Chapter 10
The cabin sounded different at four in the morning when you hadn’t actually slept.
Marcus had given up around three. Now he lay on the couch, fully dressed, listening to the floorboards in the bedroom announce every restless turn Hazel made. Yesterday he’d kissed her. The wood remembered, apparently. So did he.
His fingers fumbled the buttons on his shirt, the same buttons he’d fastened for centuries without thought. The protective charm he’d given Hazel sat on the side table by the couch; she must have removed it before their walk yesterday. Before the hellhounds.
The kitchen felt smaller when she entered, though she stayed carefully by the doorway. Her hair was twisted up in its usual messy bun, copper strands escaping. She wore her old college sweatshirt and cartoon-cat pajama pants. Normal. Familiar. Except for the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Morning,” she said.
“Good morning.” He turned to the kettle, grateful for something to do with his hands. “Tea?”
“Please.”
They moved around each other like dancers who’d forgotten the steps, maintaining a buffer of space that hadn’t existed yesterday. When she reached for her mug at the exact moment he tried to hand it to her, they both froze, fingers not quite touching.
“Sorry,” they said in unison, then winced at the echo.
Azrael padded in, took one look at them, and rolled his eyes so dramatically his whole head moved. “Oh, for the love of…”
“Breakfast,” Marcus said quickly, turning to the stove. His hands were steady as he cracked eggs into the pan. Steady as he reached for the bread. Steady until…
The acrid smell of smoke filled the kitchen.
“Is that…?” Hazel stared at the toaster.
Marcus yanked out two pieces of charcoal that had once been wheat bread. Yesterday, he’d finally managed golden-brown perfection after days of failure. Now he was back to burning it, his concentration shattered by the memory of yesterday’s kiss.
“I’ll make more,” he said.
“It’s fine. I’m not really hungry anyway.” She clutched her tea mug like a lifeline. “About yesterday…”
“It was adrenaline.” The words came out too fast, too sharp. “The hellhounds, the danger. These things happen in high-stress situations.”
She blinked. “Right. Just adrenaline.”
Neither of them believed it.
“We should focus on the case,” Marcus said, scraping eggs onto plates with mechanical precision. “Twelve days until trial.”
“Absolutely.” She picked at the handle of her tea mug. “The case. That’s what matters.”
Azrael let out something between a snort and a hairball. “I’m going to go suffocate myself in my cat bed. Call me when you two stop being idiots.”
By afternoon, they’d established a careful geography of avoidance.
Marcus had retrieved his case files from his briefcase and spread them across the kitchen table, making notes in his precise handwriting.
Hazel had fetched her grimoire from the bedroom and claimed the armchair by the window, allegedly researching protection spells.
The only sounds were the scratch of his pen, the whisper of turning pages, and each other’s breathing.
Marcus tried to focus on witness testimony protocols.
Instead, he found himself tracking her movements in his peripheral vision.
The way she absently played with a loose curl.
How she bit her lower lip when concentrating.
The soft humming that started and stopped abruptly whenever she caught herself.
He forced his attention back to the legal pad. The same paragraph he’d read six times without absorbing a word.
She shifted in her chair, and he made the mistake of looking up at the exact moment she glanced his way. Their eyes met, held. Everything seemed to pause.
Then she dropped her grimoire.
They both moved at once. Their hands collided over the leather binding, and it was yesterday all over again: that electric spark, that magnetic pull. They jerked back like they’d touched hot iron.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said at the same time.
They stared at each other, kneeling on either side of the book like supplicants at an altar. Her face was flushed, lips parted. His hand tingled where they’d touched.
“This is ridiculous,” she breathed.
“Completely,” he agreed, not moving.
The moment passed. Hazel snatched the book and fled back to her chair. Marcus returned to the table, gripping his pen so hard the plastic creaked.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and the awkwardness vanished, replaced by concern.
“Mrs. Henderson?” Marcus asked, recognizing the change.
“Lily had a bad night.” Hazel was already moving toward her supplies. “The tonic’s wearing off faster than it should. The half-moon peak’s in four days, and she’s already feeling the pull.”
She pulled jars from her kit. Her hands moved with the same efficient grace he’d noticed in her shop. Moonbell extract, valerian, something that shimmered silver in the afternoon light. The awkwardness between them didn’t disappear, but it receded, pushed aside by something more urgent.
