I take another bite of bread, but the honey turns bitter as my thoughts jump to Wilder Ever After. To the moment I pulled that card from the cake, its gilded edges catching the light like it knew I’d find it. The delicate chain of events leading me here begins to snap into place, each link tightening in my chest.
Each ribbon in the cake leads to a charm…and a future.
The tarot card. The Lovers.
I stop chewing, the bread lodging in my throat as a chill crawls along my neck.
Maybe it was magick.
Absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible. But the thought digs its claws into me and refuses to let go. Haven’t I been surrounded by the impossible ever since?
The charm is magickal and always guides you to what’s meant to be.
I swallow hard, the piece of bread scraping its way down.
Holy shit.
That cardwasmagick.
My pulse quickens, panic creeping in. I haven’t seen it since…since I was in the woods with…naked Alder.
Where is it?
I shoot to my feet and brush my hands over my borrowed dress like it holds the answers.
That card matters more than I let myself believe.
Damn it. Why did I let Alder distract me?
The wall sconces flicker and flare. One bulb explodes with a sharp pop, sending a spray of glass skittering acrossfloor. Steam hisses from the polished silver pipes along the walls. The floor trembles, dishes rattling and clattering in the cupboards.
Bernice rushes to brace a stack of pots. Sylvie lunges for a basket of eggs but is too late. Shells crack against the stone, runny yolks trembling on the quaking floor. I rush forward just in time to catch a crystal bowl before it shatters.
The clanging and clicking grows louder as a mechanical whisk on the counter sputters to life. It whirs violently, its gears screeching as it plunges into the soup pot, sending a geyser of broth splattering across the counter, the floor, and Bernice’s apron.
“See?” Sylvie shouts, wrestling the rogue whisk from the pot. “There’s something more going on! You can’t keep pretending there isn’t.”
A silver mixing contraption explodes. Dishes rattle. Steam blasts from the walls. And just when it looks like something is going to catch fire, the door slams open with a dramatic crack.
All three of us yelp in surprise, our heads snapping toward the noise. Alder stands there, tousled and grinning like he didn’t leave me hanging an hour ago. Sometime while I was wandering the halls, he went back to our room and changed into a loose white tunic tucked into dark breeches that fit just right. He’s rumpled and radiant, and his eyes are sparking like I’m the answer to a question he didn’t realize he’d been asking.
“Well,” he says, cocking his head, “looks like I arrived at exactly the right time.”
Thirteen
My heart stutters.
It’s embarrassing, really, how my body betrays me before my brain can catch up. One look at him and I’m warm all over, like someone flipped a switch labeleddisastrous attraction to men who’ve emotionally ruined you.
My breath quickens. Heat blooms in my cheeks.
Damn him.
Why does he always show up like the misunderstood hero—the kind of brooding asshole with a six-pack and a smirk that could undo a decade of therapy?
I grab Alder’s arm and yank him toward the back corner of the kitchen, away from Bernice and Sylvie. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the council meeting?” I hiss. “You know, figuring out how the hell we get home?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I had a better offer.”
