Page 34 of Mane Brew

“I’m fine.”

She’s not fine. Her hands are shaking. I feel them where they’ve come up to press against my chest—whether pushing away or holding on, neither of us seems certain. Her magic sparks erratically between us, fizzing with fear and adrenaline and emotions I can’t categorize.

“You’re not fine.” I scan her face. Her body. Looking for injuries, wounds, anything that needs immediate attention. “Your magic is⁠—”

“I know what my magic is doing.”

But she doesn’t push me away. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt—ruined now, torn from the shift, covered in dust and blood. Her grip tightens.

My thumb traces along her hairline. Just checking for injury. Just making sure there’s no head wound hiding beneath those impossible curls.

Liar.

“They tried to kill you.” My voice doesn’t sound like me. Too rough. Too raw. “They tried to⁠—”

“They tried.” She’s shaking. Just slightly. Just enough to make my lion snarl with renewed fury. “Failed. Thanks to you.”

“I was in the right place.”

“You were patrolling my street.” Her eyes find mine. Hold. “Again. You’ve been doing that for weeks.”

I should deny it. Should claim coincidence, professional concern, standard Network protocols for at-risk establishments.

I don’t.

“Yes.”

The admission hangs between us. Her fingers are still twisted in my shredded shirt. My hand is still cradling her head, thumb tracing absent patterns through the dust in her hair.

We’re lying in the wreckage of her brewery, surrounded by shattered glass and smoking debris and the remnants of an assassination attempt, and all I can think is that she’s alive. She’s here. She’s looking at me in a way I don’t know how to document.

“Rhodes.”

“Zeph.”

Her magic stops sparking. Settles. Stabilizes in a way I’ve only documented once before—that night in the brewery, when she gave me her best batch and we sat in comfortable silence until dawn.

I should move. Should get off her, help her up, start coordinating the response and doing all the proper things that proper pride leaders do in crisis situations.

I don’t move.

Neither does she.

The sounds of approaching footsteps break the moment.

I’m on my feet before the first responders reach the destroyed entrance, hauling Zeph up with me, positioning my body between her and any new threat that might come through. The lion is still too close to the surface—still snarling, still ready to tear apart anything that comes near her.

Not yours, I remind myself. Not your territory. Not your responsibility beyond what duty requires.

It ignores me completely.

“Zeph!” Leire bursts through first, followed closely by Sakura and Anouk. The three witches freeze at the sight of destruction—burning tanks, collapsed shelving, the hole blown through the eastern wall. Fairy lights hang in broken strands from the ceiling, still trying to glow despite the devastation.

“I’m fine.” Zeph steps forward, then sways. My hand shoots out to steady her, gripping her elbow. She doesn’t pull away. “Just—structural damage. The tanks are⁠—”

“The tanks are gone.” Anouk is already noting destruction, her sharp mind analyzing damage and implications. Her elegant robes are smudged with ash. “At least three of them. The eastern fermentation line is destroyed.”

“My Dreamweaver batch.” Zeph’s voice cracks. “That was a six-month brew. That was⁠—”