Chapter 11
Callen
The festival grounds stretched quiet under fresh snowfall in the deep hours of night. Everyone had long since retreated to their beds, leaving the grounds utterly deserted. I kept walking anyway, boots crunching through the pristine drifts, hands shoved deep in my pockets.
I'd told myself I was after clarity. A clear head, a clear path forward through the mess of ritual fragments that had been taunting me for weeks.
But I wasn't pacing through the Library's familiar corridors where thinking came easy.
I was here, circling the outer festival paths for the third time in these empty, silent hours, always drifting the same direction.
Always ending up in the same quadrant of the abandoned grounds.
The truth? I wasn't walking to think. I was walking to find her. Again.
I'd been telling myself it was coincidence—that I just happened to end up near wherever Pippa was working. That the way my skin tightened when she was close, the way my ward-sense hummed when she was near, was just proximity. Magical resonance. Nothing more.
But my magic knew better. It sparked low in my chest every time she was near, a visceral response that had nothing to do with academic curiosity and everything to do with want. Heat blooming just beneath the surface, threatening the careful control I'd spent years perfecting.
She was chaos and color, whimsy and wildfire. Everything I'd trained myself to resist—because I knew, with the certainty of a man who'd built his life on discipline, that once I touched that flame, I wouldn't be able to stop.
And yet here you are, the voice in my head whispered. Walking circles like a lovesick fool.
I rounded the corner near the massive evergreen and stopped short.
There she was.
Pippa stood with her bare hands raised toward the tree's upper branches, fingers weaving through the air as golden magic flickered around an ornament that had come loose. The spell-light caught in her red curls, turned her skin luminous in the firelight from the nearby braziers.
She was humming. Old words, older melody—the kind of fae tune that predated ink and paper, that lived in blood and bone instead of books. Her voice was soft, almost reverent, and something about the ancient cadence made my chest tighten.
The sound stopped me in my tracks. This wasn't the playful pixie who delighted in pushing my buttons. This was something deeper, truer. Magic flowing through her like breath, like she was born to it.
Her curls had escaped whatever attempt she'd made at control, wild spirals framing her face.
Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, lips parted as she sang under her breath.
She didn't see me right away, lost in her work, and that unguardedness—the way she moved through magic like it was an extension of her soul—made something primal and hungry unfurl in my chest.
She looked like she belonged here. Like the magic bent to her will not through force or rigid training, but because it wanted to. Because she asked nicely and meant it.
My jaw clenched. My hands flexed at my sides, fighting the urge to reach out, to touch, to claim.
She captivated me—not just her beauty, though gods knew that was enough to drive any man wild—but the way she moved through the world.
Untamed. Unapologetic. Her presence made everything else fade away.
Something primitive stirred in my chest. An ache laced with heat and hunger. My magic leaned toward her without permission, drawn to her instinctively, and for one dangerous moment I understood exactly what I was fighting against.
Mine, whispered that dark voice I tried so hard to ignore.
She turned then, catching me watching, and didn't miss a beat. That knowing smirk curved her mouth—like she'd been expecting me all along.
"You always show up right when the work is almost done," she said, brushing a curl from her face with frost-pink fingers. "Convenient, how you manage that."
I straightened slightly, keeping my expression neutral even as heat crawled up my spine. "Timing is a skill." My voice came out cooler than I felt, but not as controlled as I wanted. Too aware of the way she was looking at me.
"Or a kink," she replied lightly, casting me a wink over her shoulder. "Do you only come out at the end of things, or just when there's moonlight and plausible deniability?"
I lifted a brow, tone bone-dry. "You're imagining a lot for someone elbow-deep in ribbon."
She laughed, warm and low, the sound vibrating through me. "What can I say? I multitask."
Then, eyes sparkling with mischief, she added, "Unless you're here to supervise. In that case, I should probably bend over more..."
My breath stuttered—and her grin widened like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
She wasn't trying to seduce me. Not exactly. But she was playing with the heat between us, keeping it dancing on her terms, testing the boundaries of my control with surgical precision.
And that's what unsettled me most. She didn't fear my silence or my reputation for being cold and unapproachable. She played in the space between us like it was her personal playground.
The rhythm of it—tease and retreat, spark and silence—felt familiar. Addictive. Too easy to fall into, like muscle memory for something I'd never learned.
I wanted to say something clever, something biting that would buy me distance and remind us both why this was a terrible idea. But the words tangled in my throat, caught between want and wisdom.
Instead, I nodded toward the branch she was adjusting. "That one's crooked."
She didn't stop moving, magic still flowing around her fingers. "So fix it."
I could have. My own magic hummed beneath my skin, ready to straighten the branch with a thought. But I found myself enjoying this—the verbal sparring, the way she challenged me without backing down.
"You're the one with the magic."
"And you're the one who likes control," she countered, glancing at me over her shoulder. "What's the matter, Professor? Afraid of touching something that might move?"
The way she said it—flippant on the surface but loaded with deeper meaning underneath—made heat crawl up my spine.
She stepped closer to the tree, arm raised to guide the ornament into place, her cloak slipping slightly to reveal the bare curve of her shoulder. The firelight from the braziers gilded her skin, turned the simple movement into something that looked almost ritualistic.
My breath caught. I looked away, then immediately looked back, drawn despite myself.
"Maybe you only know how to want things you can't have," she said, voice lower now. Not taunting anymore. Just... true.
She didn't look at me when she said it. Didn't need to.
The words hit like a blade between my ribs, precise and devastating. My chest seized, breath stopping entirely as the truth of it carved through every defense I'd built. She wasn't trying to hurt me—she was naming what I'd spent years refusing to acknowledge, even to myself.
The careful distance I maintained. The walls I'd built between myself and anything that might threaten my control. The way I studied desire from afar like it was another academic subject, safe behind glass and theory.
My hands shook. Actually shook, as something fundamental cracked open inside me.
The ornament settled into place with a soft chime, her magic fading to golden sparks that danced across her fingertips before winking out. She lowered her arms, turned to face me fully, and something in her expression shifted. Less playful now. More intent.
"Callen," she said, and my name in her voice ignited something in me.
I moved.
I didn't think. Didn't weigh consequences or calculate risk or run through the dozen reasons why this was the worst possible idea.
Two strides and I was in front of her, reaching up, fingers curling along the line of her jaw.
Her skin was ice-cold from the winter air, but fire rolled through my veins at the contact.
Her eyes widened—green and gold and defiant even now—and I didn't ask permission.
I kissed her because there was no other choice left. Because I was tired of pretending I didn't want her like this, tired of walking circles around the truth. Because she'd named my hunger and I was done denying it.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't patient or careful or any of the things I'd imagined it might be during the long nights when I'd allowed myself to think about this. It was need, barely tethered, years of control finally snapping under the weight of want.
Her mouth opened beneath mine, and my magic surged—pressure building behind my ribs, light streaking behind my closed eyes like lightning.
The taste of her was winter and honey, sharp and sweet, and when she made a small sound against my lips, something primitive and possessive roared to life in my chest, claiming her with a fierce certainty that felt like coming home and losing myself all at once.
Mine, it said, clearer now, as magic and need and desperate hunger crashed together.