Not fixed. But manageable.
I sink down onto the floor behind the counter, back resting against the wood, and pull my knees in slightly. My muscles ache, exhaustion settling in now that I’ve stopped moving.
Outside, the town remains unnaturally quiet.
Inside, the bookstore creaks softly, the old building adjusting to the cooling night air. I close my eyes for a moment, listening. To the silence. To the unfamiliar rhythm of a place that isn’t mine yet. And somewhere beneath it all?—
That same strange feeling lingers. Like something is happening just out of reach. And I’m standing right in the middle of it, whether I understand it or not.
4
ARCHER
Work is pointless today. I know it the second I step into the garage. My focus doesn’t hold. My hands move automatically—tools, parts, muscle memory carrying me through tasks I’ve done a thousand times—but my attention is split in a way it’s never been before.
Half of me is here. The other half is next door. Tracking her. Every movement. Every shift. Every sound. It’s constant. Relentless.
My tiger doesn’t let up, doesn’t rest. It maps her presence with a precision that borders on obsessive.
Mine.
The word pulses through me again. I tighten my grip on the wrench, forcing my focus back to the engine in front of me. Not helpful. Not now.
Across the street, I catch glimpses of her through the bookstore window. Cleaning. Moving carefully. Pausing often, like she’s assessing every inch of that unstable building.
Good. She’s cautious. But not cautious enough. My gaze lingers longer than it should.
There’s something about watching her move in that space—determined despite the odds, stubborn in a way that makes my tiger both restless and… approving. It’s a dangerous combination.
“You gonna finish that today, or just stare at it until it fixes itself?” Mike’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I grunt, refocusing. “Working on it.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I ignore him. Because he’s not wrong. A few hours later, I give up on pretending I’m getting anything done.
“I’m heading out,” I say.
Mike shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that I don’t bother catching.
I don’t go to the bookstore. Not yet. Instead, I head toward the edge of town where the trees start to thicken, where the scent of the forest overtakes everything else. Conrad is already there when I arrive.
Conrad Bellamy leans against his truck, arms crossed, expression neutral but watchful.
“You look like hell,” he says as I approach.
“Feel worse.”
He nods slightly. “It’s her.”
Not a question. I don’t bother denying it.
“Human,” I say.
His brows lift just a fraction. “That complicates things.”
“Yeah.”