elf spent five minutes examining his bread roll like it held the secrets of the universe, I muttered "stew snob" under my breath.
"Five gold says you make even him smile," Jarek murmured, close enough that his breath tickled my ear.
"You're on."
I caught the elf's eye and winked. "That roll was personally blessed by a harvest sprite," I told him solemnly. "Very exclusive."
The elf's stern expression cracked, and he actually laughed. Jarek slipped me a look that was pure appreciation, and something warm unfurled in my chest that had nothing to do with the cooking fires.
The space behind the counter was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two.
Our shoulders brushed as we passed each other.
The first time it was accidental—just physics.
The second time, it wasn't. Neither of us said anything, but I felt the deliberate press of his shoulder against mine, brief and warm.
When I fumbled the ladle and nearly dropped it into the stew pot, Jarek was there —steadying my hand with his, fingers warm against my knuckles. He didn't tease. Didn't even comment. Just quiet support.
And that's when I really looked at him.
The way he moved through the chaos like he had all the time in the world.
How he could balance a stack of bowls on one forearm while helping a fussing toddler pick out the perfect roll with the other, crouching down to her level and speaking in low, patient tones until she giggled and pointed to the one she wanted.
He was good at this—at people, at being steady where I was scattered. At making space for others without losing himself in the process.
My chest did something inconvenient.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. Fling. Remember?
"Looks like sunlight in a bowl," Jarek said, nodding at the way my magic made the stew glow golden.
"You're such a sap," I shot back, but the warmth in my chest lingered anyway.
Our banter shifted. Gentler. Between jokes and easy insults, there was a rhythm forming—something deeper than play. Like we were learning each other's steps instead of just remembering them.
When a young couple approached, clearly on a date and nervous about it, Jarek caught my eye and tilted his head toward them with the barest hint of a smile.
Without a word, we both turned up the charm—I added extra sparkle to their stew while he slipped them an extra roll and wished them luck.
That moment of perfect understanding sent a flutter through my ribs that I absolutely did not want to examine.
Partnership, my traitorous brain whispered. This feels like partnership.
They left beaming, and I caught Jarek watching me with something that looked almost like pride.
My stomach did a little flip.
When Marta finally called out that the rush was over and thanked us both profusely, I was reluctant to step away from it all. From him. It wasn't just fun. It felt like we fit.
Nope. Not going there.
"You two are naturals," Marta beamed, pressing warm rolls into our hands. "Take these, and go enjoy the festival. You've more than earned a break."
* * *
Once the line died down and Marta had shooed us away with grateful smiles and promises of free stew whenever we wanted it, Jarek tapped my shoulder.
"I know a spot," he said, amber eyes glinting with something that made my pulse skip. "Somewhere quiet."
I followed, curiosity piqued and heart racing just a little faster than I'd admit.
The festival sounds grew muted as he led me through a narrow passage behind the old stables—laughter and music fading to a distant hum.
My boots crunched softly on snow-dusted gravel, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet.
He guided me down a side trail barely visible behind snow-dusted hedges. The outside world went hushed. Distant.
We emerged into a small, secluded stone alcove half-sheltered by evergreens.
Warmth hit my face immediately—a subtle enchantment lingered here, maybe a trace of heat magic that made the air feel like stepping into a gentle embrace.
Snow had been cleared from the stone bench, and everything felt hushed and private.
"How do you know about this place?" I asked, settling on the bench and raising an eyebrow at him. "Secret fox hideout?"
Jarek shrugged, all casual—except his eyes were molten amber in the soft light filtering through the evergreen branches. "Found it during my training as a Dragon Rider. Sometimes I needed a place to be alone."
The words hit me square in the chest. I suddenly saw him not just as the clever fox-shifter I used to chase through the village—but as the man forged by fire, stone, and silence.
Someone who had pushed himself to the breaking point and beyond, who had earned his bond with Caelith through trials I couldn't imagine.
The quiet pain beneath those words. The admission that he'd needed solitude just to survive whatever the Riders had put him through.
There were parts of his life I'd never seen. Depths he was only now letting me glimpse.
And I liked it. Not just the strength, or the quiet command that sat so easily on his shoulders now—but the way he still made room for me inside it. The way he shared his secret places like it was nothing. Like I belonged here.
I leaned back against the bench with a dramatic groan. "I may never walk again. Who knew serving stew was such a workout?"
The air shifted. Jarek's grin softened, and he moved to kneel in front of me with steady grace. "Let me help with that."
My breath caught as his hands went to my boots, fingers working the laces with slow, reverent care. This wasn't the quick, playful Jarek I remembered. This was deliberate. Focused. Like he was savoring every moment.
"You don't have to—" I started, but the words died as his thumbs found the arch of my foot through my stocking, pressing just right.
Heat shot up my leg. Oh.
"Better?" he asked, voice low and rough around the edges.
I managed a nod, not trusting my voice.
His thumbs pressed deeper, working slow circles that sent sparks shooting up my legs. I bit back a sound that would've been embarrassing—half gasp, half whimper—and gripped the stone bench harder.
"Jarek," I managed, but it came out breathier than intended.
"Mm?" He didn't look up. Those clever fingers found every knot of tension, every place that made my breath hitch.
When his hands trailed higher—fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just above my ankle, then sliding beneath the hem of my skirt—the massage pretense shattered completely.
This wasn't about my tired feet anymore.
I opened my mouth to crack some joke about personal space or fox-shifter massage techniques, but the words died in my throat. Because Jarek finally looked up, and the expression on his face stole every clever quip I'd ever possessed.
Gone was the easy grin, the playful teasing. What remained was raw hunger—focused, patient, devastating. Firelight caught in his amber-gold eyes, turning them molten, and the copper strands of his hair gleamed like burnished metal in the soft glow.
This wasn't the boy who used to chase me through autumn leaves, daring me to climb higher trees or sneak into forbidden groves.
This was a man. A Dragon Rider who'd survived trials that would break most people.
Someone who'd thought about this moment—about me—for longer than I wanted to acknowledge.
His hands stilled on my calves, thumbs resting just behind my knees. Waiting. Watching.
"You're staring," I whispered, proud that my voice stayed mostly steady.
"I've been waiting three years to stare." His voice had dropped to something low and rough that made heat pool in my stomach. "I'm not rushing this."
The admission hit me like lightning. Three years. While I'd been telling myself he was just the fox-shifter from home, just childhood familiarity wrapped in new muscles and confidence—he'd been thinking about me. Planning this.
My pulse hammered against my throat as his thumbs traced small, maddening circles against my skin. He didn't move higher, didn't push for more. Just watched me unravel with the patience of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
And I was unraveling. Every careful wall I'd built, every reminder that this was supposed to be simple and temporary—crumbling under the weight of his complete attention.
"This is dangerous," I breathed.
His smile was pure fox—sly, knowing, irresistible.
"Good."