“Can you make more?” he asked.
“I can make a stronger batch. But I need to talk her through some calming techniques too: the tonic works better when she’s not fighting it.” Hazel glanced at her phone again. “Mrs. Henderson says she’s scared. Lily, I mean. She remembers what it was like before.”
Marcus watched her measure ingredients with precise care.
“Use my phone,” he said. “The cabin’s landline has better reception for video calls.”
She looked up, surprised. “You’d let me use your work phone?”
“It’s not—” He stopped. It was his work phone. Everything about this assignment was supposed to be work. “Lily needs to see your face when you talk her through it. The cell signal here is unreliable.”
Hazel held his gaze for a moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then she nodded and took the phone he offered.
He gave her privacy, stepping outside onto the porch. The autumn air was sharp, carrying the first real bite of approaching winter. Through the window, he could see Hazel talking, her hands moving as she demonstrated breathing techniques. Her face was soft, patient.
She made it look effortless, this caring for people. But Marcus had seen her supplies, knew how much each ingredient cost, knew she charged Mrs. Henderson a fraction of what the tonic was worth. Knew that half her clients paid in barter or gratitude or nothing at all.
He’d spent five centuries building a career on contracts and precedents.
She’d spent twenty years building something harder to measure: trust. Community.
A network of people who called her when their children couldn’t sleep, when their magic went sideways, when they needed someone who would answer the phone at any hour.
When she finally hung up, her shoulders had dropped a fraction. Not relaxed—she still held the phone two-handed, like a thing that might go off—but lighter than when the call had started.
“She’s okay,” Hazel said, handing back his phone. “Calmer, anyway. I’ll have the stronger tonic ready by tomorrow. Mrs. Henderson’s driving up to get it.”
“Driving up here? To the safe house?”
“She doesn’t know where we are. I’ll meet her at the gas station in town.” Hazel anticipated his objection. “With you. Obviously. I learned my lesson about solo supply runs.”
She glanced at her phone again. Mrs. Henderson had sent a follow-up: Which gas station, dear? The Sunoco or the Shell? And what time, so I’m not in your way if you have other errands in town.
It was a perfectly normal question. Grandmotherly, even. But something about the specificity nagged at Hazel for a moment. Since when did Mrs. Henderson care which gas station? She shook it off. The woman was seventy-three and driving an hour each way. Of course she wanted details.
The Sunoco. 2pm works, Hazel typed back.
Marcus nodded slowly. It was a risk, but a manageable one.
He returned to his case files while she finished the tonic preparation. The familiar documents, the evidence lists, the witness statements. He’d reviewed them dozens of times. But now, with fresh eyes, something nagged at him.
“Hazel.” His voice came out sharper than intended. “The night you witnessed the murder. You said Viktor was meeting with a fae informant.”
“That’s right.” She didn’t look up from her work.
“The prosecution’s filing lists the victim as ‘unknown fae, identity unconfirmed.’” Marcus frowned at the document. “But you knew him. You mentioned that in your initial statement.”
Hazel looked up. “Tobias Ashford. He ran an apothecary two towns over. We’d crossed paths at supplier markets for years. Viktor used his name in the clearing too.”
“That name doesn’t appear anywhere in the case file.” Marcus flipped through pages, dread creeping through him. “Someone removed it.”
“Removed it? Who would—”
“Someone with access to prosecution documents.” He looked up. “Someone inside the firm, or inside the court system.”
The implications hung between them. If the Blackwoods had compromised someone on the prosecution’s side, the trial was already tilted against them.
“What does this mean?”
“It means we need to be more careful than I thought.” Marcus closed the file. “And it means your testimony is even more important. You’re the only one who can put that name back on the record.”
She absorbed this, then returned to measuring moonbell extract with steady hands. “Then I guess we’d better make sure I get there.”
“Yes,” Marcus said. “We will.”
The afternoon light shifted, shadows lengthening across the cabin floor.
They worked in parallel: her on the tonic, him on re-examining every document for other discrepancies.
The silence between them was different now.
Less about avoiding each other and more about the weight of what they’d discovered.
They started dinner in careful silence, maintaining distance until Hazel needed the olive oil from the cabinet behind him.
