Chapter Five
1833 Words
Sabrina gave a dry laugh. “Tea it is.”
With a flick of her fingers, the fireplace came alive, flames licking up the stacked logs with a soft roar. A copper kettle lifted itself from its hook and floated toward the fire. Along the shelves, glass jars clinked like wind chimes. They shuffled and bumped until a select few edged forward on their own, as if drawn by instinct—or something older. Dried chamomile spilled in delicate curls into a clay teapot, followed by orange peel and a pinch of something darker and fragrant. Dmitri couldn’t place it, but it stirred the air like an old memory.
He watched, arms folded across his chest, caught somewhere between wariness and reluctant fascination.
“Witchcraft,” Dmitri muttered, half in jest, though his voice carried the rough edge of instinctive distrust.
Sabrina arched a brow without turning. “Magic’s more useful when it isn’t dramatic. Not everything needs lightning and screaming.”
He smirked and sank into a worn armchair beside the fire, the cushions giving under his weight like they’d been waiting for him. “Says the woman who conjured pants out of thin air.”
“That was a kindness,” she said, tossing him a glance. “Believe me, it could’ve been worse.”
The teapot poured itself with precise grace. Steam curled into the air, fragrant with citrus and something wild. Sabrina handed him a mug—clay, worn at the edges. Their fingers brushed. Just for a moment. Brief, but grounding. He didn’t pull away.
Dmitri took a cautious sip, expecting bitterness or something vaguely medicinal. Instead, he blinked.
“That’s… actually good.”
Sabrina raised her own cup, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You expected it to taste like grave dirt and curses?”
“I expected it to knock me out, honestly.”
“Tempting,” she murmured, a glint of something unreadable in her eyes. “But not my style.”
The fire cracked softly, casting flickering shadows over worn floorboards and the hem of Sabrina’s robes. The warmth seeped into Dmitri’s muscles, unwinding coils of tension. The scent of herbs, woodsmoke, and something softer—maybe lavender—settled over him like a slow, careful exhale.
He let out a breath. For the first time in days, his heart wasn’t trying to break its way out of his chest.
“Who were you running from?” she asked, quiet but direct.
His jaw tensed.
“That obvious?” he muttered, eyes locked on the fire.
“You weren’t just out for a midnight jog.”
He gave a dry, bitter laugh. “A pack. Not mine. They’ve been tracking me for days. Weeks, maybe.”
She studied him a long moment. “And you didn’t lead them here?”
He looked up sharply, voice tight. “If I had, we’d both be dead already.”
Her expression didn’t change—still calm, measured—but something shifted in her stance. A tension loosening, almost imperceptibly.
“Good,” she said. “Because I don’t care much for being ambushed in my own home.”
“Noted.”
A beat passed, heavy with old instincts and reluctant curiosity—wolves and witches circling ancient lines, unsure if this was truce or trap.
“You live out here alone?” he asked, more to cut through the silence than out of real interest.
“By choice,” she said. “My coven’s based in the city. I left a few years ago.”
He watched her closely now, noting the way her gaze drifted toward the window, as if searching for something long gone.
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Magic gets noisy with too many witches in one place. Too many minds pulling threads in the same weave. This”—she gestured around the room, the shelves of herbs, the faint glow of etched runes in the floorboards—“lets me breathe.”
Dmitri understood that more than he liked. Silence, space—he knew what it cost, and what it gave.
“Must be nice,” he said, quieter now. “Peace.”
“It has its price,” she said. “But most things worth having do.”
He nodded. The tea had cooled. The fire had softened to embers. Outside, the wind shifted, brushing against the cottage like a warning. The scent of pine, damp soil…
And something else.
Feral. Wrong.
Dmitri straightened in an instant, all tension and instinct. His hand gripped the arm of the chair. Every muscle pulled taut.
Sabrina noticed. “What is it?”
He rose slowly, spine rigid. “Something’s out there.”
She moved beside him, her voice lower now. “Wolves?”
He shook his head slightly. “Could be. Or worse.”
He glanced at her—not the way a man looks at someone he fears, but the way a predator measures another: ally or threat.
Sabrina didn’t flinch.
“Then we don’t let it in.”
The moment stretched, then passed. Whatever had been circling the edges of the woods faded back into the night. Dmitri’s stance eased. A little.
Sabrina looked over. “You hungry?”
He blinked. The question landed strangely, like a feather on a blade. Disarming.
“Yeah,” he said, slower now. “I guess I am.”
Don’t accept food from witches. You know better.
“I’m not offering raw meat if that’s what you’re hoping for,” she said with a faint smirk.
