Belladonna Grey never planned to tie herself down. Not to a single person, place, or thing, and here she was, anchored to a narrow strip of Maine coastline where the tide dictated traffic and everyone knew which car belonged to which house. Worse, she’d settled down willingly. Or so she preferred to tell herself because once the magickal barrier had closed behind her, Laurel Haven had become a benevolent cage.
But she’d walked through that cage door on purpose in the hope that it held one thing she’d never had before: family. And since she’d found her grandmother, a cousin, and three women who were becoming sisters to her in the way found family does, she felt the tiniest tendrils of roots beginning to form.
Just the idea of that should have scared the shit out of her. It certainly should have put the itch in her feet to get back on the road, and yet, here she was, sitting in a shop full of curios and oddites that she owned, and she didn’t hate it.
The only cloud over her sun—other the evil plague that wanted to hunt her down and kill her—was the man whose feet currently stomped around the apartment over her shop.
The thought threaded through her mind as the scent of freshly brewed coffee tangled with the sharper bite of scorched feathers to wrinkle her nose. The vintage 1920s purse sat open on her worktable, its silk body a muted peacock blue, the feathered fringe tangled where the protective ward had flared when she touched the clasp earlier. The strength of the electric shock that radiated up from her fingers told her the spell wouldn’t dissipate easily.
There was weight to the purse. Not much, but enough to suggest a held something. A letter, perhaps. Or jewelry. Or something far more inconvenient. Something worth protecting.
Good spell, though. Really good.
Still, if she wanted to take advantage of its very nice resale value, and she did, not to mention get a look at what was inside, she’d have break the protection. And trim the damaged feathers, of course. But figuring out what kind of magick—could be blood, could be ritual, could be elemental, or some combination she’d yet to hit upon—would keep her from suffering through another surprise. The first step, and one she had been cocky to try and skip, would be a thorough cleaning of the clasp. The non-magickal kind that would let her get a better look at any sigils worked into the metal clasp.
“I won’t try anything funny,” she said to the purse, and meant it, because, when came to witchery, intention was everything and if she could prove hers was benevolent, her fingers might not suffer during the cleaning process.
She had her laptop open beside her, screen casting pale light across the table as she skimmed through an article on non-chemical rust removal safe for silk. Vinegar would work, but be harder to control and might stain the silk if she spilled. Baking soda paste might suffice if she was careful. The least messy option would be a gentle scrubbing with a balled up piece of aluminum foil.
Tensing against the possibility of another tingle, she’d just settled in to begin the process when footsteps sounded on the narrow staircase at the back of the shop.
Bella felt the irritation settle into place before she even turned her head. She tracked his descent by sound alone—the slight creak at the third step, the pause halfway down, the shift of weight as he cleared the final riser.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, voice clean and sharp as a blade laid flat on wood.
Gabriel Locke didn’t alter course. He moved straight toward the small coffee station she’d set up near the front window, sunlight just beginning to filter through the glass and catch in his dark hair.
“The coffee is for paying customers,” Bella growled, noting the mug he’d brought down with him.
“I’m paying rent. In my book, that makes me a customer.”
“In your book, breathing probably qualifies you for loyalty points.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and poured dark roast. The sound of the metal carafe against ceramic hit louder than necessary. He hadn’t shaved. The dark shadow along his jaw accentuated the angles of his face, made him look less like the man who graced stages where he dazzled audiences with both magic and magick, and more like someone who’d slept poorly, which he probably had.
Bella’s first mistake was looking up. The second was not looking away quickly enough.
Bare feet on worn hardwood. Jeans slung low on his hips, unbuttoned, as though fastening them had required more energy than he’d been willing to spend. His torso was bare, skin still marked faintly from the press of rumpled sheets. He was built lean rather than broad, muscle defined by work rather than vanity. She had not expected that the first night he’d carried his meager pack of belongings up the shop stairs. She had not expected a lot of things about him.
She absolutely would not wonder what, if anything, he had on under those jeans. Or how it might feel to slide her hand under his waistband and find out.
Much.
“You’ll burn your mouth if you suck it down like water,” she said instead, because control returned fastest through logistics. “It’s fresh.”
“I’ll survive.” He took a cautious sip anyway, eyes lifting over the rim of the mug to meet hers. There was amusement there. And something assessing beneath it that set her back teeth on edge. He didn’t flinch from her irritation. He never did.
The shop felt smaller with him in it. Not physically. Structurally. As though the air recalibrated around his presence. Objects along the shelves—mirrors, a brass compass, a chipped porcelain figurine—held steady. Nothing stirred. Or sent a ripple along the magicks threaded subtly through the building’s bones. He belonged inside the barrier, which recognized the blood in him. Even if she didn’t entirely know how she felt about that.
“You’re staring,” he said mildly.
“I’m evaluating whether you intend to put on a shirt before customers arrive. Or better yet, not be here when they do.”
“It’s seven-thirty.”
“And?”
“And you’re not even open for business yet.”
“Looks like you are,” Bella nodded toward his pants.
Gabe glanced down, then back up at her, a wicked glint lighting his eyes, but he said nothing, not even when he noted the faint pink color that washed her cheeks. Tilting his head, he offered eye contact while deliberately buttoning his pants.
“Better?”
“Whatever.” Bella returned her attention to the purse, scrubbing at the clasp with deliberate pressure. “I’ve got work.”
