Page 6 of Mane Squeeze
He cracked one eye open, groaning as cold porcelain pressed against his spine and a clawing ache bloomed in his ribs. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where the hell he was—only that his neck ached like he’d been sleeping inside a breadbox and his legs were hanging out like a broken scarecrow.
Then he saw the tiny green soap shaped like a cat.
And he remembered.
Lillith.
He was in her bathtub.
A clawfoot relic of a thing, painted pink sometime back in the seventies and lined with all the potions, lotions, and glitter-drenched nonsense a fae woman like her would keep stocked. Rosewater vials. Rune-infused scrubs. A half-burned candle labeled “Ward Off Weirdos.” Which—he had to admit—wasn’t working, considering he’d spent the night curled up like a damp pretzel in the tub less than twenty feet from her bed.
Not that he’d had a choice.
Thanks to Prince Thaloryn and his twisted sense of humor, Dominic couldn’t wander more than thirty feet from Lillith without the cursed bond yanking his guts into knots. After their botched ritual and failed attempt to find Hazel or Twyla the night before, they’d returned to her cottage in silence. Neither one of them had suggested alternative arrangements.
And her bed? Yeah—off-limits. Emotionally. Logistically. Her scowl alone had made that clear.
So the tub it was.
He let his head fall back against the porcelain and closed his eyes for a second longer. His lion paced just beneath the surface, claws lightly unsheathed, restless in that way he hadn’t felt since his exile from the pride.
They were cursed.
Bound by a proximity tether with unknown magical properties, courtesy of a power-hungry fae prince who thought playing with people’s souls was poetic vengeance. Dominic wasn’t a scholar, but he wasn’t stupid either. He could feel the bond now—like a taut string tied to his ribs, humming faintly with the pull of her energy.
And the worst part?
He didn’t hate the feeling.
“You awake in there?” Lillith’s voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and unimpressed.
He smirked, even though his back ached like hell. “Depends. You planning to throw anything?”
The door creaked open.
She stood in the hallway just outside the bathroom, wrapped in a slate-blue robe, curls still damp from a rinse and shoulders tight like she’d slept on tension. Arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes stormy.
“I would,” she said dryly, “but I like my spoons intact.”
Dominic sat up with a wince, water sloshing around his waist. “So youdidleave me to drown.”
“I let yousurvivein the tub,” she corrected. “After you passed out like a swooning governess.”
“Don’t recall fainting.”
“Oh no?” Her brow lifted. “You face-planted on my floor mid-rant and mumbled something about cursed lattes.”
He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sounds like me.”
She stepped into the room and tossed a towel onto a nearby stool. “You can use that. Just… try not to drip on my sigils.”
Dominic rose, muscles groaning from hours of awkward bathtub sleep. He grabbed the towel and tossed it over the toilet lid with a lazy flick. As he peeled off his damp shirt, cold air kissed his skin—and caught Lillith’s attention.
She turned her head and immediately slapped a hand over her eyes. “Whoa, hey! Just 'cause other girls melt when you flex doesn’t mean I do. Wait ‘til I leave, okay? Gods.”
He watched her storm out, pretending not to notice the way her cheeks turned bright pink before she shut the door behind her.
That blush though? That was new.
