Page 28 of Mane Brew

“Before you say this is different—it’s not. The specifics change. The pattern doesn’t.”

“My situation is⁠—”

“If you say ‘complicated,’ I’m throwing this cider at you. And it’s very good cider. Imported. You’d be robbing my unborn child of fizzy grape happiness.”

I close my mouth.

Sakura shifts on her stool, one hand resting on her bump. The baby must be moving—her expression goes soft and distant for a moment before she refocuses.

“The baby kicks whenever you mention him.”

“What?”

“Rhodes. Every time his name comes up, Little Bean does a somersault.” She grins. “My unborn child has opinions about your denial.”

“Your unborn child is a fetus. It doesn’t have opinions.”

“My unborn child is the first witch-shifter baby in forever. They have all sorts of opinions. Strong opinions about nap schedules. Stronger opinions about spicy food. And very strong opinions about aunts who won’t admit their feelings.”

Aunts. She’s counting me as family. All of them are—this chosen sisterhood of witches who found their way to shifters despite every reason not to.

The thought loosens a knot I didn’t know I’d been carrying.

“This isn’t denial.” I grip my wine glass. “This is... caution.”

“You’ve never been cautious a day in your life.” Anouk’s observation is mild. Devastating. “You’ve blown up three fermentation tanks, created ‘incidents’ requiring Network involvement, and once served a batch that made the entire Den speak in rhyming couplets for six hours.”

“That was an accident.”

“My point is that caution isn’t your natural state. So when you suddenly develop it around one specific lion shifter...” She trails off. Lets the implication hang.

The light flickers. My magic responds to the emotion building in the room—in me—bubbling and fizzing in ways I can’t quite control.

“It’s terrifying,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Having someone see through the chaos.”

Three pairs of eyes focus on me. Patient. Knowing.

“Because the chaos is the point, right?” I stare at my wine. “It’s what I am. What my magic is. And everyone who’s ever looked at me has seen a mess that needs fixing. My family. The Council. Half of Mistvale.” My laugh comes out sharper than intended. “The walking safety violation. The problem that won’t stay contained.”

“But Rhodes doesn’t see that.” Leire drops her voice, gentle now. “Does he?”

The fermentation tanks hum. Steady. Stable.

More stable than they’ve been in two years.

“It’s infuriating.” I drain my glass. “No one’s supposed to pay that much attention. No one’s supposed to see through the performance.”

“And yet someone does.” Anouk refills my wine. “Someone who’s built his entire life around paying attention to details. Someone who happens to be paying extraordinary attention to you specifically.”

The door to my back room creaks. The fairy lights flicker. For a moment, I swear I can smell honey—sweet and golden and impossible.

Then Grandmother Peach is standing in my taproom, a fresh peach pie balanced on her palm, looking for all the world like she simply materialized from the shadows.

Because she probably did.

“Ladies.” Grandmother Peach sets the pie on the bar. “I brought dessert.”

No one questions how she got in. Grandmother Peach goes where Grandmother Peach wants to go. Locks and wards are suggestions at best.