Page 11 of Mane Squeeze
Back at the cottage, Lillith didn’t hesitate.
She stormed into the front room, dropped her scone on the counter, and grabbed her chalk, her sigil knife, and every last thread of stubborn fury she had left.
Dominic followed, of course, lingering near the edge of the room with his arms crossed and a look that hovered between concern and curiosity.
“We doing more summoning?” he asked.
“No,” she growled, kneeling on the floor. “I’m breaking this curse.”
He leaned on the wall. “Didn’t Twyla say that’s impossible?”
“Since when do I listen to Twyla?”
“Since always.”
She ignored him.
The runes flowed from her like second nature—lines precise, energy taut as a drawn bowstring. Her voice dropped into the ancient cadence of spellcasting, every syllable tasting metallic on her tongue.
She spoke the binding’s name. She called to the old magics. She reached inward, felt the tether’s thrum, andpulled.
And the circle exploded.
White-hot light burst outward. The floorboards cracked. Smoke filled the room.
Dominic yelped.
She screamed.
And then the world went still.
Lillith lay flat on her back, blinking through haze, ears ringing.
“Are you okay?” Dominic’s voice came from above, muffled, worried.
She coughed. “I think I hexed the floor.”
He extended a hand.
She stared at it. Then, finally took it.
His fingers were warm, steady. She hated how good it felt and especially hated how natural it was to accept the help… from him.
5
DOMINIC
Dominic had always prided himself on three things: his lion’s instincts, his devastating grin, and the fact that he’d never once let a situation get the better of him. He played life like a card game where he always held the winning hand—and he never stuck around long enough to catch feelings.
Until now.
Now, he was pacing outsidePines & Needles, a building that looked like it had once been a charming old cabin before it got overwhelmed by a spellstorm and reassembled itself using magic, thrift store donations, and pure spite. It was the town’s unofficial HQ for anything magical that didn’t require licensing—book exchanges, ritual recommendations, gossip with a hint of prophecy, and the occasional illicit fae herb deal tucked inside an innocuous-looking poetry book.
Normally, Dominic wouldn’t be caught dead here. Too many dusty tomes, not enough action. But Markus lived upstairs. And Markus knew things.
He was a wiry, sharp-tongued werewolf with greying curls, an extensive library, and a talent for uncovering inconvenient truths. He and Rowan—his mate, partner, and the only beingin town calmer than tea—ran the shop and co-hosted the weeklyMate Counseling Night. Which, by all accounts, was half therapeutic advice and half matchmaking via enchanted tarot. Most of the town swore by them. A few sworeatthem, but that usually meant they didn’t want to be called out.
Markus could sniff out a lie faster than a demon hound. Rowan? He was the quiet strength in the duo. Broad shoulders, warm hands, a voice so steady it could calm crying spellbabies and cranky forest spirits alike. Where Markus cut with words, Rowan soothed with silence.
