Page 48

A living braid. Celtic handfasting.

"Just a normal week," I mutter to the ceiling.

Beside my pillow, Kirk gives a quiet wooden creak. He stretches his carved legs, his tail giving a soft thwack against the mattress, before he butts his blunt, polished head into my shoulder.

"Morning to you, too," I tell him, scratching him behind the ears.

On the nightstand, next to my dead phone, sits Dr. Jekyll’s little amber bottle. Three drops on the tongue when the pressure builds. I pick it up, turning the glass in my fingers. The dark liquid inside sloshes heavily, like cough syrup, but smells faintly of mint and rubbing alcohol.

My head feels clear for once, but the thought of what Jekyll said—that my mortal body isn’t built to handle this magic without cracking open—sits like a cold stone in my gut.

I throw off the covers and swing my legs out of bed. The floor is warm against my bare feet, the house already taking the morning chill out of the wood.

I pull on a pair of black leggings and a thick, oversized gray sweater that swallows my hands, shoving my hair into a messy bun with a pen I find on the desk. Grabbing my dead phone out of habit, I let Kirk lead the way down the hall.

The smell of breakfast hits me before I even hit the bottom of the stairs.

Fried bacon, fresh bread, and dark coffee. Real coffee. Fuuuck yes, coffee is life.

I follow the scent down the parquet corridor and step into the arched doorway of the kitchen.

And stop.

Lachlan is standing at the massive black stove.

He’s wearing dark gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and nothing else. No shirt, no kilt, no broadsword. Just a wall of broad, scarred muscle, his skin golden in the morning light filtering down from the high windows. A long, jagged line runs diagonally across his shoulder blade, disappearing under the band of his pants, and his dark hair is tied back in a loose knot at the base of his neck, a few messy waves falling around his jaw.

His back muscles shift as he turns the bacon in the cast-iron skillet, completely at ease, looking less like an ancient Highland warrior and more like a very large, very dangerous man making breakfast.

My throat goes dry.

Kirk doesn't care about the view. He trots across the soapstone floor, his wooden paws clicking loudly, and lets out a demanding chirp right at Lachlan’s ankles.

Lachlan doesn't flinch. He just looks down, the corner of his mouth twitching under his beard. "You're early, beastie. Not done yet."

"I don't think he eats bacon," I say from the doorway.

Lachlan turns.

His eyes find mine, and the easy expression on his face vanishes instantly. His gaze drops from my face down the front of my huge sweater, taking in my bare legs and feet, before cutting back to my eyes. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he grips the wooden spatula a little too hard.

"Morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep.

"Morning." I walk into the room, trying to act like his bare chest isn't taking up half my field of vision. "Smells good in here."

"Bears need food," he says, turning back to the stove. His shoulders are rigid now, the relaxed posture completely gone. "Coffee's on the counter. Milk's in the cold room if you want it."

"I brought something better," I say, heading for the pantry.

I pull a small clay jar of heavy cream from the shelf, then grab the honeycomb sitting on the cutting board by the stove. I pour myself a mug of the dark roast, dump in an unapologetic splash of cream, and drop a chunk of the raw honeycomb straight in, watching it melt into the steam.

I take a sip, letting the heat settle my stomach. "God, that's good."

A soft clang sounds as Lachlan sets the skillet down.

When I look up, he’s watching me from across the island. His hazel eyes are dark, the amber flecks in them bright, tracking the way I hold the mug.

"What?" I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.