Page 74 of Impawssible Magic

His mouth twitches. “I save the skulls for special occasions.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

I wander while he works, touching spines of books, examining the small details that reveal who he is when no one’s watching. A carving on the mantle that looks handmade—a tiger, crude but careful. Photographs in simple frames, faces I don’t recognize but assume are pride members. A throw pillow embroidered with what appears to be a very confused-looking fish.

“Did you make this?” I hold up the pillow.

“Torin gave it to me. As a joke.”

“It’s a fish.”

“It is supposed to be a tiger. I know that. He knows that. Nobody else in Mistvale knows that, which is the problem.” He takes the pillow, stares at it like it personally wronged him. “He was very proud of it. I didn’t have the heart to tell him.”

Mental note: Blackmail material. Zeph is going to love this.

The fire catches, warmth blooming through the cabin. I watch the flames dance, feel the heat seep into bones that have been cold since the Preservers grabbed me. The battle feels distant now—hours ago? Days? Time has gone strange since Aslan carried me out of the mist and into whatever this is.

He straightens from the hearth. Turns to face me.

The firelight catches the sharp angles of his face, the amber of his eyes, the white streak at his temple—the one an accident left behind. He’s still wearing battle debris—blood on his clothes, scratches across his knuckles, exhaustion in the set of his shoulders.

But he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

“You should shower.” His voice is rough. Controlled. “Get the blood off.”

I look down at myself. He’s right—I’m covered in it. Dried brown on my hands, smeared across my clothes, probably matted in my hair. Evidence of violence I don’t want to carry any longer.

“Is that your way of telling me I smell?”

“It’s my way of offering hot water and clean towels.”

“Smooth.” I sniff my arm experimentally. Wince. “Okay, fair. I smell like a crime scene.”

“You smell like survival.” His voice drops. “But the shower has excellent water pressure.”

He shows me to the bathroom—small but functional, with a shower that delivers on the promise. He sets out towels, leaves a shirt on the counter that’s clearly his, and retreats without another word.

The door clicks shut.

I stand in the sudden silence, staring at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. The woman looking back is a disaster. Copper hair tangled and blood-streaked. Face pale beneath the grime. Eyes too bright, carrying the wild energy of survival and excitement and terror.

You’re about to sleep with a tiger shifter, I tell my reflection.

The reflection doesn’t seem concerned.

This should terrify me. Should bring up all my defenses, all the walls I’ve built, all the very good reasons why trusting people ends in devastation.

Instead, I feel... ready.

Stripped to the foundation and ready to build on ground that might actually hold.

The shower is blissfully hot. I stand under the spray until the water runs clear, until the tension unknots from my muscles, until I stop seeing enemies every time I close my eyes. Aslan’s soap smells like pine and woodsmoke—like him. I use it anyway. Let his scent sink into my skin.

When I emerge, wrapped in a towel too big for me, his shirt waits where he left it. Dark gray, soft from years of washing, long enough to brush my thighs.

I put it on. Button it with fingers that only shake a little.