Page 62 of Mane Brew

“You’re terrible at this.”

He licks his lips to hide the growing grin. “I’m aware.”

“It’s the most inarticulate thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Also aware.”

“And it’s the most meaningful thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The words settle between us. His breath catches. Mine does too.

“There are possibilities,” I say softly. “When we survive. There are definitely possibilities.”

His free hand rises. Cups my jaw the way he did in the misty street after the raid—gentle, deliberate, like he’s handling something precious and breakable. His thumb traces my cheekbone. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that sends electricity through my chest and all the way down.

He kisses me.

The world narrows to the press of his lips against mine—not gentle, not tentative, but fierce with four years of arguments and tension and wanting. My hands fist in the front of his shirt. His body curves toward mine like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than either of us knew.

And I respond.

My other hand curls around his neck, pulling him closer until there’s no space between us. He makes a sound against my mouth—surprise, satisfaction, need—and his hand slides to the small of my back and pulls me tightly against him.

The kiss deepens. His body presses against mine with an intimacy that makes my blood sing. I feel the rapid flutter of his pulse where my thumb rests against his neck, his quick breath against my lips.

Four years. Four years of arguments and tension and circling each other like predator and prey, never quite sure who was hunting whom. Four years of denial and feelings I didn’t have the vocabulary to express.

And now this. His lips on mine. His hands on me. The certainty that whatever comes tomorrow, this moment has been worth every argument, every sleepless night, every stubborn refusal to name what we are.

When we break apart, both breathing hard, my forehead rests against his.

“Possibilities,” I whisper.

“Extensive ones.” Rough. Wrecked. Nothing like the measured precision he’s cultivated for thirty-eight years. “But not tonight. Tonight we rest. When the battle comes, we survive. After⁠—”

“After,” I agree.

My hand releases his shirt. Smooth the wrinkled fabric with movements that feel more intimate than they should. His eyes meet mine, and I see everything I’m feeling reflected back—desire, fear, hope, and the bone-deep certainty that whatever happens next, this moment has changed us both.

“Sleep well, Alpha Blackthorn.”

“Sleep well, Miss Grimwood.”

I step back and head for the door.

14

ZEPH

I’m at the Registry before first light—just as Grandmother Peach asked, even though I’m not sure how I can help with this. I’m not mated, but if she thinks my magic is needed, then I’m doing what I can.

I barely have time to register the pink light creeping over Mistvale’s rooftops before the first explosion tears through the Registry’s wall. The blast throws me sideways, and I catch myself against a climbing rose that probably shouldn’t support my weight but does anyway—the building’s magic responding to threat, protecting its own.

Debris rains down. Smoke billows. And through it all, the robin’s-egg blue paint of the Familiar Registry darkens toward burgundy.

Stay away, the color warns.

A bit late for that.