He left her cottage with the scent of her skin clinging to his clothes and the memory of her trust burned into his consciousness. The walk back to his workshop felt longer than usual, every step taking him further from where his bear insisted he belonged.
By the time he reached his sanctuary among the wood shavings and half-finished projects, Luka had made a decision. Whatever it took, whatever the cost to himself, he wasn't going to let Leenah face the renewal ceremony alone. The protective charm he'd carved for her was still with him, waiting for the right moment to offer it without triggering her independence reflexes.
Maybe it was time to stop being subtle about his intentions. Maybe it was time to let her know that regardless of ancient pacts or supernatural obligations, she had someone willing to stand between her and any force that threatened her safety.
Even if that someone carried the weight of past failures and the bone-deep fear that caring too much inevitably led to loss.
Because some things were worth the risk, and Leenah Carrow was definitely one of them.
17
LEENAH
The cottage felt impossibly empty after Luka left, as if his steady presence had somehow made the space larger and his absence had shrunk it back to its original dimensions. Leenah sat on the couch where they'd spent the night, pulling a throw blanket around her shoulders that still carried the faint scent of cedar and mountain air.
She'd never been the kind of person who needed someone else's presence to feel complete. Hell, she'd built her entire adult life around the principle that depending on others only led to disappointment. But sitting alone in her living room, she found herself missing the weight of his arm around her shoulders and the steady rhythm of his breathing against her ear.
"This is dangerous," she told Minerva, who had emerged from whatever hiding spot she'd claimed during the supernatural chaos of the previous evening. "I'm getting attached to someone, and we both know how well that's worked out in the past."
Minerva's response was to hop onto the couch and settle herself in the exact spot where Luka had been sitting, her purr loud enough to suggest she approved of the previous night'ssleeping arrangements. The cat's mismatched eyes held the kind of knowing intelligence that made Leenah wonder if her familiar understood more about human relationships than she gave her credit for.
"Don't look at me like that," Leenah said, scratching behind the cat's ears. "I saw the way you were practically matchmaking last night, refusing to move when he sat down. You're as bad as Twyla."
But even as she protested, Leenah couldn't deny that waking up in Luka's arms had felt more natural than anything she'd experienced in years. The way he'd held her throughout the night, keeping her anchored while she recovered from the prophetic vision, had been protective without being possessive. Gentle without making her feel fragile.
It challenged everything she thought she knew about alpha males and their supposedly inevitable need to control the people they cared about. Her father had been an alpha in his own mind, and his brand of protection had involved isolating her mother from friends and family until she had no support system beyond him. Her ex-boyfriends had all followed similar patterns, starting with sweet gestures of care and ending with suffocating attempts to manage every aspect of her life.
But Luka was different. She could see the war between his protective instincts and his respect for her independence playing out in real time. The way he'd forced himself to leave this morning when every line of his body had screamed that he wanted to stay. The careful way he phrased his concerns about her safety, making them about his worry rather than her supposed inadequacy.
"It's terrifying," she admitted to Minerva, "how much I want to trust him. How much I want to believe that maybe this time could be different."
The cat's purr intensified, and she rubbed against Leenah's hand with obvious affection. As if she was trying to say that some risks were worth taking, that not all alpha males were created equal.
Before Leenah could continue her one-sided conversation about the perils of emotional attachment, Minerva suddenly stood and jumped off her lap, padding toward the back corner of the living room with obvious purpose. The cat stopped beside the old bookshelf that held Leenah's collection of local history texts and began pawing at something near the floor.
"What are you doing, girl?" Leenah followed her familiar across the room, crouching to see what had captured Minerva's attention.
The cat was scratching at what looked like a perfectly ordinary section of baseboard, but as Leenah examined it more closely, she noticed something odd. The wood grain didn't quite match the rest of the trim, and there were faint scratch marks around what might have been the edges of a hidden panel.
"Well, I'll be damned," she muttered, running her fingers along the suspicious baseboard until she found a section that gave slightly under pressure. "How did you know this was here?"
Minerva's answering purr suggested that cats knew many things humans never bothered to notice.
The hidden compartment opened with a soft click, revealing a space just large enough to hold a collection of leather-bound books and loose papers tied with faded ribbon. Leenah's heart skipped as she recognized her grandmother's careful handwriting on the topmost journal, but these weren't the reminiscences and family histories she'd inherited. These were something else entirely.
Leenah had been here for quite awhile, but she often forgot that the only reason she got this place was because her grandmother had once been it’s resident before Twyla had evenheard of Hollow Oak. Twyla told her that when she first got here, telling her that it had stayed empty just for her and now… seeing this… she felt maybe there had been more to it.
"Advanced Necromantic Practices," she read aloud from the cover of the first volume. "Spirit Binding and Release Protocols. Ethereal Bridge Construction." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she read the final title: "The Cost of Speaking for the Dead."
She pulled the collection from its hiding place and settled cross-legged on the floor, Minerva curling up beside her as she opened the first journal. Her grandmother's writing filled the pages, but these entries were different from anything Leenah had seen before. Clinical, detailed descriptions of magical techniques that went far beyond simple communication with spirits.
May 15th, 1953. Successfully maintained ethereal bridge for six hours during communication with Revolutionary War era spirits. Physical cost: severe dehydration, temporary loss of vision, three days of recovery required. Note: longer sessions may require medical supervision.
July 3rd, 1954. Attempted mass spiritual summoning to gather information about missing child. Bridge held for eight spirits simultaneously. Cost: complete magical exhaustion, week-long recovery, permanent reduction in necromantic sensitivity. Success rate: 85% information accuracy. Recommend this technique only for life-or-death situations.
Page after page documented her grandmother's experiments with increasingly dangerous necromantic practices, each entry meticulously recording both the techniques involved and their physical toll. It was like reading a medical journal written by someone who'd used herself as a test subject.
"God, Grandmother," Leenah breathed, turning to a section labeled "Renewal Ceremony Preparations." "What were you thinking?"