Page 36 of Mane Brew

I have to look away first. Because if I don’t—if I let myself keep looking—she’ll see exactly what I’m feeling. And I’m not ready for that. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for that.

Liar, says the voice in my head. It sounds remarkably like Elio at his most smug.

I ignore it.

Three hours later, the preliminary damage assessment is complete.

Duskfire Brewery is damaged but salvageable. The eastern wall needs reconstruction. Three fermentation tanks are destroyed beyond repair. The magical residue will require professional cleansing before brewing can resume.

The insurance paperwork alone will take weeks.

I’ve already started it. Sitting in the corner of Thornveil Apothecary—where Anouk insisted on bringing Zeph for observation—I fill out forms while pretending not to watch her argue with the healer about whether she actually needs bed rest.

She doesn’t notice me noticing. She’s too busy being stubborn.

“The shield work was impressive enough to survive that kind of attack.” Caius appears at my shoulder. Silent as any wolf despite his size. “Your timing was better.”

“I was there.”

“You were there because you’ve been patrolling her street every night for a long time.” He settles into the chair beside mine. “I ran the patrol logs. Compared them to your normal routes. Interesting deviations.”

“The brewery required additional monitoring after the incident.”

“The brewery.” His flat tone makes clear exactly how much he believes that explanation. “Not the witch who owns it.”

I don’t respond. What would I say? Every instinct I have screams at me to categorize this, to file it properly, to find a protocol that explains why I’ve spent all those evenings walking past her windows to make sure the lights were on, why I’ve tracked her schedule closely enough to know when she sleeps and when she works and when her magic burns hot enough to make the fairy lights flicker.

There is no protocol for this. There’s no file, no form, no proper category.

There’s just her. And the growing certainty that proper categories stopped mattering weeks ago.

“I spent years waiting.” Caius drops his voice. Private now. Alpha to alpha. “Too much time convincing myself that duty came first, that what I felt didn’t matter, that she didn’t want me anyway.” He pauses. “Don’t make my mistake.”

“It’s not the same situation.”

“It’s exactly the same situation. Different witch. Different shifter. Same dance.” He stands. “You protected her tonight. You’ll keep protecting her because that’s who you are. But at some point, you’re going to have to decide if protection is enough.”

He walks away before I can formulate a response.

Across the apothecary, Zeph finally submits to the healer’s examination. She sits on Anouk’s examination table, shoulders slumped, dust still in her hair. The small cut on her cheek has been cleaned and sealed. Her hands have stopped shaking.

She looks exhausted. Defeated. Nothing like the chaotic force of nature who argues with me about condensation levels and serves beer that makes me reorganize furniture.

She looks vulnerable. And the sight of it makes protective instinct flare so strongly, I have to grip the chair arms to keep from crossing the room.

Our eyes meet again. This time, she’s the one who looks away first.

But I saw it. In that brief moment before she turned her head, I saw what she was feeling. Raw. Unguarded. As complicated and undocumented as everything else about her.

She saw me too.

And neither of us knows what to do about it.

The night grows late. Response teams finish and disperse. The other alphas leave with promises to coordinate tomorrow’s investigation. The healers pronounce Zeph stable enough for rest—with supervision.

I should go. Should return to my territory, my files, my properly organized life. Should leave her with friends who know how to comfort her in ways I’ve never learned.

I stay.