Page 10
I don’t argue. She’s not wrong.
Bruna lets out a long, theatrical sigh as she sets the second cup beside the first. “When are you going to let someone into that steel heart of yours?”
I grab the second cup. Instead of answering, I lift it in a small salute.
Bruna chuckles. Sera is already leaning across the counter to whisper something to her wife, both of them trying—and failing—not to giggle.
I make my escape before they can continue the interrogation, the bell chiming overhead as I step back into the street with two warm cups of coffee in my hands.
I’m already regretting giving them something new to gossip about.
Coffee in hand, I make my way toward Micah’s clinic. It’s a small red‑brick building at the far end of the road, where the screeching of griffons and the barking of hellhounds drift through the air from dawn until dusk. When I first opened my shop a few years ago, the constant noise drove me up the wall. Now it’s just another part of the neighborhood, familiar enough that I barely notice it anymore.
The waiting room is already busy. A woman sits with an anxious-looking basilisk hatchling curled around her boots, its golden eyes peeking out from beneath her cloak. Across from her, an elderly dwarf has a griffin perched on his lap, its feathers puffed out in protest.
Behind the reception desk sits a young fae with hair so blond it almost looks white. They look up from a stack of appointment ledgers and offer me an easy smile. A gold name tag is clipped to their blouse with “Elowen” engraved in black lettering.
“Good morning. How can I help you?”
“Oh.” I suddenly realize I never planned this far ahead. I awkwardly slide one of the cups across the desk. “I… uh… brought a coffee for Dr. Wolfhart. If he’s available.”
The fae’s smile widens with unmistakable amusement. “Well, isn’t that sweet—”
A door at the end of the hallway swings open before they can finish.
“Did Mrs. Holloway’s chimera get its medication, or did someone leave the dosage chart in—”
Micah strides into the waiting room with all the momentum of someone already running twenty minutes behind schedule. His white doctor’s coat is hopelessly rumpled, downy feathers clinging stubbornly to the sleeves. A clipboard is tucked beneath one arm, while a pencil sits crookedly behind his ear—a bright splash of yellow against his dark, coily hair.
The moment his warm brown eyes land on me, they widen.
“Oh!” A dimpled smile instantly blooms across his face. “Lucan!”
He takes one more step before his boot catches the corner of the reception desk.
He pitches forward with a startled yelp, his clipboard flying from his hands. Papers flutter through the air like startled birds, scattering across the floor.
Micah pushes himself upright with a groan, glasses slipping crookedly on his nose.
“Oh, hobgoblins,” he mumbles, already scrambling after the runaway pages.
I honestly don’t understand how someone capable of performing delicate surgery every day can also be this spectacularly clumsy.
It’s equal parts baffling and adorable.
I kneel beside him, gathering the scattered charts before they can drift any farther away. By the time I hand him the last one, he’s trying—and failing—to put them back in order.
“These aren’t alphabetical anymore,” he mutters in dismay.
A laugh rumbles in my chest. “I’m sorry.” My fingers brush his as I hand him the final chart. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He hugs the clipboard against his chest as he stands. “It’s okay.” A sheepish smile tugs at his lips. “I scare easily.”
“He does,” Elowen chimes in from behind the reception desk.
Micah lets out a long-suffering sigh. “El…”
They grin innocently. “He keeps telling me I need to wear a little bell collar so he can hear me throughout the clinic. Apparently I’m too quiet.”
