Page 38 of Mane Brew

I was paying attention. I’ve been paying attention to Rhodes Blackthorn for far longer than I care to admit.

Professional concern.

Even my own internal voice sounds skeptical.

The guest room at Thornveil is small but comfortable—Anouk’s taste running toward elegant simplicity. Dried herbs hang from exposed beams. Morning light filters through lace curtains. On the bedside table, a cup of tea sits cooling, along with a note in Anouk’s precise handwriting: “Drink this. Don’t argue.”

I drink it. It tastes like someone liquefied a forest and added honey.

Three fermentation tanks. Six months of Dreamweaver. The entire eastern wall.

My throat tightens. I shove the emotion down and focus on getting vertical.

The main floor of Thornveil is already bustling when I make my way down the narrow stairs.

Anouk stands at her compounding station, crushing dried herbs with the efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for two decades. The shop practically hums with stable power since their claiming, customers always commenting on how the potions work better here.

Must be nice. Having magic that cooperates.

“You should be resting.” Anouk doesn’t look up from her mortar.

“I rested. I’m rested.” I drop into a chair near the window. “How bad is it?”

“The brewery?” She sets down her pestle. “Structurally sound. One wall needs complete rebuilding, and the fermentation equipment⁠—”

“I know about the fermentation equipment.” The words come out sharper than intended. “I was there when it exploded.”

Anouk’s expression doesn’t crack, but her eyes soften. “The Network has people assessing damage as we speak. Leire organized a cleanup crew. Sakura’s weather magic is keeping the rain away from the exposed sections.”

“Sakura’s supposed to be on bed rest.”

“Try telling that to Sakura.” A hint of a smile crosses her features. “She said, and I quote, ‘Little Bean can handle a bit of cloud management.’”

Despite everything, I laugh. It hurts my ribs, but it also loosens the knot in my chest.

The bell above the door chimes.

I know who it is before I turn around. I know from the deliberate weight of his footsteps, the slight pause before he enters fully, the way Anouk’s attention sharpens with barely concealed amusement.

Rhodes’s gaze finds me immediately, assessing my presence, my position, probably my vital signs from across the room.

Under his arm, he carries a leather folder thick with paperwork.

“Miss Grimwood.” His tone is formal. Impersonal. Completely at odds with the man who cradled my head in rubble last night and asked if I was hurt like the answer might break him.

“Alpha Blackthorn.” I match his delivery. “Let me guess—you’ve come to inform me of seventeen new safety violations that somehow caused an explosion I had nothing to do with.”

“Twelve.” He crosses to the table near my chair. Sets down the folder with precise movements. “I’ve come to deliver your insurance paperwork.”

I stare at him.

He holds my gaze without blinking.

Anouk makes a very delicate sound that might be a cough and might be suppressed laughter.

“My insurance paperwork,” I repeat.

“The forms have strict deadlines.” He opens the folder. Papers fan out across the table—damage assessment forms, repair estimates, supply replacement schedules, all filled out in precise handwriting. “Your brewery couldn’t afford delays. I took the liberty of completing the time-sensitive sections.”