He moved closer, rounding the table to stand behind and look over her shoulder. Not touching. Not crowding. Just standing close enough that she felt the shift in temperature along her arm. “You’re doing it wrong. Hand it over.”
Bella’s jaw tightened. She set the foil ball aside and examined the clasp more closely. All the rubbing hadn’t removed so much as the first layer of rust.
“You think you can do better?” Her chin went up and then rose more when he rolled his eyes at her.
“Metal’s my element. I think I know how to clean it.”
“Fine.” Without telling him about the protection spell, Bella handed the purse over, and didn’t bother to stifle a snort when his fingers brushed the clasp and he yanked them back.
“You could have warned me,” he said, his tone mild as he gave her a steady look.
“You could have made your own coffee.”
“But yours is so much better.”
Leaving her to consider whether the shiver running across her skin had to do with his tone or her intense dislike for him, he took the purse and headed upstairs.
Ten minutes later, he was back. Tossing the purse on the table in front of her, he refilled his coffee cup. “You can consider this payment for services rendered,” he said, adding a dollop of cream.
The newly cleaned clasp gleamed.
“You work cheap,” she said as she pulled out a magnifying glass and got a closer look at the whorls carved alongside the delicate filigree. Someone had cared enough about the contents to secure them well.
“Not usually.” He’d filled both clubs and arenas, and while the money hadn’t been the main reason, it didn’t suck.
Wending his way from state to state, club to club, and making a name for himself fed something in Gabe he hadn’t known was so damn hungry until he’d been doing it for several years. And by then, he didn’t care. He’d lit out before the ink was dry on his high school diploma, and had only slowed down for those few years after he’d met Lena and they’d had Calla. But what they’d made together hadn’t lasted, and he realized now, he should have known it wouldn’t. Not with the restless need to put distance between himself and anything or anyone that mattered because it wasn’t safe to be around him.
A fact, he reminded himself, he needed to remember now. Except it was hard to remember anything when green-eyed Bella looked at him like something she’d scraped off her shoe. Why that look of disdain got to him was another one of life’s twisted mysteries. So instead of leaving her in peace, he leaned back against the counter, folded one ankle over the other. Casual. Too casual.
“You’ve been here since five.”
She did not look at him this time. “Did I wake you? Sorry. Not sorry.”
“I heard you moving around.”
The awareness unsettled her more than the proximity had. Bella preferred to be the one who observed. Who mapped exits. Who understood patterns before anyone else noticed them forming. Being tracked in return irritated her.
“I had work,” she said flatly.
“I noticed.”
Silence settled between them. Charged but empty.
Gabe’s gaze shifted toward the purse. “It won’t bite you again. I took care of that for you.”
“I don’t recall asking for your help. Did you open it?”
“No. I figured you’d want the honor, but I am curious to see what was valuable enough to warrant the spell. Mind if I stick around? You’ll want to be ready in case there’s another layer of protection.”
Without waiting for an answer, curiosity drove him to move close enough to inhale the scent of her hair as he looked over her shoulder again. Something herbal with a citrus tang over warm tones of honey. Potent enough to make him wonder if she’d taste as good as she smelled.
Bella couldn’t think of a reason to say no that wouldn’t give him the upper hand, so returned to the clasp, testing the metal gently. The residual sting had faded. Good. And he still hadn’t put on a shirt. She was trying not to notice. “Bold of you to stand in my shop half-dressed and assume commentary is welcome.”
His expression altered almost imperceptibly at that. The humor remained, but something steadier moved beneath it. “You’re the one commenting.”
Heat crept up the back of her neck, infuriating and entirely uninvited. She reached for a small tool and began easing the edge of the clasp open with careful precision.
“You’re blocking the light,” she said.
He straightened and stepped aside, though not far. “Better?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. She could feel his attention on her hands. On the deliberate way she worked. Bella ignored it. She had dismantled more complicated bindings than this. Emotional and otherwise.
The clasp gave with a soft click.
The air shifted as the bag opened, the hinge squeaking in protest. Bella held the purse steady and waited until she was certain she hadn’t triggered another spell. After a moment, she slid her fingers inside and pulled out a sheet of folded paper.
Gabe straightened slightly. “Not what I was expecting.”
Bella withdrew the letter and unfolded it carefully. Under the tang of mildew, the paper bore a faint scent of lavender. The ink had bled at the edges, suggesting age and humidity.
“Me, either,” she said, her tone shifting as she noted the fragile flutter when a pressed violet slipped from between the folds and fell to the table. “I feel like a voyeur.”
Because the words of love and heartbreaking loss written in precise measure across the page had obviously come from the heart of whoever had penned them.
“Do you think it’s odd that magicked items can cross the barrier?” Gabe asked a question Bella hadn’t considered before. One that showed his complete lack of understanding when it came to the finer emotions displayed in faded ink before him.
“I think it’s odd that you’re still here. Beat it, Locke. And put a shirt on before you come down again,” she told him. “I’m running a bona fide business here, not a strip show.”
His left eyebrow cocked wickedly as he considered her for a long moment. “Could help drum up more business.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m going to Rue’s. Be gone when I get back.”
If the image of those long fingers brushing against taut skin when he tucked his pants button into place plagued Bella’s walk to the bookstore, she told herself it was his arrogance that wouldn’t stop playing through her mind. Nothing else.
