Page 9 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
That night, I sit in the window of my suite at the inn, a half-empty tumbler of amber fire mead in one hand and my mother’s old pocket watch in the other. The wind rustles the trees outside, leaves skittering down the rooftop like they’re running from something they don’t want to feel.
I thumb the ridged edge of the watch, breathing slow, steady. The weight of it always grounds me, reminds me who I came from. My mother used to say it was for timing storms—knowing when to seek shelter and when to ride them out.
I click it open. The hands tick steady.
I whisper to the empty room, “Don’t screw it up again.”
Because I’ve built towers from ambition and bled kingdoms dry for power. But none of it matters—not the investors, not the empire, not the pristine retreat planned for the ridge—if I can’t have mornings where Tessa’s curls are tangled in my beard and a little one is squealing through piles of leaves outside.
And that future?
It's only possible if I can find a way to fix what I broke.
One flower. One damn wreath at a time.
CHAPTER 5
TESSA
It starts with tea.
Not the fancy, loose-leaf kind I label in tiny glass jars with handwritten tags, or the spiced black blend Tara insists gives her visions when she’s hungover. No, this is the bottom-of-the-barrel, nearly forgotten tin I keep shoved behind the rose hips and dried orange peel—a dusty old tin that used to rattle when shaken, though I never remembered why.
Until today.
I’m crouched in the back ofMaple & Mallow, ankle-deep in boxes of cinnamon brooms and half-wrapped garlands, hunting for the last of the sun-dried apples when I knock over the tea shelf. Everything topples like a bad metaphor. I reach to catch the chamomile but miss completely, and the whole mess clatters to the floor with the subtle grace of a drunk goose.
I groan and drop down to gather the tins, cursing under my breath.
“By maple’s bloody mercy.”
The rattle comes again—quiet, familiar—and I freeze.
I lift the tin slowly, dust smudging the painted label, and twist the lid free with a hesitant breath.
Inside, nestled in old fragments of rose petal and forgotten mint, is the acorn.
Small, hand-carved, made from whittled walnut with a little swirl etched on the cap. His mark.
Drogath made it for me years ago, after a storm ruined the Harvest Gala and we spent the whole night drying out under the orchard shed. He whittled it while I wrapped myself in his coat, swearing I wasn’t cold, and he pressed it into my palm like it meant more than the whole world.
It did, once.
I clutch it now, fingers trembling, as something low and aching swells beneath my ribs. It’s like the wind’s been knocked out of me by something invisible and very, very old.
I tuck it away. Deep. Far back. Like it might burn me if I hold it too long.
By afternoon,I’m back at the front counter, stringing up dried apple slices on fishing line and trying very hard not to spiral into emotional chaos. The apples are sticky, the thread keeps knotting, and my thoughts won’t stop replaying the curve of Drogath’s mouth when he used to whisper things he never had any business meaning.
And then the door opens.
Of course.
He’s wearing another coat that looks like it cost more than my roof repair, and he fills the doorway like a particularly handsome thundercloud. He’s got a rolled-up paper tube in one hand, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and that maddeningly unreadable look on his face.
“Afternoon,” he rumbles.
I don’t drop the apples this time, but my hands do still a little. “I hope you’re here for the dried marjoram, because I’ve got nothing else for you.”
