Page 6 of Love At First Roar
“Low-profile rarely survives first contact with Twyla Honeytree,” Miriam said. “You’ll see.” She rose with the grace of someone much younger and adjusted the quilts. “Finish your tea. Clean leggings are there. When you are dressed, hobble downstairs. The dining room smells like heaven right now.”
Cora watched her leave, door closing with a click. In the hush that followed she heard the inn breathing—floorboards settling, a kettle whistling below, distant clatter from what must be a kitchen. Every sound felt intimate, like belonging whispered through wood.
She swung her legs out of bed. The room tilted but steadied. She peeled the ruined leggings from her injured knee, cleaned the scrape, and eased on the fresh pair. Moss green, stretchy,embroidered with tiny acorns at the ankle. Someone had chosen her favorite color without asking. Spooky yet sweet.
Hair next. She finger-combed pale strands, weaving a quick loose braid. A few vines had tangled near the ends, reminders of the forest’s stubborn affection. She left them; green matched the leggings and pretending normalcy felt foolish.
Crutches under arms, she crossed to the window. Below, a small town square opened like a storybook sketch. Stone cottages wore ivy crowns. A cobbler’s cart rolled past pulled by a shaggy pony with rather smug posture. Farther off, smoke puffed from a coffee shop whose sign, she could just read, said Griddle and Grind. Laughter drifted. The air smelled of bread and damp earth.
Something deep in her chest sighed. Stay, it said. Just a little.
Footsteps padded along the corridor. Before she could step back, the door pushed open. Callum filled the frame. He ducked a fraction, maybe from habit, maybe from surprise at her standing.
“You’re up,” he said. His voice still carried that gravel edge but the sharpness had dulled.
“Morning.” She attempted a breezy tone and nearly toppled. He lunged, grasped her elbow, steadied her. Heat shot up her arm.
“You should sit until the knee heals,” he said.
“I plan on it. Window was too tempting.” She tried to ignore the way his thumb rubbed slow circles through her sleeve before he released her. “Thank you, by the way. For last night.”
“You were unconscious by a cursed lake. I did my job.” Yet his gaze lingered on the braid over her shoulder. “Feeling stronger?”
“Stronger, hungrier, nosier.” She tipped her head. “The forest… it feels alive here.”
“Because it is.” He stepped aside so she could pass if she wished. “You’ll learn quick. Come downstairs. Miriam has cinnamon scones that could make angels swear.”
Cora’s stomach growled loud enough to answer for her.
They made an awkward procession: Callum setting a slow pace, Cora thumping behind on crutches. Hall lamps flickered with witch-light. Patchouli and bread wafted from below. On the staircase landing she missed a step. Callum placed a steadying hand at her waist, fingers spread, possessive without meaning to be. She looked up. He looked down. The world shrank to the inches between their mouths.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“Wouldn’t want to topple us both.”
He eased his hand away yet kept close until her boots touched the first-floor rug.
The dining room proved small: three round tables clothed in sunflower prints, a buffet of jams and sliced fruit, a fireplace where fat logs crackled. Miriam bustled, setting plates. A young fae boy polished spoons with serious concentration. Near the hearth stood another fae, hair the hue of wheat and eyes full of secrets. She clapped when she saw Cora.
“Look who decided to greet the day. Welcome, sugar. I’m Twyla.” She scooped a scone, slathered it with lemon curd, and deposited it on a plate. “Fuel up. Council talk is easier on a full belly.”
Cora perched on a cushioned chair. Twyla’s easy charm relaxed her shoulders.
Callum took the seat to her right. His thigh brushed hers beneath the table then stayed there, a quiet promise of solid ground. Cora tasted scone; butter and citrus melted on her tongue.
Miriam poured more tea. “We were just telling Twyla your name.”
“It’s Cora,” Cora said. “Cora Thorne.”
Twyla’s eyes flicked bright. “Thorne. Old fae lineage if I recall.”
“I’m not… well, the family tree is complicated.” Cora inhaled tea steam to hide nerves.
“No worry.” Twyla waved. “Hollow Oak prides itself on complicated.” She leaned closer, whispered like gossip though everyone could hear, “You’ll find our town chooses folks, not the other way around. If the Veil let you in, you got purpose here.”
Purpose. The word settled in Cora’s bones. She peeked at Callum. His attention was fixed on her, unreadable. She sensed that though the others were inviting, he was more mistrusting than most.
Outside the window, morning mist lifted, unveiling the lake in calm silver. Cora thought of other places she had hidden, rooms she had rented under false names, nights spent wondering when Elric would catch up. None of those places ever felt like this. The inn hummed like a living heart. The ranger’s steady breathing anchored the rhythm.
