Page 6 of Mane Brew

“Intended effect?”

“Enhanced clarity. Helping people see what they’ve been missing.”

“And instead, it created shared historical hallucinations.”

“Apparently.”

He makes a note. I watch his hands move across the clipboard—quick, efficient strokes. His fingers are long, capable. The hands of someone who works with precision.

Why am I noticing his hands? Stop noticing his hands.

“Your safety protocols are inadequate.” He’s moved to my brewing room, examining my tanks with visible disapproval. “The ventilation system is substandard, the fermentation tanks lack proper containment wards, and your labeling system is—” He pauses, clearly searching for a professional word. “Creative.”

“Thank you.”

His nostrils flare. The slight flicker of irritation shouldn’t be satisfying, but it absolutely is. Rhodes Blackthorn, Pride Leader of the Sunridge Lions, self-appointed Chief Documentation Officer of Absolutely Everything—losing his composure over my labeling system.

Worth getting out of bed for.

“Miss Grimwood. Someone potentially tampered with your ingredients. This is a serious matter.”

“I know it’s serious.” The words come out sharper than intended. “I was there, remember? I saw those visions too. I felt them.”

His expression shifts. Not softening—Rhodes Blackthorn doesn’t soften—but the irritation fades into focus. He sets down his clipboard and actually looks at me. Not cataloging. Looking.

“What did you see? Specifically.”

I don’t want to tell him. Don’t want to admit how deeply the visions affected me, how the shadows at the edge felt like a warning I don’t understand. How the image of that mated lion and witch made my chest ache.

But he’s watching me with those steady eyes, waiting. Patient.

“I saw Mistvale before the Severing. Witches and shifters mated, their magic stronger than either achieved alone. It was—” I struggle for words that don’t sound ridiculous. “Beautiful. And then there were shadows. At the edges of the vision. Watching.”

“Watching,” he repeats.

“I don’t know what they were. But my magic recognized them. Reacted.” I press my palm against the nearest tank, feeling the residual warmth. The metal hums under my touch. “This batch wasn’t supposed to do anything like that. I designed it for individual clarity, not shared visions of ancient history.”

“Which suggests external interference.” His pen moves across the clipboard again. “Someone must have modified your recipe without your knowledge.”

“That’s impossible. I’m the only one with access to my brewing notes.”

His brows pull together as he thinks. “Is there an ingredient that is special only to the batch you took to the Den? One that isn’t used in anything else?”

“Moonflower is the special ingredient. I don’t use it for anything else. I just recently got a new shipment in.”

My instincts prickle. I move to my ingredient stores and pull down the moonflower jar. I unscrew the lid and sniff.

It’s almost normal. A slight tang underlies the floral sweetness I wouldn’t have noticed if not looking. “It doesn’t smell right.”

Rhodes is beside me in an instant, close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from his body. He moves quietly for someone his size. Too quietly.

“Don’t touch anything else.” His voice is low, controlled. “I need to document the scene.”

“This is my brewery⁠—”

“Which is now an active investigation site.” He’s not looking at me; his attention is fixed on the jars, cataloging details I probably missed.

He pulls a small vial from his pocket and carefully collects a sample of the moonflower. His hands are steady, precise.