Page 75 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

One brow arched. “Don’t witches know a thing or two about curses?”

She gave a soft snort and leaned back in the chair. “Not Kitchen Witches. Especially not ones like me—home-trained and self-taught. I went to Little Mineola Public, not the Academy for Witches. Without a confirmed lineage, the path of formal learning is barricaded.”

He’d spent his life surrounded by power tied to pedigree—knowledge hoarded, passed through bloodlines like inheritance. Cassia spoke of hers differently, like something she’d pieced together herself. A quilt, not a crown.

“Then how,” he asked, “did you get to be so good at healing? I may complain about my ribs, but truthfully . . .” He let his eyes close for a beat. “I didn’t expect to have healed this much after only a couple of hours of sleep.”

Her expression softened. “My mother taught me everything I know. She was very good. Much better than me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He meant it too. The salve she’d used had dulled not only the pain in his body, but some ache in his chest he hadn’t known could exist. He didn’t say that when he’d woken up to find her reading his manual, it had felt like witnessing something precious.

Cassia caught him staring, and tucked a curl behind her ear. The book toppled forward to rest against her chest. “What is it? You look rather dazed.”

When he didn’t respond, she rose and crossed to the bed. She leaned in, her face hovering inches above his, close enough that her breath mingled with his own.

“You’re still a bit feverish,” she murmured and laid her palm on his temple.

Everything inside him went still. Her hand was against his skin—warm and certain, as if she had always belonged there. He knew it was just a healer’s touch, born of concern, but his body didn’t seem to know the difference. His pulse answered. Quickening, galloping.

He closed his eyes. The fever, the pain, the screaming mirror—they all faded beneath the press of her palm. When he opened his eyes again, she was still there, watching. Too close, yet not nearly close enough. She smelled like clove and honey and something green and living—like the first warmth of spring after too long a winter.

His gaze caught on the soft curve of her mouth, and gods, he wanted. Not just to kiss her—though that thought burned bright enough to scorch. He wanted to reach up and slide his hand around the back of her neck, pull her down until her forehead rested against his. To press his face into the hollow of her throat and breathe her in—slow, deep, until her scent replaced the smoke and blood clinging to his lungs. He wanted to gather her against his chest and know what it felt like to hold something real and freely given. Bury himself in the miracle of her existence and stay there until the world forgot to come looking for him.

His hand twitched—already rising before he stopped it.

The contract held him, but it wasn’t just the contract anymore. It was her. What she deserved. Not a fevered grasp from a man half-broken on a sweat-soaked bed. It must be something chosen in full light, with steady hands and clear eyes. When he touched her—if she ever let him—it wouldn’t be because he was desperate.

It would be because she wanted him to.

So instead, he let the tension stretch between them, taut enough to snap. Then she moved, only slightly, but it broke the moment. And Ark, throat dry and chest still tight, grasped for the first solid thing he could find that wasn’t a confession.

“I’m wearing a different shirt.”

Cassia blinked. She scooted back and lifted both hands. “It wasn’t me. Caius did it, I swear.”

Ark studied her, then let his head sink back into the pillow. “What a shame,” he sighed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though he couldn’t hide his smirk.

She narrowed her eyes, the edge of a smile forming. “Are you saying you wanted me to undress you?”

It was his turn to lift both hands. “I’m saying I wouldn’t have objected. Strictly for medical purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed, folding her arms across her chest. “And here I thought you preferred order and professionalism.”

“I do. Which is why I’d fill out a consent form. You know, for next time.”

Cassia laughed, brushing a curl behind her ear. “No, no next time!” Then, softer: “I don’t think your ribs—or my nerves—could survive another stunt like that.”

His ribs ached, but it wasn’t the injury. It was something higher, deeper—a strange agony he didn’t recognize. He’d been punched, stabbed, and thrown against walls. He knew pain. This wasn’t pain. This was worse. This was unfamiliar.

She moved, rising to her feet, her skirt whispering along his arm. He felt her absence before she’d even taken a step—a sudden, hollow space where warmth had been.

“Well,” she said, hands on her hips, a flicker of her usual playfulness returning, “since you’ve proven you can string together a sentence again, I suppose I can stop hovering.”