Chapter 1

POV: Clara

The beams of the tavern groaned overhead like joints with arthritis, the blackened wood stained a century of spilled smoke. The air was close and warm, heavy with the smells of whiskey, sweat, and woodsmoke—a cloying mix that would have been easy to forget. Except one note in it—a faint, ashy tang of soot—that made Clara’s stomach flip. It smelled too much like fire. The fire she never spoke of.

Jenny shoved a pint into Clara’s hand and grinned like she’d just won a prize. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Step one: get the hell out of the damn house. Step two: booze. Step three: meet someone who doesn’t have overdue library books.”

Clara snorted into the foam. “That’s a low bar to clear. Half the guys in here look like they can’t read.”

“Perfect,” Jenny countered. “Less competition. They won’t be reciting Shakespeare when you leave with them.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. “Because that’s what I want. Illiteracy and domestic beer.”

Jenny rolled her eyes dramatically. “You’re impossible. Just once, can’t you try to have fun?”

“I am having fun.” Clara gestured at her corner of the booth. “Look at this. Drinking. People-watching. Quietly judging humanity. This is my Super Bowl.”

Jenny laughed so loud the men at the next table glanced over. “God, you’re hopeless. You’re like… like one of those haunted Victorian widows who sits by the window knitting and scaring the neighborhood kids.”

“Sounds peaceful,” Clara said dryly, taking another sip.

Jenny leaned in closer, voice lowered conspiratorially. “Seriously though, Clara, you can’t live like this forever. One day you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve spent your entire life hiding in corners and never letting anyone close to you. And then what?”

Clara’s smile faltered. Her hand tightened on the glass until her knuckles went white. Easy for you to say. Jenny wasn’t the one who woke up some nights choking on phantom smoke and had the ghost of a man’s voice whispering in her ear.

She forced her expression back to blank, shook her head like she was shaking off Jenny’s words. “One hour,” she muttered, more to herself than her friend. “That’s it.”

Jenny huffed, but her eyes softened. “Fine. One hour. But if Prince Charming comes waltzing through that door, I’m not letting you run from him.” She grinned, clearly joking, but Clara’s chest pinched anyway. Prince Charming didn’t exist. Men like Rob did.

Jenny slid out of the booth to take a look at the pool table. Clara sank deeper into her corner of the booth, curling into herself like she was trying to disappear. The tavern pressed in loud and careless. People laughing too hard. A glass shattering against the bar. A woman yelling at her boyfriend, her voice hitting the same shrill note Rob hit when anger tipped over into violence.

Clara flinched before she could stop herself.

She rubbed her palm against her thigh, trying to ground herself. You’re fine. You’re safe. It’s just noise.

She tried to breathe through it. One hour. Just one.

And then the tavern door opened.

Cold night air spilled inside, scattering the smoke, and with it came a man who filled the doorway like he owned the place. Broad shoulders beneath a worn leather jacket, dark hair curling damp from the mist outside. He was watching the room without looking at it, and his gaze drew the eyes of every patron without effort. But he didn’t look at them.

He only looked at her.

Clara’s pulse raced.

Jenny, who had come back with a fresh drink, noticed it immediately. “Uh oh. You’re looking at him like he’s the last slice of cake.”

“I am not,” Clara hissed, turning toward her.

“Please. You’ve got that deer-in-headlights thing going. Classic crush.”

“It’s not a crush,” Clara muttered, turning back to the man and trying, failing to look away. “It’s… situational awareness.”

Jenny smirked. “Sure. Is your situational awareness always blushing?”

“I’m not blushing.” Clara pressed the cool pint glass against her cheek. “See? Totally calm.”

Jenny leaned in, eyes bright. “If you won’t talk to him, I might.”

Clara nearly choked. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” Jenny held up her glass as if toasting fate.

“Jenny—” But the protest died on Clara’s tongue as the man began to walk through the crowd. Not casually. Not idly. Each step was deliberate, cutting a straight path toward her.

Her throat went dry. Why can’t I look away? This is ridiculous.

He stopped at their table. For a beat, the tavern’s din dulled to a low hum, leaving only the sound of her racing heart.

“Mind if I sit?” His voice was low and rough, edged like gravel.

Jenny answered before Clara could. “Please do. My friend here was just telling me how much she loves when strangers invade her personal space.”

Clara shot her a look that promised violence. “I was not.”

His mouth curved faintly, amused, as if he found Clara’s irritation more interesting than Jenny’s invitation. He slid into the seat across from Clara, stretching his broad frame as though the booth had been custom-built to fit him alone.

“You don’t look like you want to be here,” he said, gaze still on Clara.

Clara bristled. “And you do?”

“I go where I want,” he said simply.

Something in his tone made her shiver. Not arrogant. Not playful. Just absolute. The kind of certainty that made her wonder what it would be like if that certainty turned toward her.

Jenny waggled her brows, delighted. “Clara, meet tall, dark, and broody. Tall, dark, and broody, this is Clara—resident book witch and card-carrying member of the fun police.”

Clara groaned. “Ignore her.”

The man didn’t. His eyes never left Clara, steady and unblinking. “Book witch, huh?”

She swallowed hard. “Something like that.”

He leaned forward, just enough that she caught a faint thread of pine and musk beneath the whiskey and woodsmoke. It curled through her senses, grounding and unsettling at once.

“Good,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Every witch needs her firewood.”

The words were nonsense, probably just tavern charm—but the way he said them made Clara’s skin prickle. Her body leaned toward him before her brain could shout no.

Jenny kicked her under the table, grinning like a cat who’d caught the canary.

Clara forced herself back against the booth, cheeks hot. “Suit yourself,” she muttered, voice too thin, too shaky.

His smile was small. Knowing.

And as he leaned closer, the smell of him cut through whiskey and woodsmoke—wild and feral, something that didn’t belong to any man she’d ever known. It curled through her like a hook, unsettling and unshakable.

For the first time in years, Clara forgot Rob. She forgot the fire, the slammed doors, the way she’d built walls out of silence.

She only knew this: if she kept looking into those golden eyes, she might discover why her body was already answering to him.

And when the corner of his mouth curved, sharp and dangerous, Clara realized she wasn’t sure if she wanted to run… or stay and find out.