“Excuse me,” Hazel said, reaching around him for the olive oil.
Marcus pressed back against the counter, but there wasn’t enough space. Her warmth ghosted along his side, and he forgot how to breathe.
“Sorry,” she murmured, stretching further.
“Let me…” He turned to help at the exact moment she shifted closer.
They collided, her back to his chest, his hands catching her waist to steady her. Every point of contact burned through their clothes.
“Hazel.”
She turned in the circle of his arms, olive oil forgotten. This close, he could see the way her pupils dilated, feel her quick breaths against his throat.
“We can’t…” she whispered.
“I know,” he agreed, not moving. Neither stepping back nor pulling her closer, caught in the space between wisdom and want.
Her hands came up to rest against his chest, whether to push him away or pull him closer, he couldn’t tell. Maybe she didn’t know either. Her fingers curled into his shirt, and he was leaning down, she was rising on her toes, and…
CRASH.
They sprang apart as water spread across the floor. Azrael sat on the counter, tail twitching, the glass he’d knocked over rolling toward the edge. He must have slipped back in while they were distracted.
“Oops,” the familiar said, sounding not remotely apologetic.
Marcus grabbed a dish towel, grateful for something to do that didn’t involve staring at Hazel’s mouth. She busied herself with the pasta, and they finished cooking in silence.
They ate without speaking, the clink of silverware unnaturally loud. Marcus twirled his spaghetti into perfect spirals, chewing mechanically. Across from him, Hazel pushed pasta around her plate, building and destroying small mountains of marinara.
“Less than two weeks,” she said suddenly.
He looked up, found her studying him. “Twelve days.”
She nodded, returning to her plate. “Right. Twelve days.”
He gripped his fork tighter. Stayed in his chair. Didn’t reach across the table to thread his fingers through hers. Didn’t ask what happened after twelve days, when the trial ended, and their reason for being together evaporated like morning mist.
“Marcus?” She set down her fork. “What happens after?”
He looked up, found her watching him. “After the trial?”
“After everything. When I testify and Viktor goes to prison. When there’s no legal reason for you to be here anymore.”
Neither of them moved.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”
“Me too.” She laughed, but it was shaky. “Not very successfully.”
The firelight caught the copper in her hair. Marcus was imagining Sunday mornings in this cabin, making breakfast without burning the toast. Well — making breakfast and only slightly burning the toast. He wasn’t delusional. The image was so specific it hurt.
“Willowbrook isn’t that far from Boston,” he said slowly. “Three hours, maybe. Less if I drove the way I did getting you out of the city.”
“You’d visit?”
“Visit. Consult on local supernatural cases. Find excuses to be here more than there.” He reached across the table, finally letting himself take her hand. “I’ve spent five hundred years building a career, Hazel. I never once wondered if there might be something more important.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m wondering.”
She turned her palm up, threading their fingers together. The purple-gold light of their combined magic flickered softly in the dim room.
“The shop is important to me,” she said. “My clients. This community, even when they don’t deserve my loyalty.”
“I know.”
“But maybe…” She bit her lip. “Maybe those things don’t have to be all I have. Maybe there’s room for something else. Someone else.”
Marcus brought their joined hands to his lips. “We could make it work. Long distance at first, then… we figure it out as we go.”
“Is that your professional legal opinion?”
“It’s my completely unprofessional personal hope.” He smiled. “I’m not good at this, Hazel. At feelings, at vulnerability. But I’m willing to learn. If you are.”
“I’m terrified,” she admitted.
“So am I.”
“Good.” She squeezed his hand. “Terror means we’re paying attention.”
They sat like that, hands clasped across the table, letting themselves believe.
Then Azrael jumped onto the table, scattering papers and shattering the moment.
“Subtle,” Hazel muttered, pulling her hand back.
“I aim to please.” The familiar settled between them, tail swishing. “Also, there’s something at the perimeter. Probably nothing, but someone should check.”
Marcus was on his feet instantly. “Stay here.”
“Like hell.”
“Hazel…”
But she was already reaching for her jacket, and he knew better than to argue.
The perimeter check revealed nothing: a false alarm, maybe a deer or a curious fox. When they returned to the cabin, neither of them reached for the other.
They cleaned up dinner. He dropped a fork. She handed him a clean one without looking up.