Page 71 of Dark Rover's Gift

Shira studied her for a moment. "He's a good guy."

"Yeah, he is."

"Don't screw it up."

Fenella rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Shira dropped her purse on the console next to the front door and kicked off her heels. "I watch you with him, and sometimes I see this look on your face, like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like you're just counting down until something goes wrong."

Was she?

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are, and I get it. Trust me, I understand self-sabotage better than most." She sighed. "Forget what I said. I get philosophical when drunk." She yawned. "Fates, I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."

"Sleep well."

"Yeah, you too, but shower first. You smell like a distillery."

"Noted."

Fenella waited until she heard Shira's bedroom door close before heading to her own room.

She stripped off her work clothes, which did indeed reek of alcohol, but not before removing the brooch and setting it carefully on the bathroom vanity.

The shower was blissfully hot, washing away the residue of the evening along with the tension in her muscles.

Shira's words kept echoing in her head. Was she really waiting for things to go wrong?

Maybe.

Probably.

It was hard to shake fifty years of survival instincts, during which she'd learned that something always went wrong. Life was chaotic, and happily-ever-afters belonged in fairy tales.

After toweling off and slipping into a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, she sat cross-legged on her bed, the brooch cradled in her palms. The metal was cool against her skin, the amber stone reflecting the light from her bedside lamp.

She'd felt things from it earlier—fleeting impressions, whispers of memories. But there had been nothing concrete to latch on to.

What if she tried with more deliberation?

The two real readings she'd managed had been with Kyra and Jasmine's help, their combined abilities amplifying her own. Alone, she probably couldn't access the deeper layers of memories trapped in objects. But maybe she could sense something about Din from this piece that he had held close to his heart for so long.

Closing her eyes, Fenella let herself relax, let her mental walls down. She didn't force it, didn't grasp for visions. She just held the brooch and breathed, letting whatever wanted to come through find its way to her.

At first, there was nothing. Just the weight of the metal in her hands and her own heartbeat.

Then, like smoke curling at the edges of her consciousness, images began to form. Hazy, dreamlike, more impression than clear vision.

A shop window in Edinburgh, rain streaking the glass. Din's face reflected in the glass, looking less weighted by years, as something caught his eye. The brooch, displayed on faded velvet, seemed to glow in the gray Scottish morning. It hadn't been tarnished as it was now. Someone had polished it so it shone.

A certainty flooded through him. Not a thought but a knowing:this belongs to her.

The memory shifted, blurred, re-formed.

Years later. An apartment somewhere—London? The wallpaper suggested the 80s. Din packing boxes, preparing for another move. Finding the brooch wrapped in tissue at the bottom of a drawer. The way his hands stilled. The ache in his chest as he remembered dark hair and clever eyes and a laugh that made him feel alive.

Another shift.

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