Page 41 of Bear Naked Truth
Autumn laughed despite herself.
Outside, the clouds had parted just enough to let light spill through the stained glass over the bar, painting her sweater in fractured gold and blue. She stared down at the mug.
“I’m not ready to say it,” she whispered. “But I’m not ready to let go either.”
“Then don’t,” Nico said. “Let him be your slow burn.”
Autumn stood, her chest a little looser than when she’d walked in. “Thanks, Voss.”
“Anytime, Ghost Girl.”
She paused at the doorway.
“And Nico?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t put us on the solstice prediction board.”
“Too late,” they said, grinning. “Already etched it in glitter pen.”
22
DORIAN
The fire crackled in the main hearth of Briar Hollow Inn, casting golden light over the stone floor and timber beams that had, until recently, echoed with more memory than merriment. Now, it buzzed gently with conversation, laughter, and the occasional clink of mismatched mugs borrowed from The Spellbound Sip’s overstocked collection. The inn, once known only for cold drafts and colder spirits (the non-drinking kind), was alive.
Dorian stood near the foyer, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the space like a man watching his dream walk around in borrowed boots as he plays host for the community event. The lanterns flickered with warm amber glow, the scent of cinnamon scones and woodsmoke wafted from the open kitchen, and people—actual people—milled about without a trace of fear or suspicion.
It was working.
He didn’t dare say it out loud, not with the history of the house pressing quiet behind the walls, but tonight felt like the start of something.
Across the room, Autumn laughed.
Not just a chuckle or a smirk or one of those dry smiles she gave when she was humoring someone. This was different. Her head tilted back, eyes bright, mouth open. And it hit him square in the chest like a bolt of light.
If he hadn’t been done for before, he was now.
She wore a dark green knit sweater and jeans tucked into her boots, her damp curls pushed back with a leather headband that looked like it had been enchanted by someone with too much taste and too much free time. She was talking to Hazel Fairweather and Cassian Drake, her mug cradled in both hands like a talisman.
He watched her talk, half-shy, half-sarcastic, and wholly present.
It did something to him.
She caught his gaze across the room and gave him the smallest smile—just a flicker. But it landed like a vow. He started moving toward her without thinking, his boots thudding softly on the old floorboards, like they remembered the rhythm of his hope.
“Hey,” she said as he reached her, voice low and warm like spiced wine.
“You good?” he asked, tilting his head toward the open room. “Any ghostly growls or wailing mirrors yet?”
She sipped her tea. “None. Just one mug that tried to flirt with me, but I think that’s more of a Nico issue than a haunting.”
He huffed a laugh. “So the house is behaving?”
She nodded, then added more quietly, “They’re not interested in the crowd. Whatever’s been stirring—it’s been personal. Centered on me and you.”
He tensed instinctively, jaw tightening. “They hurt you again?—”