Dmitri snorted. “No complaints. As long as it’s not served on a silver platter.”
The words left his mouth and he instantly regretted them. He cringed inwardly.
Gods, really?
Sabrina raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Cute.”
He gave a tight, sheepish smile. “Sorry. Long night. I make bad jokes when I’m running on adrenaline.”
You’re making a fool of yourself. Stop talking.
“You’re not wrong, though,” she said, turning toward the kitchen nook. “Silver’s bad for wolves, right?”
“Among other things,” he muttered, trailing after her with a cautious step. His eyes flicked to her hands as she pulled down jars and dried vegetables—no sudden gestures, no glowing symbols. Still, the wolf in him growled softly, low and distrustful.
She could hex this food. Poison it. Twist your blood inside out.
“Something hearty, then,” Sabrina murmured as she pulled down a pot. “No offense, but you look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out.”
“Feel like it too.”
He lingered in the doorway, not quite entering the space. The kitchen radiated something unsettling in its calm—the kind of lived-in warmth that chipped away at his guard. The fire’s light touched every corner, flickering across glass jars and wood grains, steam rising from the kettle in soft whorls.
It should’ve felt like enemy ground. It didn’t. And somehow… it did.
She’s doing this on purpose. Making you forget. Lowering your guard.
Sabrina worked quietly, fingers tracing sigils into the air, simple ones—just motion and intent. The magic here was soft, humming, almost domestic.
Dmitri watched, jaw tight, arms folded. He didn’t trust her.
And yet…
The scent of garlic, rosemary, and thyme settled like a balm. It curled around his chest, slipped between the cracks. He hated how his shoulders relaxed. How his heartbeat settled. How his knees didn’t want to keep bracing for a fight.
This is how she gets you. Lulls you. Charms you. Then strikes.
She glanced back. “It’s not much, but it’ll fill you.”
“Good enough.”
He said nothing more. Couldn’t. Not without letting something slip in his voice, something he didn’t want her to hear.
Because beneath the suspicion and the wolf’s constant warnings, something else had started to stir.
Not magic.
Not threat.
Just… her.
And that terrified him more than the pack ever could.
“Well, if you need a place to hide out tonight, you’re welcome here—just as long as you’re okay with him.”
She nodded toward the large bundle of fur curled on the highest perch of a cat tree.
“Can’t guarantee he’ll react the same way I did, though,” she added with a soft chuckle.
The sound struck him strangely—unexpectedly warm, unguarded. Something curled at the corner of Dmitri’s mouth before he could stop it, a flicker of expression he hadn’t worn in too long. It hit him like music, delicate and disarming.
Don’t even think about it. You know what she is.
His wolf snarled from the recesses of his mind, bristling with old instincts.
She’s dangerous. She’s a witch.
“She hasn’t done anything to me,” Dmitri thought back sharply. “Just because she can doesn’t mean she will.”
The wolf bared its teeth, restless and coiled, but he shoved it aside. Not silenced, but pushed back.
“Thank you,” he said aloud, the words honest, if a little awkward. “I appreciate that.”
He stood, lifting his bowl, not entirely sure of the ritual—what to do, how to act in this strange space where witches offered hospitality and wolves weren’t hunted on sight.
As he moved toward the kitchen, he watched Sabrina wave a hand toward the couch. With a casual grace, the cushions shifted, folding and stretching until a simple bed took shape—blanket, pillow, everything neat and effortless.
Some small, absurd part of him felt a flicker of disappointment.
She crossed the room, took the bowl gently from his hands. Her fingers brushed his again. Another pulse of warmth. She smiled.
With a flick of her wrist, the bowl rose into the air, rinsed itself clean, and set down among its matching siblings. Every motion quiet. Practical. Kind.
“If you need anything,” she said softly, lingering a moment longer, “help yourself to the kitchen.”
She turned, heading for the wooden staircase behind the couch—but paused halfway, glancing back at him.
“I’m Sabrina, by the way.”
For a beat, he just stared at her. That name. That calm. That impossible, inexplicable welcome. She didn’t even know who he was—what he was—and yet she’d offered shelter. Food. Magic without malice.
Everything he’d ever been taught about witches said she should’ve killed him the moment he crossed her threshold.
Maybe everything he’d ever been taught was wrong.
“Dmitri,” he said quietly.
She smiled again—softer, this time. “Goodnight, Dmitri.”
“Goodnight, Sabrina.”
She climbed the stairs, her voice drifting down one last time: “Sleep well.”
He stayed there long after she disappeared, eyes fixed on the empty space she’d left behind.
But sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.
Not with the wolf pacing inside him.
Not with her laugh still echoing in his ears.
- Writer
