"Let's all take a breath," Winston says from behind the bar, voice smooth but firm. He nods subtly toward the crowd. "Unless y'all want this to become the morning headline."
"Take a breath?" Jace hisses, lowering his voice but not the heat. "Uncle, she robbed me. Atyourbar."
I hold up my hands, trying not to look as guilty as I feel. "Look, I'm sorry. I was desperate. I didn't touch your cards. I left your ID. I only took cash. That's all."
"Oh well, that makes it totally fine," Jace snaps, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Relax, puppy dog," Kayden chimes in lazily. "She didn't take your inheritance. I'm sure you'll survive."
"Kayden," I hiss under my breath.
"What? I'm just saying, if it's a hundred bucks, I'll cover it."
"No," I say, more forcefully. "I'llpay him back."
Kayden gives me a sideways look, one brow rising like:And with what money, sweetheart? Spirit points?
Jace opens his mouth again, indignation all but vibrating off him, when Winston sets a glass down on the bar with a heavy clink. The sound cuts through everything like a judge's gavel.
"I'm still the owner of this bar," Winston says slowly, each word weighted, "and the head of this pack."
Jace straightens like someone just tugged on his spine. His mouth shuts, tight as a knot.
Winston's eyes land on me, gentler now. "If the traveler here is in need of help, she'll come with me to the back. We'll sort it out."
"I'll go with—" Asher begins.
Winston doesn't even turn. "We can manage without you, Colonel," he says, voice smooth and melodic as old jazz. "Can we, miss?"
I nod, quiet, but certain.
Winston's gaze flicks to Jace. "You. Stay here. Serve these gentlemen what they like. And breathe."
Jace exhales hard but doesn't argue. Just mutters something aboutnot being a damn butlerunder his breath and heads toward the espresso machine.
Asher meets my eyes, gives me a small nod—supportive, but watchful. Kayden just smirks at me like I've earned my first real badge in supernatural politics.
I follow Winston, weaving past the bar, past the booths, through a storage room that smells like stale ale, smoked wood, and something peppery. We walk through a narrow hallway lit with a single hanging bulb. At the end of it, there's a heavy wooden door with two thick locks.
Winston pulls a ring of keys from a rack and begins unlocking it.
"I really am sorry," I say, the words scratching out of my throat. "About what I did. I—"
He pauses just long enough to glance over his shoulder, his voice even and calm. "It's all right. We all hit rough patches in life. When the world tightens its grip, we do what we must to keep breathing."
The second lock clicks. He flashes me a wide, honest smile, the kind that makes the guilt sting sharper. "And that pup of mine? He needed the lesson. Can't let a pretty girl talk circles around him without learning how to hold on to his wallet."
I grin, sheepish. "Yeah… I guess he learned the hard way. You saw it?"
"I saw it before it happened." He chuckles, shaking his head as he pushes the door open. "You've got the talent. Our kind's fast and sharp-eyed, but we got our blind spots."
The heavy door creaks inward, and he flicks on the lights. I brace for a dusty back room with teetering boxes and maybe a few forgotten tomes. What I get is… something else entirely.
Rows upon rows of shelves stretch before me, perfectly aligned, each packed with books of all sizes, some modern, some ancient. Leather spines, cracked bindings, gold leaf glyphs, handwritten titles. A subtle hum comes from the corner dehumidifiers, and the air smells like aged parchment and the faintest trace of cloves.
"Whoa…" I murmur, stepping inside. "This is… not what I expected."
Winston smiles, clearly pleased. "Most don't. Been building this collection for decades. Started out with one shelf behind the bar. Then folks started bringing more—strays, travelers, folks looking to trade. You'd be amazed what walks through that door."
